I Love Capitalism

I Love Capitalism

An American Story

By Ken Langone

Supply and demand goes through everything in life. Early on I caught the fact that if you have a special talent, or if you have something unique that provokes people to do something that you can make a profit on, that's a good thing. Every two weeks while I was at Bucknell, my dad used to send me a $16 check for spending money: eight bucks a week. A big stretch for him and a tough budget for me. Man, I had to go out and kill to eat. But necessity is the mother of invention.

Late in my freshman year, I'd hit on an idea. I remembered that as soon as they'd get to Bucknell as freshmen, a lot of the rich kids (practically anybody who wasn't me was rich) were buying stationary with their names printed on it or the Bucknell seal on it. Some guys waited until they pledged a fraternity, then put the emblem of their fraternity on it. I thought, “How could I make some money selling stationary?”

The light-bulb went on. Freshman orientation! For orientation at Bucknell, you had to wear a beanie and a kind of sandwich board – two sheets of white cardboard, one on your chest and one on your back, connected by a couple of pieces of string over your shoulders – with your name and hometown printed on each side. It was a little humiliating: That was part of the point. The first coupe days you're there, you haven't met anybody yet, and you're melancholy; you miss your high-school friends, they've all gone someplace else. I thought that would be my moment to strike.

Magic Wand. Illustration by Megan Jorgensen (Elena).

L.G. Balfour was a company in Massachusetts that made college rings and caps and gowns, and they also had a stationary division. Before I started my sophomore year, I got them to send me samples, and I put the samples on a piece of cardboard; I got all set up a week before freshman orientation. As soon as the freshmen arrived, I'd go into their dorms with my sample board and say, “Look, you're going to be writing a lot to your friends.” I'd remind them that a long-distance phone call was sixty-five cents for three minutes; that was a lot of money then. I'd say, “Let's see you have how many friends? Ten? You're going to write them two-three times a week?”

They're nodding. I can see they're homesick and blue. “Okey,” I'd tell them. “Here's what you'll need for your freshman year, but you get a price break if you order enough.” I guess you might say I was exploitative.

I made damn sure I got their check or money order right away, and here's why. Within two weeks after they got to school, they'd forgotten their friends at home, they'd made new friends, they were going to rush a fraternity; writing letters was the last thing on their minds. I had guys tell me year later: “You son of a bitch, I still have boxes of the f... stationary.”

Suddenly Supply and demand was more than a theory to me.