Chapter 21: Small Businesses, Big Problems
967 Words
The answer was simpler than I expected.
Small businesses did not need beautiful theories.
They needed fewer wasted steps.
That became the first line of my new service plan.
I deleted the old phrases I had carried from QinTech.
Brand elevation.
Integrated strategy.
Consumer mindshare.
Omnichannel synergy.
All expensive words.
All useless to a shop owner who had rent due on the first and inventory stacked to the ceiling.
I wrote instead:
I help you explain why customers should buy from you.
Then:
I help you sell one product better before asking you to spend money on ten.
Then:
If I cannot explain the plan in plain language, you should not pay me.
I stared at that sentence for a long time.
It sounded almost too honest.
Maybe that was why it felt dangerous.
After the night shift, I printed twenty copies at a small shop near the factory. The owner charged me extra because the printer jammed twice and blamed my file.
"Too many pages," he said.
It was six pages.
I paid anyway.
Then I went to Southport's old commercial district.
The district was a maze of small factories, wholesale shops, packaging suppliers, food processors, and family businesses that had survived by being stubborn rather than modern. Trucks blocked half the roads. Workers loaded boxes under faded awnings. Owners stood in doorways smoking, shouting prices into phones.
I walked from shop to shop.
"Hello, I help small businesses improve product pages and sales messaging."
Most people waved me away.
"No need."
"We already have online store."
"My nephew does this."
"How much? Too expensive."
"Can you guarantee sales?"
By noon, my shirt was soaked through.
By three, my shoes rubbed blisters into both heels.
By five, I had handed out seventeen copies and received one bottle of free water from an old woman who felt sorry for me.
At five-thirty, I walked into Liang Tea Ware.
The shop was narrow but deep, packed with shelves of teapots, cups, gift boxes, and porcelain sets wrapped in plastic. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and roasted tea.
A man in his forties sat near the entrance, smoking beside a calculator.
He looked up.
"Buying or selling?"
"Selling a service."
"Then no."
At least he was efficient.
I smiled.
"May I ask one question before I leave?"
"No money for questions either."
"Free question."
He narrowed his eyes.
"One."
I pointed at a white porcelain tea set on the nearest shelf.
"Who buys that most often?"
"People who need tea set."
"For themselves or as gifts?"
He paused.
"Mostly gifts."
"For what occasions?"
"Housewarming. Visiting elders. Business. Some students buy for teachers."
"Then why does your product tag only say 'white porcelain six-piece set'?"
He stared at me.
The cigarette burned between his fingers.
"What else should it say?"
I stepped closer to the shelf.
"It should say: A safe gift when you do not know what to bring."
His eyes changed.
Not much.
Enough.
"Go on," he said.
I picked up one cup. It was thin, smooth, better quality than the dusty packaging suggested.
"You are not selling a cup. You are selling relief."
"Relief?"
"A young man visiting his girlfriend's parents does not want to show up empty-handed. A daughter wants to give her retired father something respectful. A business owner wants a gift that looks thoughtful but not too aggressive. They are not buying porcelain first. They are buying the feeling that they will not lose face."
The man put out his cigarette.
"You talk interesting."
"Interesting enough for ten minutes?"
He looked at the shop.
No customers.
Then at me.
"Sit."
His name was Liang Cheng, but everyone called him Mr. Liang or Liang-ge.
He had sold tea ware for fifteen years. Three small shops. One warehouse. Good products, declining sales. His son wanted him to start livestreaming. His wife wanted him to stop wasting money on useless promotions. He trusted neither.
"I tried online ads," he said. "Burned money."
"What did the ads say?"
He pulled out his phone and showed me.
High-quality porcelain tea set. Elegant design. Factory direct. Discount available.
I looked at the screen.
"That could be anyone."
"Exactly. Everyone says same."
"Then stop saying the same."
He leaned back.
"Easy to say."
"Not easy to do. But possible."
For the next twenty minutes, I sketched four gift scenarios on the back of my printed plan. Housewarming. Elders. Teachers. Business return gifts.
Each with a different headline, price bundle, and short video idea.
Liang listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he tapped the paper.
"How much?"
My throat went dry.
This was the moment.
Ask too low, I would look like a desperate amateur.
Ask too high, he would laugh me out of the shop.
"Three thousand for the first package," I said. "Product positioning, four sales pages, and five short video scripts."
His eyebrows jumped.
"Three thousand?"
"If it does not improve inquiries, you do not continue."
"Improve how much?"
"Enough that you feel I earned the next conversation."
He stared at me.
Then he laughed.
"You don't guarantee?"
"No."
"Others guarantee."
"Then ask them why they are not rich enough to stop selling guarantees."
Liang slapped the table and laughed louder.
"Good. I like that."
He stood and held out his hand.
"Three thousand. But if you waste my time, I will curse you every day."
I shook his hand.
"Fair."
When I walked out of Liang Tea Ware, the streetlights had come on.
My feet hurt.
My stomach was empty.
In my pocket was a deposit transfer of fifteen hundred.
I stood under the old shop sign and looked at the notification.
Then I sent it to Nora.
Her reply came three minutes later.
Not zero. Getting bigger.
I smiled all the way to the bus stop.
- Writer
