"Missing Socks" a short story by Craig Vachon
Every entrepreneur’s dream is to discover a “blue ocean” strategy. If you are not familiar with the term “blue ocean strategy,” it refers to a market where there are no competitors, versus a red ocean market in which the ocean is red with the blood of competitors fighting for every penny. In this short story by Craig Vachon, you will learn how to turn a red ocean into your own beautiful blue ocean. The book “Blue Ocean Strategy” was published in 2004 written by W. Chan Kim and Renée Mauborgne.
Missing Socks
February 1985
“... meeting is being held under an irrevocable, indefinite NDA with significant penalties for the violation therein,” reminded the lawyer. He then donned his Walkman headphones and sleep mask.
The rotund man with the marinara sauce-speckled shirt spoke, “I want to welcome everyone today. On my left, we have a group I have worked with previously. Very successfully, I might add.” White-haired men slapped backs and laughed at their good fortune. “And we welcome a new slate of executives to my right.”
The high-powered group on the right murmured their concern that this agenda-less meeting might be a waste of their time.
“So, let me start with a story. A story, that some of you,” he shifted his focus to the left, “know well.” Pausing for effect, he stretched the patience of everyone. “Eight years ago, we convened a similar meeting. In fact, the room was filled with equally impatient men.” Men on the right shifted uncomfortably. “At the end of the meeting, everyone left knowing their companies’ futures would forever be secure.”
The youngest man at the conference table bristled. “Look, this meeting is probably violating dozens of anti-racketeering laws. I recognize my competitors on this side of the table. Tell us right now what we are doing here, or....”
“Go ahead. Walk. Do so, and you’ll surely see the demise of your company within a year.”
The disgruntled man pushed back, stood, and contemplated. His industry competitors all looked away. After a few deep breaths, the senior-most man across the table smiled genially, and motioned for him to sit. “Just listen,” the gentleman advised. After adjusting his jacket, the man did so.
“Eight years ago,” Rocco glared at the youngest, “we initiated a similar arrangement. The results were fucking brilliant. Forty-two percent year-over-year growth. The proposition is simple. You,” he shifted his attention to the right, “will pay me for a special ingredient that you’ll utilize to affect the desired change. Then, you’ll pay the fine folks across from you for their efforts.”
The men on the left smiled. The most-senior said, “The first time I heard this spiel, I thought Rocco was genuinely insane. But then the demonstration, plus a little math. And suddenly, it all made sense.”
“Last meeting, in your chairs,” Rocco motioned to the right, “we had representatives from Indian textile cartels and folks from Zhejiang province. At the time, both groups each produced four billion pairs of socks, which was about two-thirds of the world's annual total. Today, both are producing north of eight billion pairs each year. What changed? We added our ‘special sauce’ to the manufacturing process. With this special process, and these gentlemen's cooperation,” he pointed to his left, “we could make socks disambulgate.”
“Simply put, we make socks disappear.” Rocco’s assistant quipped. The audience sat in stunned silence.
“Bullshit. An urban legend. Socks aren’t lost. They get stuck in fitted sheets, or become entwined in the agitator.”
“Some do, and some disappear. Or more accurately, they dismophigate into what is commonly called lint.” Rocco answered. “We have this whiz kid whose father had a gambling issue. We traded his dad’s knees for a formula that allowed for socks, or more accurately, one of the pair of socks, to disassembulate into lint.”
“And so what’s all this got to do with us? Our companies don’t make textiles.”
“We’ll get to that,” Rocco promised. “First, let’s talk about economic impact.” Rocco explained in detail how the scheme had created $100B. “By the year 2020, we’ll have created cumulatively half a trillion dollars in incremental revenue. That’s about the same revenue collected by the IRS in 1985 for the entire fucking country.”
One man on the right whistled.
“So now I have your attention, I’ll make my proposal. Each of you has a role, and a potential share of the proceeds.”
The room was silent, except for hungry, ragged breaths. More than one adjusted their silk ties. Most fidgeted in their huge boardroom chairs.
“This is how it will go down. In three minutes, you’ll promise me a very big starter check, or, you’ll decide not to proceed. In that case, we’ll have no further interaction, but due solely to market pressures, your business will fade. How do I know that? Because it happened. One of the Indian textile manufacturers walked and needed to sell his business within 24 months for pennies on the dollar.”
The men on the right-hand side of the table looked at each other, trying to guess who was going to call the bluff. The men on the left-hand side of the table tried to convey their confidence.
“Let me just share with you that next year, in 1986, experts believe 1.12 trillion plastic food containers will be manufactured. By the year 2000, the number will exceed 10 trillion. And when our plan is successful, we’ll increase those amounts by 40-50%. We’ll create $500B in incremental revenues next year, and fifteen times that amount by 2020.”
Rocco looked around the room and would swear he saw the men calculating their annual bonuses, wondering which private jet or mega-yacht they would order later that week.
Rocco said, “If you are interested, please read, and sign this simple one page contract that my assistant will pass to you.” The attractive redhead with big hair and a low cut blouse smiled and stood. “For those of you that want to forgo, then I’ll ask you to leave.”
No one moved. The youngest man smoothed his pant pleats. From across the table, the eldest caught his eye and shook his head. Everyone settled.
“Good.” Rocco rubbed his palms. “So there’s just a matter of the paperwork and some sparkling wine. Then you’ll all depart within minutes. This prissy lawyer’s costing me a fortune.”
The assistant placed a page in front of each man. The fastest reader was already sucking air through his teeth.
“Holy shit.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Yeah, the numbers take your breath away. I get it.” Rocco paused. “But we’re generating half a trillion dollars this year in incremental revenue. So each of you writing me a PO today for $200 million, plus guaranteeing 10% royalties to my organization, and another 10% to the gentlemen across the table, is, as we say, mice nuts.” The redhead snickered.
There was much quiet swearing. The elder statesmen looked across the table at each other. One nodded to the other.
“Show us,” the statesman on the right said.
Rocco whistled. Two men rolled out the appliance. On top of the new dishwasher were six identical plastic food containers pre-mated–tops to bottoms. “So, this’ll take 90 seconds. The water needs to get to the exact temperature. That’s why you’ll pay the royalty to your peers across from you. They’ll make certain the needed water temperature is achieved every time in every new dishwasher. But we can show you how to adjust the formula to meet your businesses’ needs.” Rocco shoved the containers into the appliance. After 90 seconds of the dishwasher’s purring, Rocco opened the door and water spilled over the carpeted floor. Rocco wasn’t concerned. He tossed the plastic at the skeptic in the room. The young man looked dismayed that sudsy water might drip on his fine suit.
“Go ahead. Try to mate them.”
The executive attempted to do so. None of the containers looked different than they did before the dishwasher. Yet each had morphed slightly. All six of the tops and bottoms were no longer mate-able. Before the young executive had given up, each and every one of his peers at the table had signed their one-pager.
“Champagne then?” the assistant smiled.