By the first quarter of 2008, it was clear that the Failure was failing or, at the very least, proving to be spectacularly unsuccessful. But Charles knew, with a kind of sureness that came from years of landing in shit and getting out clean, that he’d be able to turn things around between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Almost half of all cosmetics sales were made during the holiday season, and if they could just stay open until then, they could ride the rebound through 2009, when things were sure to change.
“A bridge loan,” said Charles. “That all I need. Enough just to keep both locations open through late fall.”
There were three bankers this time. Three dry white men stacked like dominos along one side of a mahogany table, their dry white lips speaking dry white lies about their inability to extend any more credit, no matter how soon the Failure might turn into a Success.
“In this climate,” said Banker #1, “it’s just too difficult to get approval for a loan of this sort.”
“Of course, we’re taking your admirable track record into consideration,” said Banker #2, “but in this climate, past success is no guarantee.”
“Makeup,” said Banker #3, “may not be the wisest investment. Not in this climate.”
And then, in unison, the three had lifted their small glasses of water up to their pointed noses and taken a chorus of quick, polite sips. Charles burned, but he kept it down, a flat palm inside his chest pressing down his heart before it exploded in a splatting fury. Instead, he ran through the numbers again, wondering if they’d somehow missed his explanation of the holiday season. It seemed impossible—these men were all supposed to be retail specialists; they should be familiar with the insatiable American need to end each calendar year with a frenzy of purchases—but how else to account for their stubborn reluctance to understand that recovery was just a blush-happy gaggle of teens away?
“The lipstick index,” said Charles. “Leonard Lauder. 2001. Right after 9/11, America was in a recession that was more than just recession, right? The whole country depressed. Everyone sad. Nothing the same ever again.”
He had paused there and looked at the three faces before him. Their pupils had widened a bit at the mention of 9/11, and they’d all assumed an appropriate air of seriousness and concern. Oh yes, he’d thought, Charles Wang? for the save!
“Nobody was buying anything, except for lipstick. That’s right! Lipstick sales go up 11 percent after 9/11.”
Charles waited for a moment. None of the three had batted an eye.
“So maybe we start another recession now, but even if we do, lipstick go up!”
Banker #1, Charles’s old nemesis, Marsh, shook his head. “Lipstick sales have been steadily declining since 2007.”
These literal-minded motherfuckers were ruining America.
“Lipstick do not just mean lipstick!” shouted Charles. “Lipstick mean all makeup! Anything that make a woman feel good, feel rich, feel like she is taking care of herself but not cost too much, that mean lipstick! We think it going to be nail polish this time around! Everybody get creative! A canvas on your pinky! Small luxuries! Manageable delights!”
“Please, Mr. Wang,” said Banker #2, reaching out one bony hand and placing it on Charles’s shoulder. “There’s no need to get so riled up. Let’s just carry on this discussion peacefully.”
Charles stood up.
“No more discussion.”
He slammed together his notes and pushed away his small glass of water.
“Your no is only a no, is that correct?”
Banker #3 had a bit more fight to him. “Mr. Wang, it is a no. It’s your decision now whether you want to look for another investor or whether you want to cut your losses and fold the business immediately before things get worse. Because it’s going to get worse.”
Pessimistic fools, Charles had thought.
“I come to you as a courtesy,” he said. “If you are not interested in getting for yourselves a larger stake, then I go elsewhere.”
“Our recommendation would be to restructure your existing loan and then fold the business. If you do that, you’ll still be able to retain your personal assets. But if you decide to take your chances, then we sincerely hope that you have better luck elsewhere,” soothed Banker #2, before shutting the door behind Charles.
But he didn’t. There was no better luck.
Other loan institutions, entrepreneurial investors, larger beauty companies, current manufacturing clients, old friends—not a one wanted to invest in the Failure.
Another payment due date came and went. Two months of payroll came out of Charles’s personal accounts, a loan to himself that demanded a bitter interest. A third. A fourth. The ads, the international fashion week sponsorships, they were cut, bits of ballast flung out into a stormy financial sea. In the end not one of them weighed enough to make any real impact.