by Lisa Lim
Ah! A mini bar! My stomach lurched and I practically hurled myself at the mini bar when the price list suddenly caught my eye.
For a brief moment, I stood perfectly still and simply stared at it.
12 oz can of Coca Cola - $9 USD
A small packet of Pringles - $9 USD
Kit Kat bar - $10 USD
Give me a break! I could not believe they had the staggering nerve to charge ten dollars for a Goddamn Kit Kat bar. I uttered a low curse, “Bastards!”
“What?” came a groggy voice from the sofa.
“Oh. I wasn’t talking to you, Carter. Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t anymore,” he said, sitting up.
We fell into a convivial silence, staring at the mini bar in a rather maniacal fashion. Eventually, I dragged my gaze away from it. “I’m hungry,” I informed Carter. “Are you hungry?”
“No.” There was a pause until he added, “I’m starving.”
“Wanna go out and get something to eat?”
He raked a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “At this hour?”
“Why not? I’ve heard about these mamak food stalls that are open twenty-four seven.”
“Twenty-four seven?” Carter looked at me with deep interest. “Like a call center?”
I nodded.
“All right,” he said. “This I’d like to see.”
If synchronized-head-turning were a sport, Carter and I would have scored a ten out of ten. We whipped our heads this way and that, taking in our surroundings, soaking up the sounds. We were in downtown Kuala Lumpur, or KL as the locals called it, where the cityscape of lights were more brilliant than the stars. All around us, rows and rows of food stalls took up entire sidewalks; plastic chairs and tables spilled over adjoining lanes and street corners.
It didn’t take us long to find an empty table. As I pulled out a chair and sat down, I was struck by the vast number of people at the mamak joint at this ungodly hour. Clubbers gathering after a hard night of partying, swing shift workers enjoying supper, college students just hanging out … it all held a very relaxed vibe.
“I guess it’s true what they say about this place,” I said in a hushed awe, “this is the city that never sleeps.”
Our heads swiveled round as another Suzuki motorbike sped past our table, carrying a family of four.
“Not so much al fresco dining as it is a sidewalk hangout spot,” Carter observed.
“I like this,” I insisted. “No frills, no fuss, roadside dining.”
“Where’d you hear about these mamak food stalls?”
“The Travel Channel,” I said, brightening. “On Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You haven’t?” I raised my eyebrows in silent reprimand.
“Nope. What’s the deal with his show anyway?”
“Well, I enjoy watching it because he sees a city from a local’s perspective. And to him, the perfect meal is not about upscale restaurants and the Michelin Stars. It’s more about the ideal combination of food, atmosphere and company.”
Carter had more pressing matters on his mind. “What should we order?”
“Roti canai seems to be pretty popular; it’s some sort of fried Indian bread.”
“All right. I’ll try that. What about drinks?”
“Oh! We have to order teh tarik. It’s pulled tea.”
“Roti canai and pulled tea it is,” Carter declared with an air of gravitas. “What about you? What are you having?”
“Satay!” I exclaimed cheerfully. “Should I go place our orders?”
“Please.”
I departed on my errand, walking past an endless array of food stalls until I came to the roti stall. For a brief moment, I stood rooted to the spot, watching the street vendor with rapture as he poured milk tea back and forth, from one glass to another, pulling it higher and higher.
“Two teh tarik please,” I informed the vendor airily. “Oh, and one roti canai.”
He gave the smallest nod. “Where do you sit?”
I pointed to our table.
Intent on my other mission, I picked my way through the kaleidoscope of food stalls, all reflecting Malaysia’s colorful ethnic mix. My eyes lit up when I finally came upon a satay stand. I placed my order and rejoined Carter at the table.
It wasn’t long before two glasses of frothy tea were delivered to our table, along with Carter’s roti canai. It was served on a banana leaf with a side of red curry. Shortly after, my plate of chicken satay arrived accompanied by a bowl of peanut sauce.
We tucked into our food and for a while we ate in companionable silence.
As I sat there chewing on my satay, it occurred to me that this would be a good time as any to pick Carter’s brains. I debated the proper approach and opted for the most straightforward. “Carter,” I stated, “I’d like to be your protégé.”
“My protégé?” He cocked an eyebrow. “So you wish to glean some wisdom from me?”
“Uh-huh.” I licked my fingers, tasting hints of lemongrass and turmeric. “Yes. I’d like you to teach me everything you know.”
Carter tore off a chunk of roti and dunked it liberally into the red curry. “Well that will cost you five thousand dollars.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Lesson number one—always charge for your expertise.”
I held back a groan. “You’re so full of it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“All right,” he said haughtily. “Do you want to learn from me or not?”
I nodded.
“So be quiet and let me speak.”
I made a zipping motion with my hand over my mouth.
“Let me tell you a story.”
I drew a finger across my throat and made gagging noises. “Stories are for toddlers!”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
“Fine,” I mumbled.
Carter ignored the lack of enthusiasm in my response and launched right into his story. “A French woman, upon spotting Picasso in a café, approached the great master and insisted that he make a quick sketch of her. Graciously, Picasso obliged. After studying her for a moment, he used a single pencil stroke to create her portrait. He handed the woman his work of art and she gushed, ‘It’s perfect! You managed to capture my true essence with just one stroke. Now how much do I owe you?’ ”
I cut in dramatically, “ ‘Five thousand dollars,’ said Picasso.”
Carter frowned heavily. “Are you telling the story or am I?”
“Go onnnn,” I said with exaggerated courtesy.
“Picasso informed the woman that she owed him fifty thousand francs. And the woman was furious. She said to Picasso, ‘It only took you a second to draw it!’ To which Picasso responded, ‘Madame, it took me my entire life. It was my fifty years of serial preparation and fifty years of perfecting my unique talents and fifty years of honing my experience plus the five seconds that produced this sketch.’ ”
“Nice story.”
“You see,” Carter continued complacently, “it takes years and years of study and practice to build expertise in any profession. And with that knowledge comes the appearance of ease and the perception that what’s being asked is—oh, no big deal. But, it is a big deal.”
“OK,” I acknowledged. “What I’m asking you is a big deal. But will you do it? For free?”
“I’ll do it if you pay for our meal.”
“You got it!” I said at once. “You’re cheap!”
“That’s because I just gave you a huge discount. Now,” Carter cleared his throat, “what would you like to know?
“I’d like to know the secret to your success,” I said directly.
“The secret to my success?” he repeated. “Well, I’ll have to say courage. The courage to get things done, the courage to accept failure, the courage to pick myself up when I fall. I may not be as smart, talented or as skilled as the next person, bu
t I’m not afraid to go out there and make things happen for myself.”
“You sound like Oprah.”
“Well, I’m not done talking yet, my little protégé. Two—I’m constantly learning and challenging the status quo. I’m always thinking of new ways to do old things, which is why I still hop on the phones and take calls. I talk to the callers. I talk to the agents. I talk to middle management.”
“It’s nice to know that all that is not beneath you.”
“It’s not. And it will never be. Trust me, Kars, pride and ego will get you nowhere in the workplace. Sometimes, you don’t learn and you don’t get new ideas unless you’re in the front lines. Whenever I see a problem, my immediate instinct is: How can I fix it? How can I make it better?”
I sighed. “You’re telling me stuff I already know. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Fine.” He rose to the challenge. “One of the most important life skills they don’t teach you at school is how to sell.”
“But you’re a director now.” My voice carried a trace of accusation. “You don’t need to sell anymore.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I still spend the majority of my time selling aspects of the business. Without sales, there would be no business to manage.”
“So what exactly do you sell?”
“I sell ideas. I sell initiatives.”
“Like what?”
“Like how to lower production costs, how to run the business more efficiently.”
“Hmmm.” I twisted my lips. A thousand questions sprang to my mind. “How long have you been doing this?”
“My first real sale where I’d actually made a large profit? When I was thirteen.”
“What’d you sell?”
“Well before I sold anything, I did your run of the mill market research. After school, I collected soda cans in the cafeteria and sorted through them to find out which drinks were the most popular.”
“Warren Buffet did that too, but he collected bottle caps at gas stations.”
“Yep. And that’s why Warren Buffet is now a major shareholder of the Coca Cola company. But I took a slightly different approach. After collecting the soda cans, I recycled them for a small profit and with that money I bought cases of soda at Sam’s by the bulk.”
“That’s a lot of soda.”
“Yes and no. Usually I bought the half cans.”
“Why half cans and not the regular sized ones?”
“The half cans were cheaper and they were a lot easier for me to haul around.”
“Let me guess, then you turned around and resold the soft drinks at school?”
He nodded briefly in acknowledgment. “The vending machines at school were selling soda for a buck twenty five. So, yeah … I cut into their profits.”
“How much did you make on each sale?”
“Seventy-five cents. And I made quite a bit that first year. Three years later, I had saved up enough to purchase my very own vending machine.”
“Why didn’t you just take out a loan from your parents?”
“Didn’t have parents,” Carter deadpanned.
I made eye contact for as long as possible to make sure Carter wasn’t joking. He didn’t bat an eyelid. “What do you mean you didn’t have parents?”
“Mom passed away when I was five. Then my life became a cliché. Dad remarried, my stepmom was a witch and I was sent to live with my grandparents. Looking back, it was all for the better.” He sounded so indifferent about all of it.
Taken aback, I said, “Was your stepmom really that bad?”
“Put it this way.” He laughed harshly. “She’s the kind of mom who eats her young.”
“Oh,” I said inadequately. “How was living with your grandparents?”
His face relaxed into a smile. “It was good. We lived in a small town in northern Minnesota—Roseau.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s ten miles south of Canada.”
“When you say small …” I lifted an inquiring brow. “How small are you talking?”
“One radio station and three stop lights.”
“Phwoar! That makes Pocatello almost seem like Manhattan.”
“Like I said, it was small.” He lifted his glass and took a quick gulp of tea. “My grandparents’ house was thirty miles out on a turkey farm.”
“Did you help out on the farm?”
“I did,” he said, brightening. “Every morning I’d go out to the turkey shed with my grandpa and we’d lay out the pine shavings and cedar chips.” He stopped and cracked a semblance of a smile. “And whenever my grandpa put on Willie Nelson, all the turkeys would start bobbing their heads.”
I burst out laughing.
“Yeah.” He rubbed his chin. “You didn’t know? Turkeys love Willie Nelson.”
“No.” I gave another hiccupping laugh. “I didn’t know that. And it’s funny that your grandpa knew that.”
“I know,” Carter said fondly. “He was a pretty cool cat.”
“So, what was your grandmother like?”
“She and my grandpa, they were both hard workers.” He hesitated for a second before adding, “Life wasn’t always easy for them on the farm; most of the local farmers struggled to meet the rock bottom prices of the major turkey producers.”
I rested my chin on my fingers. “And what about you?”
“Me?” He smiled a proper smile and his eyes went crinkly. “I had big dreams. Excuse the pop reference, but I wanted to be bigger than my circumstances. Some people use their family as an excuse not to achieve, and I have no patience with that. Yep, my dad wasn’t around, but I used it as an excuse to want to achieve.”
“So where was your dad? Didn’t he ever visit you at the turkey farm?”
He looked down and stared into his glass. “He had a new family. Two sons. Anyway, he flat out told me that he no longer had room for me in his life.”
“What a jerk!” I said hotly.
Carter shrugged indifferently.
“What did you do after you bought that vending machine?”
He spoke slowly, as though addressing a five-year-old, “I scouted the neighborhood for a high traffic spot.”
“D’oh!” I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t take a genius to come to that conclusion.” I rephrased my question, “Where did you end up parking your vending machine? At your school cafeteria?”
“I wish,” he said ruefully. “But they wouldn’t allow it. I ended up parking it at a dance studio close to the city.”
“Like a ballet school?” I asked idly.
He nodded. “Classical ballet, tap, jazz … that sort of thing.”
“How convenient,” I said in a teasing voice, “you could check out the chicks while you restocked your machine.”
“I wasn’t interested in dating back then,” he replied, a little stiffly. “It was classic Business 101. I saw a need and filled it.”
By now, the satay and roti had disappeared into our bellies. I placed a cigarette between my lips, reached for my lighter, flicked the wheel and lit it. I took a deep drag then angled my head to the left, blowing a stream of smoke across my shoulder. The more I learned about Carter, the more I wanted to know. “So,” I asked conversationally, “are you dating anyone now?”
“Why do you want to know?” A smile quirked his lips. “Are you interested in selling yourself to me?”
“No.” I could feel myself begin to blush. “But you just did. You got all up-close-and-personal with me, drew me in with your fascinating story and now BAM! I’m sold on you.”
“You are?” He grinned widely. “That was a pretty easy sale.”
I took another deep drag and gazed unseeingly toward Carter. In a moment of candor, I said, “You know, my dad left me, too. When I was twelve. Went out of my life.” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.”
I felt an unexpected pang. All those emotions were still there. Resentment, anger, hurt.
Carter stared intently at me. “Where is you
r dad now?”
“In jail.” I laughed bitterly. “For life.”
Carter said nothing for a moment, then, “Have you visited him?”
I shook my head firmly.
“Why not?”
My eyes flickered. “Do you see your dad?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” I said with a faint smile.
In the silence that followed, we looked at each other and shared a moment of mutual understanding.
There was such an air of intimacy … it was weird.
“But hey,” said Carter, putting on a bright tone, “look at us right now. We’re doing just fine. And haven’t you heard? The stone that the builder refused will always be the head cornerstone.”
I dragged heavily on my cigarette. “Is that a verse from the bible?”
“Hell if I know.” Carter took a swig of his tea. “I think I heard it from a Bob Marley song.”
We clinked glasses. “JAH MAN!”
I pushed the memories of my dad out of my mind and changed the subject. “So, any more advice you can give me?”
He seemed to consider this for a bit before responding. “Most management philosophy that you read in a textbook or learn in a classroom is not going to be of much use. Once you factor in people’s egos and personalities, even the most sensible theories begin to fall apart.”
“Egos,” I echoed. “I wonder if Lightning Speed is large enough to accommodate both of our egos.”
“Of course it is. But don’t let your ego get in the way. Learn how to delegate. When it comes to project management, the ability to delegate is what separates the good managers from the bad ones. So train your agents, and then let go of a responsibility.”
“Sounds easy,” I said.
“It almost never is.”
“Why not?”
“Egos get in the way. Most Project Managers would rather be seen as the authority than support the authority or the expertise of people who work for them.”
“Well, sometimes it’s difficult to let go of a responsibility.”
“Again,” said Carter, “it all boils down to ego. Some managers convince themselves that they can do everything better than anyone else.”
“Well maybe it’s because they’re afraid that if they give up that responsibility, they’ll become redundant to the company.”
