Receptacle Spectacle

Years ago as the owner of a fledgling business, I'd never even attended a trade show, much less exhibited in one. My modus operandi was to drive store to store with my little car loaded with boxes of the window decals I'd created - six different designs for horseback-riding enthusiasts - and sell them a store at a time. A store owner along the way connected me to an upcoming trade show in my area, and though it ended up being the best thing that ever happened to my business, it definitely started out being the worst.

When the store owner first suggested I go to the horse show in King of Prussia, PA, I was skeptical. But I also thought he was talking about the kind of horse show at which people ride ponies. "You don't know what you're talking about, kid," he replied, and then handed me a business card with the name of someone who could help me get a 10-by-10-foot spot in the exhibit hall. I wrestled with the idea for a few days and finally signed up for the show - deciding that if I wanted a serious business, I needed to take this guy's advice and exhibit like other companies.

On setup day a couple of weeks later, I proudly pulled up my car to the venue and sauntered inside; I was part of the elite - I was an exhibitor.

And then I stopped, slack jawed. Before me on the show floor was a spread of massive booths - glimmering structures with things like lights, and carpet, and, well, signs and stuff. I thought back to the booth setup in my car, which comprised two boxes of decals, some picture frames, and a stack of fliers. My swagger deflated to a sheepish scamper as I scoured the venue for my exhibit space.

When I found it, my spirits sank even further. It was on the third floor of the three-floor venue about as far into the back corner as you could get. I wondered if anyone would even see me tucked away up there. Then again, eyeing the sad little empty space, part of me felt embarrassed that anyone might. It had pipe and drape, an 8-foot skirted table, and two chairs. Pitiful. I retrieved my boxes from the car and started setting up my meager display.

Nevertheless, when I touched the top of the table with my hand, I realized it was sopping wet. Then a drip hit my hand. Looking up, I saw the culprit: Air-conditioning ductwork positioned high above was sending down a steady drip of condensation that was landing square in the center of my display table.

For my spirits to get any lower would probably have involved just laying on the floor in a coma - which wasn't sounding all that bad at that moment. Holding back tears that could only be outdone by the flow of water in my exhibit, I went to find help from show management.

I got good news and bad news: The bad news was that the show was completely sold out, and show organizers said if I didn't want that space, then I'd have to just go home. The good news was that they gave me dry linen and said they would fix the problem. With that assurance, I pushed the table to the back of the booth away from the water, set out my decals and display frames, and went to my hotel to figure out how I was going to dazzle the industry the next day.

In the morning I arrived at the venue with a song in my heart and a smile on my face. I had come to the resolution that even if I happened to be a tiny little soul in the farthest reaches of the exhibit hall, I was going to put my best foot forward and do my best to make connections.

And then I saw my booth. The "solution" maintenance workers had apparently come up with was to put a trash can in my booth space under the drip. Not a small waste basket - a filthy, marred-up 100-gallon beast with a flappy, black garbage bag hanging over the edge. My smile froze into a look of panic at the realization that the show was going to open in just a few minutes, and now I was not just the pitiful little exhibitor with no display in the farthest corner of the venue, I was the pitiful little exhibitor in the back corner with no display except for a greasy garbage receptacle. It really couldn't have been more horrible.

I only had two choices. I could pack up my boxes and go home, or I could suck it up and make this work. I thought of myself driving around selling my decals, and I knew the answer: I'm not a quitter, and there had to be a way to get through this.

By accident, I noticed that some drips hit the garbage bag and sprayed sideways. I played around with the position of the can until the edge was deflecting falling drops of water into the aisle. As the show opened, I stood to the side of the splattering water drops and waited.

I was situated near the end of the row at the back corner, and many people slowed as they passed my booth to decide where to go next. My perfectly positioned garbage can reflected a drip straight out at them as they paused, prompting curious looks at my strange arrangement. "It got you too, huh?" I said with a smile. Almost invariably people would ask what in the world was going on with the garbage can in my exhibit, and then they would express sympathy for me in my obviously terrible situation. Out of sheer pity, many would peek around the receptacle at my table to see what kind of product I had, giving me the opportunity to hand them a flier and a brief pitch about my decals. I joked about my situation, and attendees joked back with one-liners and stories of their own. Some would watch with me as a drop hit the next passerby, and soon laughter was spilling out of my exhibit.

All the laughing coming from my display drew a crowd, and over the course of the four-day show, my misfortune brought me the kind of exposure exhibitors pay fortunes trying to create. Many attendees even returned for a visit, and by the end of the exhibition, the sad little booth with the trash can had become one of the most fun places on the show floor.

My decals were a hit too, and through that show I netted my first international order as well as a host of domestic customers. Though it started out rough, my inaugural exhibiting experience turned out to be not only successful, but also filled with some of the most important lessons an exhibitor could learn: Laugh when you want to cry; book exhibit space early so you can choose a good location; and most importantly, people, not fancy exhibits, sell products - though some of the other exhibitors did confess to me that they kind of wished they had the garbage can.

- Cookie Driscoll, president, C. Cookie Inc., Fairfield, PA