Truth or Fiction - a Sales Lesson

One of the most bizarre and educational experiences I’ve ever had as a salesperson happened when I was still a relative rookie, working for Hewlett-Packard.

I rocked up to the customer site in my new company car, wearing my fancy double-breasted pure new wool suit and Church’s handmade brogues — ready to talk about the Big New System I was hoping to sell them.

The Great Escape

As I walked across the car park to reception, I saw a large, bearded man climbing out a ground floor office window and tramping into the flower beds. Then he got to the car park and started running straight at me shouting and cursing and making violent motions in my direction.

“Hmm,” I thought.

It was John S, the production director. My highly developed emotional intelligence allowed me to deduce that he was angry — and I decided on an executive course of action.

I ran away.

And John ran after me, bellowing and threatening me with all sorts of terrible things.

I made it back to my car and locked myself in.

John pounded on the roof and cursed me. He cursed the company I worked for, my parents, my siblings — and even questioned whether my parents were married. Then, exhausted, he slumped into a crumpled posture and slowly made his way back to the office.

He used the door this time.

The Quarter’s Final Hours

After John S walked back to his office — a weary and dejected potential ex-customer — I sat in my car and pondered. There were no mobile telephones then, no mobile devices, no internet.

I could return to the office and seek counsel, but this was the last day of the quarter.

It was Friday, 15 July 1983. 2:30 pm. John’s office would close at 5 pm and then be shut for two weeks for what was known as the “Trades Fortnight” — a two-week shutdown of businesses while families took their holidays.

“Ross Mackenzie to see John S, please.”

I didn’t sit down in case I had to run away again. But John appeared, red-faced yet calm.

“Come in,” he said. I did.

Promises, Promises

John’s issue was simple but serious: we’d made promise after promise about when he could expect delivery and installation of the first computer system he bought from us.

We’d missed every single deadline.

We’d even offered to sell him the loan system that was currently installed — but he didn’t want that. He wanted what he ordered.

Their business had grown so fast they were running out of capacity and needed a much more powerful computer to handle the workload. The loan system was running out of steam.

I made John a promise: if I didn’t resolve his issue that afternoon, I would resign from HP.

We both knew my leaving wouldn’t solve his problem, but he could see I was completely committed to fixing it if I could.

The Call That Changed Everything

I called a number of senior people in the US and sought help. Encouraging noises, but no joy.

Eventually, I got through to a senior VP many levels above my pay grade and said:

“I have a justifiably irate customer here who’d like to speak to someone who can help us delight him — is that you?”

I handed the phone to John, and he told his story.

He got a cast-iron promise from the VP that his issue would be resolved that day, and that a call would be made later to confirm arrangements.

John pointed out that the factory was closing in an hour and there’d be no one at the switchboard to take the call. I volunteered to stay and take it if the business would allow it — and that’s what happened.

From Fury to Friendship (and $1.25 Million)

The original purpose of my meeting with John had been to talk about the purchase of the big new production system to cater for their growth — but that now felt like a very distant conversation.

“What’s the lead time on the new system, Ross?”

“Er… twelve weeks, John. All the info’s on the quotation I brought you last week. Are you sure you want to talk about that right now? Maybe just leave it until you’re back from holiday?”

He looked at me and asked if I could type.

“A bit,” I said.

He left his office and came back with an order pad, signing and dating five blank order forms.

“Here you go. Copy what’s on the quotes onto the order sheets on that typewriter over there. Take the white copies and leave the rest on my desk. When the call from the US comes through, phone me at home — here’s my number. Here are the keys. Lock the factory door when you leave and give them to the gateman. He’ll secure everything when you’re gone.”

And that’s exactly what I did.

I typed up an order for $1.25 million on an old IBM golf-ball typewriter, took the US call, phoned John, locked up the office, and took the order back to the office — on the last day of the quarter, at 6:30 pm.

Full Circle

Four hours earlier, I’d been chased around a car park by an enraged customer.

By the end of the day, I’d booked a $1.25 million order.

It’s funny how a disastrous morning, a furious customer, and an old IBM typewriter can change your life.

Absolutely true — and 30 years later, I was back at HP, running a business with over $1 billion in annual sales responsibility.

But it was no where near as much fun.