best friends. “He swept me off my feet,” Dillon says. “He was so convinced that what he was doing was basically the work of God and that somehow the money would materialize. The real wild card was, could he really run a business? That wasn’t a gimme. Of course, about two years later I was going, ‘Holy shit, did we back the right horse!’ ”
Bezos also pitched Bob Gelfond, a former D. E. Shaw colleague. Gelfond turned for advice to his skeptical father, a man who had had a long career in book publishing and who had experienced the pain of trying to get his company to embrace personal computers. His father recommended against the investment, but Gelfond had watched Bezos smoothly operate in the hedge-fund world and bet on his friend anyway. “It’s one thing to have a good idea, but it’s another to have confidence in a person to execute it,” he says.
Many others turned Bezos down. Hanauer and his mother invested, but one of Hanauer’s brothers and his father declined. Tom Alberg, a former executive at McCaw Cellular, met Bezos and was dubious because he loved browsing in bookstores. Then a few days later he failed to find a business book for his son at a local shop, and he changed his mind and decided to invest. The attorney who told Alberg about the deal invited Bezos to speak at an investment group that met regularly at Seattle’s tony Rainier Club. He thought the valuation was too high and passed.
Bezos later told the online journal of the Wharton School, “We got the normal comments from well-meaning people who basically didn’t believe the business plan; they just didn’t think it would work.” 11 Among the concerns was this prediction: “If you’re successful, you’re going to need a warehouse the size of the Library of Congress,” one investor told him.
Todd Tarbert, Amazon’s first lawyer, sighs heavily whenrecalling his decision about whether to personally back the company. For the first time in his career, he wanted to invest in a client’s firm, and he secured written permission to do so from the Washington State Bar Association. He also talked to his father about taking out a loan against their jointly owned farmhouse. But then Tarbert’s son was born prematurely, and he took a month off from work and never got around to writing the $50,000 check. By the time Tarbert returned, Bezos had already raised the $1 million at a slightly-lower-than-hoped-for $5 million valuation.
One day in late 1997, after Amazon’s IPO, Tarbert was playing golf with his dad. “You know that company Amazon that just went public?” his father asked. “Was that the company we were talking about? What happened with that?”
“Yeah, Dad. You don’t want to know,” Tarbert replied.
“Well, what would that be worth today?” his father continued.
“At least a few million,” Tarbert said.
At the end of that summer, Nicholas Lovejoy told Bezos he wanted to move from part-time to full-time. To his surprise, his former D. E. Shaw colleague didn’t want to hire him full-time. Lovejoy had been working a modest thirty-five hours a week, playing ultimate Frisbee, kayaking, and hanging out with his girlfriend, and Bezos was imagining a different culture for Amazon, one where employees worked tirelessly for the sake of building a lasting company and increasing the value of their own ownership stakes. Lovejoy pleaded his case, arguing he was ready to sign up for sixty hours a week like everyone else, but he couldn’t change Bezos’s mind. Bezos even asked him to find a full-time employee to replace himself, which seemed particularly cruel. Eventually Lovejoy gave him a stack of résumés, and he put his own at the top. He also appealed to MacKenzie, Kaphan, and Davis and got them to change the boss’s mind. Lovejoy would work a variety of jobs at Amazon over the next few years, writing code and book reviews, ferrying packages to the post office at night, and eventually winding up in finance.
Bezos felt
Bezos also pitched Bob Gelfond, a former D. E. Shaw colleague. Gelfond turned for advice to his skeptical father, a man who had had a long career in book publishing and who had experienced the pain of trying to get his company to embrace personal computers. His father recommended against the investment, but Gelfond had watched Bezos smoothly operate in the hedge-fund world and bet on his friend anyway. “It’s one thing to have a good idea, but it’s another to have confidence in a person to execute it,” he says.
Many others turned Bezos down. Hanauer and his mother invested, but one of Hanauer’s brothers and his father declined. Tom Alberg, a former executive at McCaw Cellular, met Bezos and was dubious because he loved browsing in bookstores. Then a few days later he failed to find a business book for his son at a local shop, and he changed his mind and decided to invest. The attorney who told Alberg about the deal invited Bezos to speak at an investment group that met regularly at Seattle’s tony Rainier Club. He thought the valuation was too high and passed.
Bezos later told the online journal of the Wharton School, “We got the normal comments from well-meaning people who basically didn’t believe the business plan; they just didn’t think it would work.” 11 Among the concerns was this prediction: “If you’re successful, you’re going to need a warehouse the size of the Library of Congress,” one investor told him.
Todd Tarbert, Amazon’s first lawyer, sighs heavily whenrecalling his decision about whether to personally back the company. For the first time in his career, he wanted to invest in a client’s firm, and he secured written permission to do so from the Washington State Bar Association. He also talked to his father about taking out a loan against their jointly owned farmhouse. But then Tarbert’s son was born prematurely, and he took a month off from work and never got around to writing the $50,000 check. By the time Tarbert returned, Bezos had already raised the $1 million at a slightly-lower-than-hoped-for $5 million valuation.
One day in late 1997, after Amazon’s IPO, Tarbert was playing golf with his dad. “You know that company Amazon that just went public?” his father asked. “Was that the company we were talking about? What happened with that?”
“Yeah, Dad. You don’t want to know,” Tarbert replied.
“Well, what would that be worth today?” his father continued.
“At least a few million,” Tarbert said.
At the end of that summer, Nicholas Lovejoy told Bezos he wanted to move from part-time to full-time. To his surprise, his former D. E. Shaw colleague didn’t want to hire him full-time. Lovejoy had been working a modest thirty-five hours a week, playing ultimate Frisbee, kayaking, and hanging out with his girlfriend, and Bezos was imagining a different culture for Amazon, one where employees worked tirelessly for the sake of building a lasting company and increasing the value of their own ownership stakes. Lovejoy pleaded his case, arguing he was ready to sign up for sixty hours a week like everyone else, but he couldn’t change Bezos’s mind. Bezos even asked him to find a full-time employee to replace himself, which seemed particularly cruel. Eventually Lovejoy gave him a stack of résumés, and he put his own at the top. He also appealed to MacKenzie, Kaphan, and Davis and got them to change the boss’s mind. Lovejoy would work a variety of jobs at Amazon over the next few years, writing code and book reviews, ferrying packages to the post office at night, and eventually winding up in finance.
Bezos felt
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