The board of directors, of which Bill was the chairman, agreed that the smartest course was to expand the company to sell it, so a lot of money went to establishing the brand. That was even trickier than he expected in the hypercompetitive beverage market. Carbonated juice was a new niche--not a juice, not a soda, not a New Age drink. The Switch had filed for two process patents and a product patent and remained the only 100 percent juice product. Competitors such as Izze and Fizzy Lizzy, which were only 60 to 70 percent juice but looked more or less the same to consumers, had come onto the market around the same time. Bill spent heavily on advertising, sampling, and marketing, and offered discounts to distributors and retailers in an attempt to establish market share.
Then there was the learning curve. Bill had the M.B.A. and lots of real-world management experience, but he'd never worn so many hats at one time. When his vice president of sales (who had come from Nantucket Nectars) suggested buying a camper and establishing a "mobile marketing team," Bill figured, why not? It was a cool idea and the VP had had success with it before. The company hired two salespeople to live in a Switch-decorated RV, driving it around the country for six months to hand out samples. It might have worked for a more established brand, but for The Switch it just burned through $100,000 without showing much result.
At first, I didn't see the problems. Maybe I didn't want to see them, or maybe I thought they were only Bill's problems. I was just the wife, after all, enjoying the perks. I reveled in driving the colorful Rover, waving at kids on the sidewalks and paying tolls for the cars behind me on the highway. People would motion for me roll down the window, asking "Hey, where can I buy that?" and I would hand them a chilled bottle out of the cooler in the back seat.
We kept the home fridge well stocked with all the Switch flavors and new ones in development. When Lily's friends visited they immediately demanded snack time. I would ask, "Okay, what do you guys want to drink?" and they'd all squeal, "Switch!"
At Lily's school the PTA asked if Bill could donate drinks for a fundraiser and instead he donated case after case for multiple events every year. I had always been a fairly involved parent at the school, spending time in the classroom, sewing curtains, and serving on the PTA. But as our lives got crazier, I realized I needed to focus on my work and taking care of Lily. I tapered off my volunteering efforts, but never felt guilty once I realized how much Bill was donating. Those cases of The Switch bought me time to spend at home while he was out of town.
My Husband, the Hammer
When he was home, Bill was hanging with Richmond's A-list--investors, business owners, hot lawyers, and political bigwigs. I stocked up on cocktail dresses and marveled at the sizes of the homes we visited--one with a pool cabana nearly as big as our house. Was this where we were headed? One of Bill's investors, Mark Warner, was elected governor (although at that point they had to stop talking). Investment guru Peter Lynch was another shareholder. We were moving and shaking. At our parties we served Switch cocktails: orange and rum in the summer, cranberry and vodka in the winter.
Bill started getting ink, and he and I joked about our little publicity competition. I was being covered for my latest book and for helping start a local nonprofit literary group. My face showed up more in the hometown press and on TV, but he and the product got bigger national newspaper and magazine attention. Underneath the glitter, however, issues were beginning to surface.
First was the departure of Bill's partner. He had come from a big-company background, and Bill quickly became frustrated with Wayne's reluctance to make snap decisions and push distributors and vendors for better terms. To me, the problem looked easy to solve. As we settled into bed at night I would ask Bill if things had gotten better at the office. "No," he would say, and he'd roll over and give me his back. He didn't want to talk about it. "Well," I'd say, "I don't see what the problem is. Just ask him to go in the best interests of the company. He wants his shares to make money just like you do." I didn't fully understand why Bill waffled. I didn't appreciate how difficult it was for him to ditch the man who had invented the product and given him the opportunity.
At the beginning of 2003 Bill finally asked Wayne to resign. As CEO, Bill was Wayne's boss, and so Wayne left. When Bill came home and told me, his face was tight and pinched. "I don't know if it was the right thing to do or not," he said. "So, he didn't take it well?" I asked. "No, and I can't blame the guy," Bill said. I finally understood how complex the situation had been, and I thought it might help him to unload. "You feel okay about it?" I asked. "Yeah, it's fine," he said, and he turned to go upstairs.
The truth was he had little time for analysis. As the head of sales and marketing, CEO, president, and chairman of the board, as well as the person charged with finding capital, he had a staggering workload. Like a shark, he needed to push relentlessly forward to survive.
Bill's travel schedule was unpredictable. He bounced from fundraising pitches to sales calls all over North America. When he was home (a few days every other week) he was exhausted and burned out. He had no desire to socialize. I packed away the party dresses and started turning down invitations.
I quit asking him how things were going at work because his answers always focused on problems. He was the No. 1 problem-solving guy, and when you're a hammer, everything around you looks like a nail. It scared me that from Bill's perspective the whole thing was so often about to collapse.
He was also beginning to question whether it was even worth it. With each new round of financing he had diluted his shares. He and Wayne held shares jointly in an S corporation. (They shared a single vote to control their combined shares, which meant the tension between them never diminished.) In the first round they kept 60 percent, but by 2004 they were down to less than 30 percent. I reminded Bill of a conversation I once had with a CEO I was interviewing. "How could you give up so much equity?" I asked. "Well," the CEO said, "it's better to have 1 percent of 10 million than 100 percent of nothing." I could see that Bill's hard work was paying off. I didn't want him to give up yet.
