Hi, my name is Terry, and I am a small business owner--a retailer, to be precise. I am addicted to the everyday stress of owning and operating a retail coffeehouse in America. I would like to share the story of the day I hit bottom and the day I reached the top. The following account is a true (as best I can recollect) retelling of my best and my worst day as a small business owner; it was, in fact, the same day. Small business owners--especially retailers--are a contentious bunch. Slightly arrogant, we often undertake projects that would be better left to professionals. Occasionally, these projects end up taking longer, costing more and containing decidedly poorer results than had we just hired someone, pulled the permits or followed the rules. Sometimes our "little projects" can even end in disaster.
I have been a specialty coffee retailer and retail roaster since the late spring of 1994. In the spring of 2001, a road-widening project claimed most of the parking immediately in front of my store--a space I was renting. I wanted to stay on the commuter street where we had been located for almost 10 years, so I waited and watched; for two years, I waited and watched. When the construction project was nearing its end, I began looking for a space to rent or perhaps buy. Two days before signing a lease on a less-than-desirable space, and one day after putting a $200 nonrefundable deposit down, I found a building to buy. It was a three-bay strip center built in 1958, and it needed work. God, did it need work.
A year later, our new New Harmony was up and running. Everything seemed to be going well--except the sewage. The building we had purchased had a 100-foot sewage line that ran out to the alley and connected to the city's wastewater main. After consulting my plumber and calling the city to begin the permitting process, I set a date--a month out--for replacement of my sewer line. Although it was going to be somewhat expensive, the process hardly seemed to be difficult, dangerous or pressing.
The very next evening, after formulating the plan of action, my business life was about to take a decidedly crappy turn. While sitting in my office, I detected a foul odor emanating from the office locker room. On inspection, I discovered the shower drain was seeping raw sewage. My expensive little problem had become difficult and pressing almost overnight. Calling my plumber, I informed him that I needed the line replaced NOW. As he had little to no time, we reached an agreement whereby I would dig up the old line and he would come by in the evening of the following day and put in the new line. The only problem with this scenario was that the full 100 feet of the line went diagonally across my parking lot. Not only would I have to dig through the asphalt, but no one would be able to park there either. However, like many small business owners, I grabbed the bull by the horns.
The Plan
Since there was no time to waste, I quickly formulated a new plan. Young Don (the hulking Baby Huey of our organization) and I would meet at 6 a.m. to retrench and expose the existing sewer line. This would allow our plumber to come the next evening, run a new sewer line alongside the existing line and then affect a changeover. Immediately following the switch, he would remove the old line, and we would backfill the trench. Although conceived in haste, the plan seemed sound and had the added advantages of being cheaper and quicker than the original, plus the evening changeover would have minimal impact on the operations of the cafe. This plan was a rare thing indeed--a little too rare, perhaps.
Things Begin to Go Wrong
In order to get things rolling and try and get the majority of the grunt work finished before the afternoon sun would fry us (this is Florida, after all), I had scheduled a 5 a.m. wakeup and planned to leave at 5:30. I arose at 5, ground my coffee and put my Moka pot on the stove for my morning coffee. While the coffee brewed, I went out to the driveway to get the paper and immediately noticed MY CAR WAS MISSING. Now before I go on, I feel I must further explain ...
The Car
In early July of 2003, I celebrated my 40th birthday. In early April of 2003, embarking on my midlife crisis, I bought myself the car I had dreamed of since they were first introduced. Feeling my 40-year-old oats, I did this without asking my loving wife and business partner, Kathy. Although used, this car was a thing of rare beauty. I was now the proud owner of a 1992 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon. And though my wife should have been angry, she just shook her head in resignation and sternly proclaimed that she would "not drive that boat." My friends thought I was crazy, my employees laughed and my children teased me unmercifully. And yet, I loved this simulated-wood paneled behemoth, and now it was missing.
Things Continue to Go Wrong
Had someone stolen my car?!? I loudly proclaimed to my still sleeping wife, "My Roadmaster has been stolen." She uttered a profanity in disbelief, rolled over and promptly fell back asleep. Getting neither sympathy nor respect at home, I called the police.
"Pinellas County Sheriff 's Department. Do you have an emergency?"
"No, but my car has been stolen."
"Year, make and model, please."
"1992 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon."
"Sir, are you sure this car was stolen?" Did she just giggle?
"Yes," I responded, somewhat offended. "I have the only set of keys in my hand."
"Sir, your car has not been stolen, it has been repossessed."
Repossessed. I was shocked--incredulous, even. I had paid cash for my beautiful Buick and was now holding the title in my hand. The sheriff 's department gave me the name of the repo company and the company that had authorized the repossession order, neither of which were answering the phone at 5:30 a.m. (Actually, I was to find out later in the day that the Repo Man never answers the phone.) But as much as I loved my car, like any good action hero, Small Businessman had to labor on to complete the assigned mission: the replacement of my sewer line. The rescue of my beloved Buick and the ensuing revenge I was planning against the Repo Man would just have to wait.
The Big Dig
Slightly frustrated and 45 minutes behind schedule, Young Don and I arrived at the store and began to pull out the tools for the dig. I showed Don where to begin and how to score the asphalt with an axe in such a way as to "pop" it up in chunks, thereby minimizing the overall damage to the lot. I went in to make an espresso and to try to locate my car. Returning to the dig, I discovered that Young Don had done about six inches of the 100 feet we needed to accomplish. This being an old building, we had failed to notice that our parking lot was approximately four to six inches above the grade of the two adjoining lots. If we had noticed, perhaps we would have known the reason for the grade differences: We had two parking lots, one on top of the other. There was no way we could axe and dig our way through two parking lots in the few hours we had to finish the job. So, undaunted, Small Businessman formulated a new plan ...
The New Plan
Grabbing the yellow pages and finding a rental place, I promptly put out a call for a small, mechanized machine that would help me dig this ditch faster: a backhoe- type machine. So two hours late, we began the job again. Meanwhile ...
The Car
While awaiting the delivery of the backhoe, I finally was able to get a hold of an employee of the loan company that had issued the repo order. While I explained how her company had authorized my car to be wrongly repossessed, she hung up. From my perspective, her company had not repossessed but had in fact stolen my car, and perhaps I had been a little frank. But hang up on me? "Hey, I'm the victim here," I wanted to scream. So I called the police yet again. They once again declined to become involved in what was a "civil" action. Meanwhile, out in the cafe, the regulars, many of whom had become my friends over the years, were having a jolly time at my expense. I kept trying to call the loan company, to no avail. Finally, I wrote a short description of my predicament and faxed it to the company. Shortly thereafter, I received a call from a manager from the loan company and was able to explain my situation and my dissatisfaction with the "stealing" of my car, as well as the inconvenience it had caused me. While I was on the phone, the backhoe showed up.
Back to the Dig
Putting down the phone and rushing out the back door, I was met with a much larger machine than I had expected. But being Small Businessman, I climbed aboard the small monster and began to move the very earth beneath my feet. Beginning in the middle of the lot and working back toward the city's water main, I began to make great and quick progress. With Young Don in the ditch to guide me so that I wouldn't break the existing sewer line, everything was rosy--except the stench. What we were uncovering was not an old sewer line, but a sewage soaker hose of sorts, slowly leaking 35 years of filth. As noon approached, the temperature was reaching the 90-degree mark, coupled with South Florida humidity. I feared Young Don would soon be overcome, so I sent him on break while I repositioned the backhoe to dig back toward the building. Feeling good about the progress we were making, I decided to begin digging without waiting for Don to return and spot for me. As I came up with the first shovel full, it began to rain.
Things Begin to Go Really Wrong , Really Fast
Well not rain exactly, because just in front of me was a geyser. I had severed my incoming water line. As this was happening, Don returned from his break. I yelled for him to turn off the main located in the alley, and I jumped into the ditch to investigate--the ditch that was quickly filling with water and $%#@. Things were moving fast now, as Don and I shouted at one another, me from the flooding trench and him from the alley.
Hurry up," I shouted. "Which one is ours?" he replied. "Turn all of them off until the water stops," I said back. So he did ... and nothing happened. As the stream from the busted high-pressure line began weakening the sides of the hole and raw (although now watered down) sewage began flowing across the parking lot, I started to fear the loss of my parking lot from erosion. With me standing in the now-knee-deep sewage and trying to use a shovel to divert the water from the side of the trench, Don ran into the office to call the water and sewage department.
The Cavalry Arrives
Literally two minutes after Young Don disappeared to call the authorities, they arrived. They grabbed a fitting from the truck to stop the bleeding and repaired the line, all in quick time. But not before I was humiliated and injured. Trying to move the backhoe out of the way, I tripped on a loose piece of asphalt and slammed to the sewage-covered pavement, hard--nay, really hard. Don helped me up, and I realized I could not stand on my left ankle. With Don helping me into the office, my wife kindly informed me that I should probably go the doctor. But with injured pride and smelling vaguely of sewage, Small Businessman would have nothing to do with doctors while my foe--the leaking sewage line--still existed. I grabbed an old crutch conveniently located at the office and returned to battle--a battle that was now little more than a debris-strewn battlefield. As I thanked the city guys, one of them turned and asked me a question.
CANDE, The Para de an d The Return of My Roadmaster
"Did you call for a CANDE?" he asked. I was sure from the look on my face that he knew I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. "You didn't just start digging without a CANDE permit, did you?"
I began to plead my case with the city workers, somehow sensing that they held the key to my salvation from this smelly little hell I had created. As I recounted the whole experience of my last few hours, the sewer line, the car, the dig and my crappy luck, a smile began to play on their lips and they took mercy upon me. Perhaps it was the vision of a 40-year-old man covered in filth and standing on a too-tall crutch almost laughing, almost crying, almost raging at his own story that convinced them, or perhaps it was just plain human pity that caused them to give me such a break.
"Don't worry," one of them said. "Call this number and tell them you have a sewer line break and that it is an emergency-- you will have a dig permit within an hour." Still not fully comprehending the gift I had been given, I thanked them and retreated to the office to call for my CANDE. Once inside, I was promptly greeted by a customer who had driven four hours to meet with me about opening a coffeehouse. I asked him to sit while I made a call: my CANDE call.
The woman on the phone gave me a list of about a dozen agencies that would have to get back to me within the hour to tell me if I was clear to dig. I could not dig until I heard from all the agencies listed or an hour had passed, whichever came first. I said "okay," thanked her and hung up the phone. Almost immediately, the phone and fax began to ring: Florida Power said I was clear to dig; Clearwater Gas said I was clear to dig; Verizon said I was clear to dig; Brighthouse Cable said I was clear to dig; and on and on. I tried to keep up with the list.
Meanwhile, I had a potential customer and watching me try to recover. I tried to answer his questions, giving him as much of my attention as I could as I watched the clock and fielded calls from the utilities. With my foot on a chair surrounded by ice and my clothes encrusted with mud and filth, I attempted to be pleasant while multitasking. But I couldn't help but ask the gentleman, "Are you sure you want to open your own business?"
I told Young Don that everyone had called and to get back on the backhoe, as we were now clear to dig and were quickly running out of time. And then, in walked Donald Harrell, Monin syrup's salesman extraordinaire, to survey the wreckage that was my parking lot.
As I began to recount to Donald and my customer the trials and tribulations of my day, back came Young Don with what could only be described as a NASCAR cowboy in tow. The man, who was from AT&T, was wearing a large western hat and dark glasses complete with the tell-tale bulge of dip behind his lip. He was apoplectic that we would begin digging before the emergency CANDE was complete. I tried to calm him down while Donald and the customer watched in wide-eyed amazement, but this time it was to no avail. Then just as I thought all was lost, the cowboy spat on my floor. I stared in amazement as the AT&T cowboy stood, looking slightly bewildered and embarrassed, as a string of tobacco juice dangled from his lower lip. And then I caught my second break of the day. The cowboy accepted my excuses and apologies, apologized himself and retreated. Young Don returned to the backhoe with me close behind him. As I emerged into the blinding light of a Florida afternoon, I glimpsed a vision. It was my car.
Thinking I would get even with Repo Man, I stormed over to his tow truck and quickly reevaluated my position--this was one bad-looking dude. I was sure he probably had at least a pistol in his unmarked, tinted-window tow truck. With everything else that had occurred this day, I did not wish to push my luck any further than I already had. I found myself thanking him for bringing my car to me at work instead of dropping it at home, where he had originally stolen it.
Young Don climbed back on the backhoe and finished the dig while I said goodbye to my slightly shaken potential customer. We finished as the equipment rental company returned to retrieve the backhoe. At the end of the day, we had completed what we set out to do, and I was bloodied, stinky, filthy and completely unbowed. I was Small Businessman.
Lessons Learned
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