The year I turned nineteen, the warehouse at Exhibitors Carpet Service in Chicago felt less like a
hub of industry and more like a vast, echoing cavern. It was 5,000 square feet of concrete and
potential, but at the time, that potential was difficult to see. If you stood in the center of the
floor, your voice would bounce off the far walls and rattle the rafters.
At that point, we were lean—perhaps a little too lean. Only two lone rolls of carpet sat in that
massive space. They looked small, almost lonely, tucked away in a corner of a room built for a
thousand more. I was working for my father, Norman, learning the ropes of the trade show
business, and those two rolls represented the humble reality of our beginnings.
Then, the tide turned.
We landed one of the biggest contracts in our history: the Marine Trade Show in Chicago. In the
world of conventions, that was the heavyweight title. It wasn’t just a big show; it was the show.
Suddenly, the silence of the warehouse was replaced by the frantic energy of a looming
deadline. We weren’t just laying down floor covering; we were setting the stage for the titans of
the water: Evinrude, Mercury, and Johnson. These were the “Big Three” that defined the
American outdoors, and their displays were massive, high-tech, and prestigious.
I remember the shift in the air. Those two lonely rolls were soon joined by miles of premium
grade plush piles. The 5,000 square feet didn’t feel too big anymore; it felt like it wasn’t nearly
enough.
The following year, the scale of our ambition expanded even further. My father handed me a list
and a directive: I was going to travel the United States with those three boat companies,
managing the carpet installations for their entire tour.
I set out with a suitcase and a metal toolbox covered in stickers, packed with my kicker and
carpet tools. I was still only nineteen, navigating a world of logistics and labor in cities I’d never
seen. In the beginning, the accommodations were a struggle; my father had a knack for
booking the most terrible hotels imaginable. It didn’t take long for me to find my voice. I
eventually told him I would only stay at the finest hotels in town, and that was that—a small but
necessary stand for a young man finding his footing.
My routine became a high-speed choreography. I would arrive at the convention centers in the
early morning, scouting the floor before the crowds arrived. The logistics were a marvel: three
padded trucks from the same line would pull up simultaneously, one for each exhibit. My
strategy was always to work on two booths at once, “kicking out” carpet like a maniac, while
overseeing the best local guys as they tackled the third.
What started as a job in an empty Chicago warehouse evolved into a traveling boat show crew
that hit over twenty cities. One of the things I look back on most fondly is my toolbox. In almost
every city, the local labor I picked up lacked their own tools. I started carrying extras, teaching
them the craft as we went. They were always so grateful to learn the trade, and together, we
moved from that empty floor in Chicago to carpeting the giants of the marine industry, one city
at a time.
