Buying Power

Like a fading beauty of the silver screen, well past her prime but still proudly auditioning for the part of leading lady, the High Point Furniture Market has fallen prey to the inexorable march of change.

With the mid-century migration of furniture manufacturing to western North Carolina and Virginia, it was inevitable that the old-boy network of family-owned -- and cross-pollinated -- companies so engaged would seek to establish the equivalent of a neighborhood lemonade stand to hawk their extensive but derivative product lines. Thus, they transformed the sleepy backwater of High Point, North Carolina, into the twelve-million-square-foot mecca of the home furnishings industry, to which thousands of acolytes were compelled to make a semi-annual pilgrimmage and there pay homage to the high priests of the furniture industry.

Only a stone's throw from their factories, High Point was a convenient drop-ship for the myriad market samples with which they flooded their showrooms -- and a comfortable two-and-a-half hour drive from my home in Lynchburg, Virginia. But for those beyond the Pale -- say, a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radius -- imagine the trials and tribulations of navigating the arcane flight schedules into and out of the Greensboro or Charlotte, N.C., airports, negotiating for rental cars while being held hostage to a limited supply in the face of a hyper-inflated demand, and having to pay similarly exorbitant rates for mediocre accomodations, usually months in advance and often for nights guaranteed even after one had gleefully headed home.

For fifty years High Point successfully vanquished all pretenders to its throne -- Atlanta, Dallas, San Francisco, and Tupelo -- which generally were too limited in design and too regional in scope to offer serious competition. Ambitious investors continued to build more square footage, operating under the misguided assumption that this fortress of concentrated buying power was impregnable.

Two developments undermined High Point's staunch defenses. First, most of those formerly vibrant manufacturing facilities shuttered their doors, and were either sold, abandoned, or relegated to the status of mere repositories or assembly points for home furnishings produced in China, Vietnam, or Malaysia. Globalization shattered the logical locus of High Point.

Once this fact of economic life became apparent, it didn't take long for a voracious predator -- one with deep pockets -- to surface and pounce. In the space of three short years, a Las Vegas mirage of six million square feet of furniture showroom solidified into concrete, steel, and glass. Disneyland in the desert -- with its accessibility, its five-star hotel and dining facilities, and its irresistible ancillary attractions -- became High Point's worst nightmare, luring furniture high-rollers from all over the world, most notably those west of the Mississippi River and beyond the continental borders.

I'm not sure High Point's market moguls realize that many of these folks just aren't coming back. In an egregious display of panic, desperation, or schizophrenia, they rolled their market's Spring and Fall dates back several weeks to coincide more closely with Las Vegas's dates, a ridiculous and impractical experiment which served principally to tarnish High Point's only treasure, its glorious April and October weather, and was wisely abandoned after a one-year interlude.

I have yet to attend the Las Vegas market; High Point's proximity coupled with my own habitual behavior has firmly grounded it in my consciousness as the almighty Furniture Market (and thou shalt have no other markets before it), although the blessings of a little competition are not to be denied. For the past fifteen or so years of our sojourn at the Park Lane Four Seasons Hotel on High Point Road in Greensboro, Schewel Furniture Company's room rate had risen steadily and geometrically, until by 2005 we paying upwards of $250 per night, this for a room which during the fifty non-market weeks of the year easily went for half that -- and, if one were available, would be rented for that price during market week to a drop-in truck driver. I know because I heard it happen one night while I was checking in. In 2006, apparently in response to declining attendance and the bully pulpit of the mysterious, influential, but ultimately powerless Market Authority, the hotel manager generously reduced our rate to $149, and, succumbing to the effusive charm of my two female buyers, even threw in spacious two-room suites for each of us.

The mini-refrigerater therein supplied is greatly appreciated. I use it to preserve my delectable (or detestable, depending on one's point of view) dinner ingredients -- carrots, cottage cheese, whole wheat bread, and blackberry jam, the latter two, of course, when plastered with extra-crunchy peanut butter (which even this stranger to the kitchen knows does not have to be kept in a chilled state), compose my main course. While the nightly adventures of other out-of-towners may confirm the public's perception that these markets continue from dusk to dawn at a variety of interesting venues, my cerebral, solitary, and compulsive personality dictates that evenings out be few and far between. The truth is, I have work to do. Because a ninety-minute perusal of the notes I have made in each of the showrooms I have visited that day is critical to the process I am about to describe.

We merchandise our fifty stores according to a line-up, the selection of items we display in our showrooms and stock in our distribution center at any given point in time; sixty sofas, loveseats, and chairs with occasional tables; thirty recliners; thirty glider rockers, swivel rockers, and accent chairs; fifteen desks; fifteen curios; twenty television stands and entertainment centers; thirty master and youth bedrooms; eight formal dining rooms; and twenty-five casual dining sets. Our goal, after six days of furniture shopping, usually from 9 AM to 7 PM, during which we visit sixty showrooms, is to leave the market with all these line-up slots filled. Of course, not every item is changed; many are too new or selling too well to replace. About one-third of our line-up turns over every six months, at the April and October markets.

My market regimen wasn't always so disciplined. In my younger days, I remember dining out with friends, manufacturer representatives (hereafter designated as "reps"), and colleagues; taking in numerous parties and special events; and frequenting bars, night clubs (featuring scantily-clad entertainment), a pool hall, and even a female mud-wrestling contest. Oh, I would diligently take notes during the day (sometimes overcoming a splitting headache), but leave the decision-making to the months or six weeks after the market, when legions of reps would traipse through my office, shuffle their pictures, refresh my memory, renew their pitches, and plead for placements -- and sooner or later a line-up would emerge.

I graduated from that time-consuming ordeal to studying my notes the last night (sometimes the last morning) of the market and frantically trying to organize them and my thoughts and produce a line-up. Finally, about ten years ago, when I was no longer interested in trolling night spots, I realized that a regular review of the notes I had made each day and a progressive construction of the line-up was almost as easy to digest as the peanut-butter sandwich I was holding in hand. And it gave me the opportunity to revisit showrooms for a second (or third) look at items under consideration.

I have found that, emotionally and intellectually, each market follows a familiar pattern. One approaches the first day or two with a heightened level of enthusiasm and excitement. As a dealer was once quoted in a trade journal, "If you don't look forward to the furniture market, you shouldn't be in the furniture business." After all, not only is one gratefully abandoning, at least temporarily, the barrage of phone calls (I don't carry a cell phone), problems, meetings, and day-to-day minutiae of the retail wars, he is invigorated by the thought of discovering fresh new merchandise with which to refurbish his stores and stimulate his sales.

After the second day, however, one's energy is sapped by ten-hour days spent pounding the pavement; by the incessant banter and the profuse flattery of hungry pitchmen; by an overabundant and bewildering array of sofas, bedrooms, dining sets, and television stands (a veritable sea of La-Z-Boys, as my wife felicitously declared on her first and last trip to the furniture market) which have run together like water colors in a thunderstorm; and by a queasy feeling in one's stomach which comes with the realization that time -- which two days ago seemed too plentiful -- is slipping away.

Then, on the next-to-last day, when all major vendors have been seen, when a few have even been reshopped, when the decision-making process is in full bloom, when the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fit snugly and comfortably in place, one's step lightens; his pace quickens; his spirits rise almost to the point of euphoria. And on the last day, when final commitments are made, he thinks to oneself, with a smug, and ultimately false, confidence -- because the consumer is a cruel taskmaster -- another market attacked, and conquered.

Though much compressed, that pattern is replicated to some degree in each individual showroom: the anticipatory thrill of new product; the salesman's promise of outstanding value and retail success with almost every offering; the fog that descends over one's brain after he has completed his initial tour and must, at least out of courtesy, put pen to paper.

Generally speaking, I admit that my shopping method is hardly scientific. The price at this point -- other than the fact that we obviously have to know what it is, which sometimes involves an excruciating interchange with the salesperson, who clings to it like a child to his favorite toy -- is immaterial; now we're merely eyeballing the item, internally making a calculated wild guess as to its saleability, evaluating the salesman's unabashed admiration, and assessing its correlation, in price and design, with other merchandise in the same category.

The eternal conundrum of buying for a retail furniture store is that, at least with regard to a new item -- one shown to the retailer for the first time -- no one really knows what is going to strike the consumer's fancy. My perception is that domestic home furnishings suppliers (the preferred terminology these days, as their manufacturing is contracted to overseas entities) conduct little, if any, research. Most of their designs -- whether upholstery or case goods -- are thinly-disguised imitations of someone else's (and where those designs originate is a mystery to me), which may have some history of sales success, but not necessarily. More often than one would like to think, the universal popularity of a design is solely attributable to the talents of a silver-tongued salesperson who passed it off on several suppliers at the same time. And just because an item happens to sell well in another store or market area doesn't guarantee similar results in my store -- regardless of what so many reps are eager for one to believe. Consequently, buying becomes a balancing act between enthusiasm and skepticism.

In spite of what those musings may suggest, I respect and appreciate those road warriors who bear the oft-abused title of manufacturer's representative. Any one who can close the deal with a brooding, introspective, tight-lipped buyer like me deserves a celestial reward, although I am making a conscientious effort in my middle age (there's a euphemism) to greet pleasantly these putative partners, look them squarely in the bridge of the nose, smile like I am genuinely elated to see them, display some evidence of a sense of humor, and at least pretend to listen to their perfect pitches. But linger for small talk? No; never.

In truth, however, buying decisions are hardly ever objective, and rarely based on price alone. We are loyal to selected vendors and individuals. We would much prefer to buy from someone we know and trust. Some reps are indeed able to establish a rapport with me (or my associate buyers) that others can not. Some make a sale purely through persistence. In the final analysis, who can identify and isolate that intangible element that makes a customer say "yes"?

It might even be that one of the spate of tired platitudes tossed out like well-aimed darts by a loquacious salesperson finds the bull's-eye, in spite of its narcotic familiarity and ludicrous banality. As much as the listener tries to turn a "tin" (that is, deaf) ear in defense, is it not conceivable that one of these stingers should lodge itself in the subconscious and prick one's memory at the decisive moment?

As luck would have it, the first showroom we visit upon our arrival Saturday morning is manned by none other than John R., whom readers of this blog will remember as the brash prankster who sent me for Christmas a roll of toilet paper each panel of which was imprinted with a likeness of George Bush spouting some infamous malapropism. John's perverse approach to ingratiating himself with his customers is to insult (at least this one) rather than pander to them -- perhaps the residual effect of a concussion he suffered many years ago while centering punts for the N.C. State football team. True to form, he greets me with, "Hey, ugly. You just spoiled my weekend. You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow." My upholstery buyer warns me that John will invariably declare at least once during our conversation, "For what it's worth," which he regurgitates as if on cue, followed by a time-worn pledge -- "If this doesn't sell, we'll pick it up" -- that is totally gratuitous, since Schewels has never sent any merchandise back to a supplier for that reason.

Later, we shop a new case goods resource where I encounter an old friend, Bob O., a round-faced jovial fellow with a perpetual cock-eyed grin and contagious chuckle, with whom I journeyed to Taiwan, Hong Kong, and mainland China (for one day) twenty years ago. Bob cracks himself up with the long-since-forgotten tale of my amazement at the height of a youthful Chinese basketball player glimpsed from afar and subsequent rude awakening when, upon closer inspection, it was determined that he was only towering over some very short comrades.

From there, we transition to H . . . e, where we are escorted through the showroom by a bona fide Oriental gentleman (of average height) with the Anglicized name of Charles H., who, bravely speaking a brand of English more perfectly understood by him than by us, is "vewy pwoud" of his new youth bedroom with its different-colored interchangeable drawer panels, "twee," to be exact, a word, I am embarassed to record, I ask him to repeat "twee" times. Actually, we adore Charles, who took our buyer under his wing during her Far East trip a few years ago.

In L . . . y we enjoy the company of John H., master of the soft sell and an ad nauseum repetition of his customer's proper name, who surprises me with the forceful, out-of-character, and provocative pronouncement, "This suite's got Lynchburg written all over it," eliciting a whisper from my bedroom buyer: "But what about Winchester, Harrisonburg, and our other forty-seven stores?"

It's a short drive across town to our next destination, T. . . r, where we are welcomed by two contemporaries whose careers seem to have paralled our own over the past thirty years, as they have jumped -- with us usually in their wake -- from one furniture line to another, like bullfrogs on lily pads, always landing on their feet and never sinking below the water line -- David M., casual as always in a bulky blue sweater, forever relying on his perpetual boyishness to subdue the most hardened buyer; and the gentle, graying giant, Frank S., intense and polished, dressed both up and down, his twenty-something striped polo shirt beaming like his toothy grin through his tweed sport jacket.

Frank's composure is shaken by the sudden disclosure that we have reverted to our former bedroom pricing formula -- dresser, mirror, bed, and chest -- thereby foiling his memorized dresser, mirror, bed, and night stand combinations. Once past this inconvenience, price sheet in hand, he treats us to a virtuoso performance in pithy word-smithing: "This is a great-selling suite. This one's all-world, hard to beat. I love this suite. This one's red-hot. We can't keep it." And the piece de resistance: "Hot as a banshee" -- which leaves us mystified, until he explains just what a banshee is: a small rooster. Well, not exactly. According to my dictionary, that's a "bantam," while a "banshee" is a "female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in the family" -- a sobering revelation which considerably dampens Frank's fiery analogy.

The next morning, shopping an upholstery line, K . . . r, we are irritated but amused by Richie H.'s not-so-subtle ploy of running interference between us and a sofa which has already been "placed in our market," that is, sold to a competitor. He skirts by it as if it were a poisonous snake, lest its colorful and attractive camouflage catch our attention, which only piques our interest more, until he summarily dismisses it as already spoken for.

In L . . . e, Mike M. greets us with his Cheshire Cat grin and a mouthful of sugar. "I call that happiness," he says, whether in reference to a dresser, a leather sofa, or the buxom receptionist, I do not recall. "Our drawer construction stands tall," he exults, in admiration of an expensive bedroom suite copied (no surprise there) from a Bernhardt one selling for twice the price. A furniture legend in his own time, James R. -- whose frightening resume lists him as million-dollar producer for the defunct Pilliod Co., merchandiser extraordinaire for the dearly-departed Heilig-Meyers chain, and sales manager for the recently-entombed Natale Co. -- wanders by to model his scintillating tangerine sweater and beige docksiders.

Later that day I avoid serious injury in N . . . s when the small accent chair I am comfort-testing falls off the elevated platform on which it is perched (like a bantam!) -- not the best way to impress a buyer. Actually, I thought one of the rear legs had broken off -- and wouldn't have been surprised.

At H . . . l, million-dollar Million D., unctuous and mannerly, tries to corral us in the vicinity of one of his sofas with the innocent query, "Have you felt this fabric before?" "I believe we have, Million," I respond with uncontrolled glee and too much condescension. "It's a padded microfiber and it's been around about four years. Have I felt it? Only about ten times last week when I walked through one of my stores."

At E . . . e, we have to drag seventy-five-year-old Clyde O. into the showroom from out in the hall where's he falling all over himself talking to his new bride on his cell phone; he promptly disappears for ten minutes looking for a price.

In B . . . l, Rob A., brisk, crisp, concise, and taciturn, expertly guides us through the intimidating showroom, stopping only to highlight a few bedroom suites he thinks might be of interest to us, at one of which he proves his mettle, taking a back seat to no one when it comes to mind-numbing verbal dexterity. "This dog will hunt," he promises. (And, on the other hand, it may turn out to be one of those dogs we wish we had never seen.) "It has all the bells and whistles" -- like a mirror, drawers that work, and a brown finish, I mutter to myself.

In C . . . r, when I ask the windy Don B. which of two sofas he would rather sell me, I am immediately struck by buyer's remorse, because I know what's coming before it's out of his mouth: "Marc, these are two different animals" -- neither of which, rest assured, is a dog -- "It's like comparing apples and oranges" -- answers which imply, of course, that I should purchase both, and leave me dangling like a spun-out yo-yo.

In L . . . e, we are entertained by Scott K., Mitt Romney-esque in his chiseled handsomeness and mousse-perfect grooming. The consummate professional, he dances through his showroom, unencumbered by pricebook or notepad, his prices and stock numbers lodged in the steel trap of his memory, to be disgorged at the slightest pause over an item by his duly-impressed and quickly-exhausted customer. Scott never met a superlative he didn't like, as he sustains a running commentary: "Look at the size of that chair" -- pointing out just about every recliner we pass by. "This one has butt appeal." "There's a premium for leather like that" -- like a higher price. When he realizes I'm taking notes not just on merchandise but on his comments as well, he ramps up the hyperbole. "Every frame we come out with is our own design." (Show me one.) "This sofa has more wood than any other out there." (Well, the wood does wrap around the base, but that's not unique.) And, finally, "What does it take to push you over the edge?" (Probably looking at one more recliner will do it.)

The M . . . n showroom is a beehive of activity. This season the buzz is all about Flex-a-Boy, a contortionist performing in the lobby. Stretching like a rubber band, he effortlessly rotates both legs behind his head, slides his entire body through the stringless head of a tennis racket, and squeezes himself into a 20x16x16 clear plastic box, and then latches the top -- hardly taking a breath as he touts the benefits of purchasing from M . . . n: "We bend over backwards for customer service. We have the most flexible shipping program in the industry. We provide the lowest cost in the smallest package."

Our M . . . n rep, Jack B., rolls along behind us like Humpty-Dumpty as we skate through the showroom, a little off balance because of a bad hip, dictating notes into a recorder in his nasally Bawl-li-more accent, selling with a jocular sarcasm. He exclaims, "I couldn't sleep at all last night waiting to show you this suite," which we dismiss with hardly a glance. When we glide past another one, he pops out with, "Any reason you passed this one up?" "It's nothing personal," I reply as we exit the showroom and start down the stairs to the next floor, only to look back and see Jack in desperate pursuit.

In A . . . y, we are welcomed by the merry Marvin S., still spry at seventy plus, his rotund frame, shiny pate, sparkling eyes, and ear-to-ear grin exuding buckets of charm. He's always glad to see you and usually has a nasty little joke to tell, this one about Eliot Spitzer, whose rabbi said he was deeply disappointed in him. "Why?" asked Eliot. "Don't you know, " said the rabbi, "nobody pays retail." Marvin boasts that A . . . y has the best motion furniture in the industry (but not in the country, as it's manufactured overseas) and commands me, using the affectionate sobriquet "Honey," to sit my little butt down on a piece -- not as much of a test, of course, as his own sprawling butt would be.

We pass by the tiny S . . . g showroom, tucked in a hallway, where the rep, Frank S., a courtly, white-haired gentleman, who has finally sold us a bedroom suite after five long years of persistent phone calls and road trips from New Jersey, waves us in to show another one. Our lengthy visit reminds me of Frank's tar-baby-like ability to keep a person engaged in a telephone or face-to-face conversation despite his most determined efforts to escape. When I half-seriously remark that, in the midst of deleterious business conditions, I'm still paying cash, Frank quickly retorts, "You buy this suite, and you'll be able to pay cash."

And so it goes, one mindless pitch after another, served up for our edification, indocrination, and intoxication, fastballs, curveballs, sliders, changeups: that's screaming; this one's a superstar; we sell the fire out of it; this has been well-received; can I suggest a home run; this is the bomb.

Finally, after five weary days of wall-to-wall furniture, sifting the wheat from the chaff, barely legible note-taking, and hard choices, the sixth dawns with a welcome serenity and an almost completed line-up. But our bedrooms seem stale, not quite right. While reshopping that last day, we actually decide on three suites, two of which we scope out for the first time: a white urban lifestyle and a bombay-influenced merlot contemporary. To employ the only cliche we haven't heard in a week replete with them: it's time to think outside the box.

Three days later, at home, when the final pristine sheets are produced, our re-engineered line-up of merchandise looks so perfect in conception and execution. The slow sellers have been quietly expurgated. We anxiously anticipate the arrival of our new selections, which, in price point, design, function, and color, are sure to enhance and complement our showrooms, appeal to our customers' tastes and pocketbooks, and confirm that the time, money, and energy expended at the High Point Furniture Market were productive and profitable.

Alas, there are two abiding fallacies inherent in this semi-annual ritual. The first is that, in the final analysis, the most exquisitely-merchandised store will fail without the operation to back it up: a diversified advertising program that generates credibility, urgency, and traffic; a professional sales staff that creates loyal customers by meeting their needs and satisfying their desires; and a service system that delivers customer purchases in a timely and efficient manner. In fact, of all these factors, the particular items of merchandise displayed in one's store may be the least critical for retail success.

Secondly, buying is an imperfect art, and, no matter one's experience or expertise, never error-free. A stunningly attractive chair or bed quickly loses its luster when it sits too long; a muddy brown sofa looks mighty nice on the back of a delivery truck. One would think that a buyer of thirty-five years would be able to tell the difference. But the cold, hard truth is that thirty per cent of new market selections are never re-ordered -- and one begins to reflect that he might be better off staying home, and abdicating the test-marketing to other eager beavers. But no, six months later, he packs up his suits and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and stubbornly heads south, to assert his buying power all over again.