Chapter 15: Bigg Dreams

Monday, November 22

“Going home for Thanksgiving, or is it business?” Natalie asked as I handed her my suit jacket.

“Business. Sparkling water, a blanket, and a pillow, please. Wake me half an hour before breakfast.”

“Certainly, Mr. Biggs.”

I sank into the wide seat and listened to the engines gather beneath us. The redeye to New York should have felt routine by then. It didn’t. Tomorrow I would sit under national television lights and try to convince America that a fourteen-year-old belonged in the same sentence as a record-breaking coffee maker.

As the plane lifted, pressure sealed my ears and tightened my chest. I closed my eyes, but sleep stayed out of reach. The last four months kept replaying instead.

When contract negotiations with GE stalled, we asked for our drawings and everything related to Mr Coffee back. GE had tried to keep my drawings. Ron Popeil had answered with lawyers, a federal judge, and the kind of grin that made grown men reconsider their choices. We walked out of GE just as Commerce Department lawyers walked in. I could still see the color draining from GE’s attorney’s face.

Then came Sunbeam, Hamilton Beach, and Proctor-Silex.

For Ron this was a distraction. He became focused on my divinity clock idea again and I was along for a ride.

We barely got it launched when Grant Engineering finished the design for Mr Coffee. By October 1, three factories were producing Mr. Coffee. 60,00 per month each and Ron was looking for more production. The bottleneck wasn’t components it was assembly. They didn’t want to allocate space or hire temp workers. Ron and my Dad called and through contacts, established 3 fulfillment centers located across America that handled assembly and warehousing. They started building inventory on November 1st at 60,000 units per month each, and willing to double within 2 weeks if needed. They contracted call centers near the fulfillment centers.

I had seen ARPANET at Stanford—a government research network tying distant computers together over leased telephone lines. It was not a store, and it certainly was not open to Ronco. But Bank of America already understood that a credit card was more than a piece of plastic. It was a way to join a bank, a merchant, and a customer in one transaction. If we shared the same long-distance line, a Ronco call could create the customer, guarantee the sale, and start the shipment before the operator hung up.

I spread a map across Ron’s desk and circled the three fulfillment centers. “The expensive part is the long-distance circuit,” I said. “So, we don’t buy it.”

Ron leaned back. “That is usually the part the telephone company insists upon.”

“Bank of America pays for it, and we share it,” I said. “When somebody calls without a BankAmericard, our operator takes the application while taking the order. The bank checks the customer, opens the account if they qualify, and authorizes the first charge—whatever Ron is selling—before the call ends.”

“And why,” Ron asked, “would the bank give up a nationwide bounty for every new cardholder and buy us a private wire instead?”

“Because the wire does more than a sign-up payment ever could. Every approved caller becomes their customer and makes an immediate purchase. Instead of paying Ronco a spiff one application at a time, Bank of America pays the fixed cost of the circuit and guarantees every charge it authorizes. They get new accounts, interest, and transaction volume. We get cash-quality sales without waiting for checks or carrying the credit risk.”

Ron tapped the fulfillment centers on the map. “What comes back to us?”

“A daily sales file and the customer information needed to complete the order. At the same time, the circuit sends the approved order to the closest center with inventory. Their printer produces the packing slip and shipping label locally. The box can be on the dock while a money order would still be waiting for a stamp.”

I spent the summer everywhere Ron could put me: call center, warehouse, shipping dock, commercial sets, factory floors. I learned media buys, manufacturing delays, call center operations, freight schedules, and the value of stepping off an airplane looking as if I had just got dressed.

Bank of America did not call it the internet. Neither did I—not then. The arrangement was a jointly used private circuit. On our side, call-center operators entered the customer’s application and order. On the bank’s side, staff and computers checked the applicant, assigned an account, and returned an authorization for an approved first purchase. The same connection carried the sale record and customer information into Ronco’s files, then routed the shipping instructions to the fulfillment center holding the inventory. A local printer produced the label. Because the bank guaranteed authorized charges, Ronco could release the box immediately instead of waiting for a check to clear.

Ron launched sales for Mr Coffee on November 1.

Three weeks later, we had sold fifty thousand units and Bank of America had 40,000 new customers.

The number looked impossible only if you imagined fifty thousand envelopes moving through the post office. We were moving applications, credit decisions, sales records, and shipping instructions over one shared connection, then moving the boxes from the nearest warehouse. Reporters later called me the first person to commercialize the internet. That was too grand and not technically true. I had borrowed ARPANET’s central lesson—that distance could disappear when computers shared a line—and turned Bank of America’s cost of acquiring customers into Ronco’s national order-and-fulfillment network.

I missed a large part of this by traveling all over Ohio doing interviews with every TV station or radio we could get me on.

Then the TODAY Show called.

Ron had meetings, so I drew the assignment. It wasn’t my first interview. I had already done 28 television appearances and more radio calls than I could count. But this was national television, and the word national sat in my stomach like a stone.

I reminded myself of the truth before sleep finally took me: I had worked hard, but I had also been lucky. Remembering both kept my head the right size.

Natalie woke me exactly on time. I changed shirts, shaved, and ate a bagel with orange juice. Ron’s voice followed me into the terminal: Always step off a plane ready for a boardroom. You never know who’s waiting.

Two women in matching navy suits waited at the gate. One held a sign with my name.

“Jack Biggs?”

“Yes.”

She offered her hand. “Samantha Burrows, Rogers & Cowan. Call me Sam. This is Marci Hinkle.”

Sam looked young, but everything about her—clipboard, steady gaze, clipped stride—said she expected the world to keep up.