Bills Across America. A Journal.
9:35AM: We’re headed to New York City to break our Fall 2010 product line.
“We” includes our sales representatives who have been in Reading for the past few days for sales meetings. My job this morning is to get the rental truck loaded with all of our Fall ‘10 samples safely to the Warwick Hotel where we will set up our showroom for the week. Driving a truck fits me well as I like the immediate gratification of putting miles behind me on the open road. My navigator is our senior sales representative and industry legend Allen Bullard. There’s only one person who loves the Pennsylvania and Northern Jersey country side more than me on this sub freezing crystal blue winter day, and that’s Allen. Allen is the real deal - Korean War veteran, farmer, wine grower, restoration artist… and other things I will never know. Nearly 80 years young, Allen stays in the game because he loves the “vibe” and can still drink us all under the table. Heck, I wish I felt as good as Allen does! To give you a mental picture, Allen looks like he could be Ernest Hemingway’s brother and dresses the part.
8PM: We’ve unloaded, unpacked and moved all of our shelving, samples, marketing materials, etc. to our 9th floor suite that borders the corner of 54th Street & 6th Avenue. It’s great being in the city, but tempered by the fact that we spend the entire week within the confines of a hotel, an observer to the world’s greatest city as it lives out each day beneath us. After a while, the days begin running into each other and become one long continuous day/night experience. We’ve seen a lot from this window over the past few years. Last January we could see down 54th Street all the way to the river after Sully safely landed his plane in the Hudson. Last summer it was Obama at the Hilton across the street. We watched the whole event unfold before our eyes, including the armed secret service agents taking positions on rooftops and street corners. I couldn’t help but wonder what an easy target I must have been suspiciously peering down from our hotel room window.
Saturday, January 16th, 201011:25am: We’re jamming. All of our tables are full and retailers love what they see. No time to look out the window now, regardless how much fun it is to watch co-workers argue on the 9th floor of the glassy office building across the street. Retailers are really beginning to see how our product line expansion can make an exciting addition to their store. We’ve done well for them through the thick and thin of the past year and they seem ready to step up their efforts with our brand.
Monday, January 18th, 201010:45PM: Why am I up at this hour? The past 5 days have been a revolving door of enthused retailers and the last thing I should be doing is showing my ID to the bouncer at Hogs & Heifers, a dive bar of the old, wouldn’t be caught dead in “Meat Packing District.” H &H is a hold out from of the days when drug dealers and addicts roamed these city blocks - hipster shoppers do today. Both are equally tragic with their own vices. No more tragic than me trying to fit into a bar scene that served as the inspiration for Coyote Ugly. But this wasn’t my idea. We’re here under the insistence of Birmingham, AL retailer and pop culture maven Scott Pyburn of Harrison Ltd., who tagged this watering hole from our cab earlier in the evening. I order two house beers (Pabst Blue Ribbon in cans) and throw $20 down on the bar. Minutes later, two sweaty cans appear along with $1 in change. A few minutes pass before I realize the math doesn’t add up, so I ask the bartender, a young woman, how much beers cost.
Hogs & Heifers is known for a few things: 1) Its bartenders, who all sport nearly nothin’ except for their bikini tops, skin tight jeans and a few tasteful tattoos… the permanent kind. 2) These same bartenders wield bull horns and regularly stop the raucous music (Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith and the Doors) to rip into patrons for as little as breathing. And they don’t mince words. This place belongs to the female lions behind the bar. 3) The décor of this establishment hasn’t changed much in the past 45 years. Half rotted game, rusted out motorcycle frames, beer signs and political pins hang from every inch of plaster. You could finish a few cases of PBR’s getting to know the walls here.
“Beers cost two bucks” she shouts, giving me two fingers. “But didn’t I put down a twenty” (this wasn’t a question). “No, you gave me five and you got back one.” Quickly, I come to the conclusion that this is a case of he said, and this is her country, so I either shut up and drink my beer or get kicked out. Scott was having too much of a good time so leaving wasn’t an option.
A minute or so later, the music cuts off and the blow horn shouts “Hey, Mr. Comb over…” – At this point I’m thinking who the heck is the poor sap with the comb over that she’s about to throw under the bus? “Hey, Mr. Comb Over, … you gave me five($), not twenty($), two beers, four bucks, one dollar change. If you don’t think so, you can go to hell and get the F__K out of here!” At that point, my only recourse was to remove her $1 tip from the bar. So I have that going for me, which is nice.
Wednesday, January 20th, 201011:45AM: We’ve loaded up the truck and are headed home. This time I’m driving solo - left alone to contemplate a great week. After this much time in the city, headed back to the country is not unlike a deep sea diver making their way back to the surface in stages to avoid the bends. Coming from a place where energy is all around you to one where energy must come from within is a transition. A let down isn’t a problem with wife and children waiting eagerly at home for your return. At the ages of 4 and 7, you could swear they’ve grown a half inch in your absence. These days, the coming home part is every bit as fun as the going.