Crate Capers

In my career as an exhibit coordinator, I have learned that there are times in this industry when you need a good mentor, and times when you need a good cry - and then there are times when you need both.

Years ago I worked for a wire-shelving and small-wares company that was owned by a larger furniture manufacturer. Our products included all things wire, from kitchen utensils to display materials and decorative items like baskets, and though the furniture-manufacturing operation was in Tennessee and my outfit was in Philadelphia, we often exhibited in separate booths at the same shows.

Our in-line exhibit was a beautiful creation with polished wood walls and a lattice-type ceiling that reflected the artistry of the furniture designs at our parent company. We housed it at the Tennessee facility, and when we needed it, we had staff there ship it for us in mammoth-sized wooden crates that the furniture company constructed for sending out its own display.

Both divisions were slated to attend the International Hotel + Motel Show at the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center in New York, so we arranged to have our booth shipped with the furniture company's exhibit. All of the interior display items and literature were sent from our location, and it would be my job alone to see that it all went together in time for the show.

When I arrived at Javits two days before the opening bell, I was glad to see our carpet was in place, and all of the shelving and small wares from Philadelphia had been delivered to the booth. Our giant crate was sent to the furniture company's space about 10 aisles away, so I walked over to see about getting the install crew we shared to bring it over and set it up.

Installation of the furniture booth was underway when I arrived, and I saw an unopened crate labeled for me among a cluster of empty crates off to the side. These crates were a source of pride for the furniture manufacturer; they were large enough to drive a car into and made from thick panels that would withstand a tornado. Built with equal parts of wood and sheer testosterone, they were too massive to be lifted by anything except a forklift, and they were fastened shut with furniture screws that turned with a seemingly magic tool only a furniture kingpin would have. The company loved these big beasts so much that it even made an extra one to have sitting around, just in case someone ever needed another enormous crate.

In the furniture booth, just to be sure we had what we needed before the crate was moved, a member of the installation team unscrewed the panel on the end of the crate and peered in. Then he disappeared inside. He walked out a few seconds later scratching his head and looking slightly amused. "It's empty," he said.

He might as well have been speaking Turkish, because I just stood there staring at him like nothing he said made sense. Ridiculous, I thought, as I looked for myself. Inside I found plain wooden walls and that was it, and when I turned around I must have looked like I'd seen a ghost. "How can that be?" I said. Install crew members mutely stared back at me for a few seconds, probably trying to calculate the odds of me becoming homicidal at that moment; then they turned around and went back to work on the furniture exhibit.

Hyperventilating, I went straight out to a bank of pay phones and punched in the only number I could think of: that of my mentor. It was the age before cell phones, so there I stood in the lobby of the convention center with my lip quivering, praying he would pick up. As a senior executive, this gentleman had been in the industry forever. He would know what to do.

As soon as he answered the phone, I started crying so hysterically he probably thought I had been shot or something. Nose running and makeup streaming, with no tissue and just a tiny thread of sanity left, I stood there choking out the story in between sobs. I was surprised how calm he was when I'd finished.

"Everything is going to be fine," he said. "You need to call Tennessee and find out where your exhibit is, and then you need to go find the general contractor and start a conversation with them about what you need."

As he talked, I regained composure, his calmness neutralizing my panic. I realized that while it might have been the worst thing that had ever happened to me personally, it was far from the worst thing that had ever happened in the exhibit industry.

The person who answered the phone at the furniture manufacturer was unfazed by the urgency in my tone. He reckoned my exhibit had been confused with the empty extra container, and that the booth was likely still sitting in the crate in Tennessee. I demanded to know how the furniture folks could have screwed this up, and what he was going to do to fix it.

"Well what do you want me to do about it?" he drawled. He was right - there was no time to ship the crate and have the booth set up for the show. I was going to have to MacGyver some kind of display out of what I had and whatever I could get from the general contractor, and it was going to have to do.

I took stock of my situation: I had carpeting, shelving, displays, and literature. Because our company name was embedded in the wall of the exhibit - a wall I didn't have - I had no signage for the booth. In fact, I didn't even have pipe and drape at that point, because I had waved them off in lieu of the structure I expected to be using.

The general contractor was very gracious and helpful, sending pipe and drape to my space straight away, and ordering a sign that would at least bear our company's name. Though it had felt like the end of the world to me, a missing booth was evidently a story quite common in the exhibiting world, and the contractor had solutions readily available.

On the bright side, assembling a booth that didn't include our elaborate walls and ceiling went pretty quickly, and I found myself with time to relax a little the day before the show opened. Likewise, while I'd rather have exhibited in our beautiful booth, teardown was a breeze.

Years later as an exhibiting veteran, I find myself occasionally fielding panicked calls from my company's young exhibit coordinators. My advice is always the same: "Calm down and just breathe. Everything is going to be OK. You just need to have a back-up plan and remember that sometimes it gets a little crazy out there. And just in case, carry tissues."

- Shelley MacGill, sales and marketing coordinator, Precoa, Portland, OR