As the salesman, he had everything needed. He had a solid brand. He had production space, quality control, distribution, pricing. He had everything he needed to fill the order. Except the order.
It was not an unfamiliar position for John Schatz. He cracked his knuckles and picked up the phone.
“Who is this?”
“John Schatz, of Cardoza Tile. Your bid is ready.”
“What bid?” The man was confused.
Schatz had jumped ahead in the sales cycle. This could be forgiven. He was a man of many roles. Today, he was an artist. An artist forced to make business calls. Artists are not detail people.
“You have questions,” Schatz said. “My apologies. Let us begin again.” A slight accent tinged his voice. He couldn’t help it. He explained Cardoza had been asked to bid (this was entirely invented) on tiles for ‘Lisbon on Sixth’, the Albuquerque project being built by Legree and Fornstall. A friend of Mr. Fornstall (again, entirely fictional) recommended him. Schatz understood they needed high-quality Portuguese tiles for walls, fountains, stairwells, and bathrooms.
This final statement was true. “We are getting tiles,” the buyer said. “But I never heard of you. Besides, we’ve already placed the order.”
“Wait!” Schatz sensed the man was about to hang up. “Who are you ordering from?” He knew the buyer couldn’t reveal this, but also knew a direct approach, even a bullying approach, could pay dividends. Men like aggression.
“There are only two manufacturers,” the buyer said. “Who can fill an order this size. You figure it out.”
The order didn’t seem that big, and Schatz said so. Fifty thousand tiles…?
“It’s not fifty thousand,” the man said. “It’s five hundred thousand.”
John Schatz got off the phone. Fast. Then he called Mr. Fornstall, the company president.
Two days later he stood in Rebel Pots. At his request, Li-Li Feng had retrieved one of her latest creations, a Hydria jug with a long neck. She placed it on a canvas-covered work table. Schatz commented, “This has a lovely neck, Li-Li. Elegant. Slender. Just the size of your hands.”
“Really?”
“Here.” He took her wrists, gently, and placed her hands on the pot. “You see it now? Your fingers just meet.” He leaned close, holding her hands there.
“John!” Reba, carrying a box, walked through the open steel doors.
Li-Li snatched her hands away. She stuck them in the pockets of her smock. “Hello Reba,” Schatz said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing. Helping Li-Li.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I have good news, however. Business news.”
“Li-Li,” Reba ordered. “Take this and put it away.” She might as well have said, “Li-Li, go to your room.” The girl took the box and left. Reba turned to Schatz. “I don’t need your business, John.”
“I rather think you do.”
“I need real orders, real customers, real business. Not funny business.”
Schatz had brought an army green and light brown canvas satchel. The kind with a long shoulder strap. He unsnapped the satchel and produced a sheet of paper. “Is this funny business?”
The order was addressed to Rebel Pots. Reba studied it. “Five hundred thousand azulejo tiles! John, this is insane.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“And impossible. I gave you a price for fifty thousand. Even that would have taken us six months. But half a million? It can’t be done!”
“What if we get everyone on board?” Schatz said. “Walt. The people in his shop. Li-Li and her student friends. Other potters. You know, to do the grunt work.”
“You want to glaze tiles?”
“I’m more front-office.”
“Even with every artist in Minneapolis, it can’t be done. John, this time you’re over your head. Now, we have work to do. Orders we can actually complete. I must ask you to leave.”
“Can I say goodbye to Li-Li?”
“No.”
He took up his bag. The satchel resembled those used by Pony Express riders of the Old West. One could almost imagine Schatz pounding along the trail, bag bouncing, a desperate emissary to forlorn outposts. But this is only a product of an exaggerated imagination. Schatz is simply a businessman, undaunted and smiling, as he steps onto the 16B bus on his way downtown.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com