I flew home yesterday from Karen’s memorial service in Jacksonville, on a connecting flight through Charlotte. When I landed in Charlotte, I walked with all my stuff from my JAX arrival gate (D7) to my DFW departure gate (B15). The walk was more stressful than usual because the airport was so crowded.
The moment I set my stuff down at B15, a passenger with expensive clothes and one of those permanent grins established eye contact, pointed his finger at me, and said, “Are you in First?”
I said, “No, platinum.” My first instinct was to explain that I had a right to occupy the space in which I was standing. It bothers me that this was my first instinct.
He dropped his pointing finger, and his eyes went no longer interested in me. The big grin diminished slightly.
Soon another guy walked up. Same story: the I’m-your-buddy-because-I’m-pointing-my-finger-at-you thing, and then, “First Class?” This time the answer was yes. “ALRIGHT! WHAT ROW ARE YOU IN?” Row two. “AGH,” like he’d been shot in the shoulder. He holstered his pointer finger, the cheery grin became vaguely menacing, and he resumed his stalking.
One guy who got the “First Class?” question just stared back. So, big-grin guy asked him again, “Are you in First Class?” No answer. Big-grin guy leaned in a little bit and looked him square in the eye. Still no answer. So he leaned back out, laughed uncomfortably, and said half under his breath, “Really?...”
I pieced it together watching this big, loud guy explain to his traveling companions so everybody could hear him, he just wanted to sit in Row 1 with his wife, but he had a seat in Row 2. And of course it will be so much easier to take care of it now than to wait and take care of it when everybody gets on the plane.
This is the kind of guy who sells things to people. He has probably sold a lot of things to a lot of people. That’s probably why he and his wife have First Class tickets.
I’ll tell you, though, I had to battle against hoping he’d hit his head and fall down on the jet bridge (I battled coz it’s not nice to hope stuff like that). I would never have said something to him; I didn’t want to be Other Jackass to his Jackass. (Although people might have clapped if I had.)
So there’s this surge of emotions, none of them good, going on in my brain over stupid guy in the airport. Sales reps...
This is why Method R Corporation never had sales reps.
But that’s like saying I’ve seen bad aircraft engines before and so now in my airline, I never use aircraft engines. Alrighty then. In that case, I hope you like gliders. And, hey: gliders are fine if that makes you happy. But a glider can’t get me home from Florida. Or even take off by itself.
I wish I sold more Method R software. But never at the expense of being like the guy at the airport. It seems I’d rather perish than be that guy. This raises an interesting question: is my attitude on this topic just a luxury for me that cheats my family and my employees out of the financial rewards they really deserve? Or do I need to become that guy?
I think the answer is not A or B; it’s C.
There are also good sales people, people who sell a lot of things to a lot of people, who are nothing like the guy at the airport. People like Paul Kenny and the honorable, decent, considerate people I work with now at Accenture Enkitec Group who sell through serving others. There were good people selling software at Hotsos, too, but the circumstances of my departure in 2008 prevented me from working with them. (Yes, I do realize: my circumstances would not have prevented me from working with them if I had been more like the guy at the airport.)
This need for duality—needing both the person who makes the creations and the person who connects those creations to people who will pay for them—is probably the most essential of the founder’s dilemmas. These two people usually have to be two different people. And both need to be Good.
In both senses of the word.