July 7, 2020
Straight Sets
My Uncle Henri would not stop going on about Peter Raymond.
“Did you call Peter Raymond? Did you make an appointment with Peter Raymond? Why don’t I see anything in your report about Peter Raymond?”
He had a bug up his ass about Peter Raymond.
Peter Raymond was the senior purchasing agent for Jackson Exhaust. Jackson Exhaust was a huge automotive parts manufacturer which used a clear powder coating to paint their exhausts. We made clear powder coatings. But Jackson Exhaust did not buy their clear powder coating from us. They bought it from Samson Paint—our biggest competitor.
My Uncle Henri did not understand why Jackson Exhaust did not buy clear powder coating from us.
“We have a beautiful clear,” he said. If you closed your eyes, you would think you were listening to the late Egyptian President Anwar Sadat. If Sadat was the owner of a powder coating company and not the President of Egypt.
He was right of course.
We did make a beautiful clear powder coating.
But ours was not on the Jackson Exhaust automotive approval list.
Also, ours was about $1.00/kg more expensive.
Peter Raymond told me as much whenever he deemed to pick up the phone when I called him. He told me I was wasting my time. He told me they were very happy with Samson Paint.
But when I told my Uncle Henri these things, he looked at me as if I had just told him Yvan Cournoyer was not a fast skater. As if I had just told him his wife, my Tante Nandi, did not know how to cook.
“Ronnie,” he lectured. "How many times have I told you. When they throw you out the front door, you sneak back in through the window.”
I loved my Uncle Henri. But there is no way he ever snuck in through a window.
“I am coming to Toronto next week. I want you to make an appointment with Peter Raymond.”
Peter Raymond would not take my calls. He would not return my messages. So I drove to Jackson Automotive and told reception I was here to see Peter Raymond. Did I have an appointment? I did not. “You should make an appointment.” I tried to make an appointment. He won’t return my calls. “You should make an appointment.” I said, “Can you just tell him Ron Zevy of Protech Chemicals is here? I just need two minutes. I am happy to wait.”
So I waited.
Six hours.
Three times Peter Raymond walked right by me, twice I presume on the way to the bathroom, and once on the way to an extended lunch with Mario Rossetti of Samson Paint.
Not once did he acknowledge my existence.
The receptionist smiled at me a few times. But I don't think she felt sorry for me. Nobody ever told me to go into powder paint sales.
Peter Raymond left his office door slightly ajar. I tilted my head just so I could see he was playing solitaire on his computer.
Red Queen on black King, you fucking piece of shit.
Finally at 4:55, the receptionist picked up her ringing phone and motioned me in.
I got straight to the point.
“My boss (I didn’t say my Uncle) is coming into town. He wants five minutes to say hello. He knows you are happy with Samson Paint. He just wants to say hi.”
“Sounds like a waste of five minutes,” said Peter Raymond. I was going to tell him it was my job on the line but he agreed before I had to prostrate myself. But first he put the black 9 on the red 10.
Jesus, what an asshole.
Our appointment was at 10:00 am. Peter Raymond let us in at 11:55. My Uncle, God bless him, went to the bathroom three times while we waited.
“Your salesman here is quite persistent,” said Peter Raymond.
My Uncle had a whole pitch ready for Peter Raymond. Five times he had repeated it to me in the car. How we had a better product. How we would provide better service. How cheap was going to cost them money in the long run. It was good. But I knew it wasn't going to work. But when we got into Peter Raymond’s office, my Uncle Henri decided to call an audible.
This is what he said to Peter Raymond:
“You play tennis?”
I had no idea where he had come up with this, but then I saw the Donnay racquet, the one Björn Borg played with, propped up in the corner of the office. My Uncle had gone all Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects on us. He did that. He looked at family pictures. He looked at paintings on the wall. He looked for tennis racquets.
Peter Raymond reached over, grabbed the racquet and twirled it in his hand. He looked more like a majorette than a tennis player.
"Only in the summer,” he said. "Too damn expensive to play indoors in the winter.”
My Uncle Henri replied, “I know it is expensive.” He pointed at me. “This one expenses it. I pay for it!”
He was right, I expensed my membership to Mayfair Country Club which had indoor courts.
Then my Uncle Henri threw me under the bus.
“I’m sure Ronnie would be happy to bring you to his club.”
Then he shook Peter Raymond’s hand and said goodbye.
Not a word about powder coatings.
Not a word.
When we got in the car, Uncle Henri decided to back up the bus and run me over a few more times.
“Are you a good tennis player?” He asked.
I said I was pretty good.
“Well,” he said as he buckled up, “you have to let him win.”
So for three months, every Wednesday night, I played tennis with Peter Raymond. Peter Raymond was shit. Every Wednesday, he beat me in straight sets. I would hit the ball long. I would hit the ball into the net. I would double fault. Peter Raymond beat me in straight sets every Wednesday. Then we would have a beer, to be fair, he had three, and he would give me tennis tips. I needed to bend my knees. I wasn't tossing the ball high enough.
I would write it into my report.
Played tennis with Peter Raymond.
Lost 6-3, 6-4.
My uncle was making another sales trip to Toronto. Could I set up another meeting with Peter Raymond? Peter Raymond said yes without batting an eye. Meeting was set for 10:00 am. He met us at 10:00 am.
“Henri, you’ve got yourself quite the salesman here,” said Peter Raymond. “But maybe you should let him expense a few tennis lessons. I try giving him tips but he is really bad. And not getting better. He hasn’t won a single set.”
But my Uncle Henri did not want to talk about tennis. He wanted to talk about clear powder coating.
“Peter,” he said slowly and carefully. "We would like a chance. Let us show you what we can do.”
And then Peter Raymond shocked the hell out of me by saying, “Let’s do a 10,000 kgs trial.”
My Uncle Henri said, “Great.”
Peter Raymond said, “Henri, these things take time. It isn't overnight.”
Uncle Henri said, “We aren’t in a rush. We are interested in a long-term relationship.”
Peter Raymond said, “We know your paint. We have heard good things. It just has to pass the roof test.”
I said, "Roof test?”
“Yes, we coat about 15 exhausts and put them on our roof for six months. We see how it deals with the sun and the elements.”
Six months, I thought. Six months was a piece of cake. Our polyester clear could withstand six months in the sun standing on its head. Six months was nothing. I couldn’t believe we were going to get the Jackson Exhaust account.
We all shook hands. Peter reconfirmed our Wednesday tennis match.
I knew better than to wait for praise from my Uncle, but I still fished for a compliment.
“10,000 kgs is a nice order,” I said. "Sounds like they are serious.”
My Uncle didn't say anything. I knew a compliment was a long shot. I didn't care. It was a nice order.
“I’ll call the lab and tell them to send a sample for the roof test. Our polyester clear will have no problem passing. Six months is easy.”
Then my Uncle said something which really surprised me:
“Don’t bother.”
I didn't understand. And I said so.
“We don’t want to do business with these guys.”
“Uncle Henri,” I argued. “You have been bugging me about Jackson Exhaust for years. I have been playing tennis with Peter Raymond for three months and letting him win. We finally get an order and now you don’t want to do business with them? I really don’t understand.”
My Uncle Henri turned to me. “You know anything about car exhausts?” It had to be a rhetorical question because he knew I didn't know anything about car exhausts. I told him no.
“When the car starts, it generates so much heat that the paint gets burned off the very first time.”
I told him I didn't know that. “What do they need the paint for then?”
“It’s just for display purposes. So it looks shiny and nice for the customer. When you go into,” he struggled to remember the name of the car part store but then remembered, “like Napa Auto Parts.”
I said I didn't understand. “Why would they want to test sun resistance by putting it on the roof for six months if it never gets exposed to the sun?”
“Because,” he said as he popped one of my Tante Nandi’s sambouseks into his mouth. “They are idiots.”
“I agree. Peter Raymond is an idiot. But it is a pretty good order.”
He wagged his finger at me.
"If there is one guy doing something dumb it means there is another guy letting him do something dumb. Who knows how many dumb people they have running the company.”
I said, “Okay.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There are other companies.” Then he said something even more surprising than turning down a big order. "You didn’t do a bad job.”
I said thanks.
Then he said, “But it took you three years.” But he was smiling when he said it.
Jackson Exhaust went out of business two years later. We heard they owed Samson Paint a lot of money. That’s what we heard.
I only played tennis with Peter Raymond one more time.
I beat him in straight sets.
6-0, 6-0.
I guess his tennis tips paid off.
The end.