I met Shloime (Sol) Friedman, founder of Que Fencing, at the OJBA show a couple of months ago. After talking with him for a little while, I asked him to share his full story with Ami readers.
Shloime’s story is one that shows how seemingly stressful financial situations, apparent “failures” in business, are really stepping stones Hashem placed in advance of future success.
Shloime is naturally shy (so he claims), but he overcame that to build one of the top fence manufacturing and installation companies in the tri-state area.
Additionally, as someone from a divorced home, Shloime spends time giving chizzuk to young adults in similar situations.
I especially enjoyed hearing from Shloime because his is a real business success story: He had an idea, it didn’t work out the way he envisioned, so he pivoted to try something different—and it took off!
No sitting on the fence about this business: it’s a good one.
Enjoy!
—Nesanel
I was born in Boro Park, Brooklyn, the oldest of three. My parents divorced when I was nine, but because they maintained an amicable relationship and my mother kept a very structured home, we always had stability. We lived with our mother, and we visited our father every other Shabbos and Sunday.
Still, it wasn’t easy. I had to deal with stigma as I was growing up. But today, I can give chizzuk to others growing up in similar situations.
I went to Spinka and then to Mosholu cheder for elementary, and then I went to Boyan for yeshivah ketanah. It was a solid yeshivah that had been running for 18 years, and it had 80 bachurim when I was there. Then the funders decided they didn’t like the direction it was going in and pulled their backing overnight, so it shut down. A different rav tried to keep it alive for another year, but it didn’t last.
So every year meant a new school, new system, new friends; every summer meant a new camp. I was always the new kid. Most people are afraid of change. I learned at a young age how to deal with constant change. I had no choice. It became normal for me.
I was always sort of entrepreneurial. During bein hazmanim, I’d build sukkahs and shlocks [rain coverings for s’chach]. When I was 14, I started selling drinks and freeze pops in yeshivah. My mother would take me to BJ’s so I could buy cases, and I’d resell them. The next year I opened accounts with distributors so I could bring in danishes and donuts. I liked wheeling and dealing.
I was never a top learner, but I tried my best to stay within the system. I kept to myself and got through. Nowadays I learn every night. When we moved to Jackson, New Jersey, there wasn’t much going on in my neighborhood, so I started a minyan for Shabbos. I reached out to one of my maggidei shiurim from my Lakewood days, Rav Yossel Grosnass (originally from London), and asked him to give a shiur during the week.
In Lakewood, I had learned in Rabbi Yoel Wolpin’s yeshivah, where the bachurim had to arrange their own meals, Shabbos seudos, etc. We needed to get comfortable meeting new people. That brought me out of my shell. After that, I went back to Boro Park and joined a kollel for two years.
I say I came out of my shell because before that I was very shy. I always had creative ideas, and my mother encouraged me to build things, make prototypes and try things, but I was quiet. I used to walk into shul through the back door so no one would see me. I never spoke publicly. I wasn’t a salesman. I wasn’t a marketer. I was just the quiet guy. When I started working, it was in the back office for a small Amazon business in Brooklyn; my father got me that job. I never imagined I’d be putting myself out there the way I am today.
After getting married at 21, in 2016, we moved to Lakewood. We had nothing. No job and no money. I had some connections, so I started making phone calls. I had a few interviews—sales, brand development, Amazon. The Amazon company considered hiring me as a brand manager but decided they weren’t ready, so I took a sales job with a company owned by a friend of my father’s, one of the largest importers of disposables in New Jersey. I had no experience in sales. I started cold-calling non-Jewish distributors in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, selling paper plates and disposable gloves. I met with buyers, knocked on doors, and the business grew quickly.
Seven months later, the Amazon company I had interviewed with called me back. They were doing $20 million a year and wanted to turn their plain brown box products into real brands. Packaging, catalogs, branding, retail—everything. I was ready for the next step, so I took the job.
They gave me a list of goals: make videos, build packaging, launch product lines. The first brand I worked on was bug zappers and mosquito traps. I hustled for meetings with big-box retailers through LinkedIn and other channels, but most of them turned us down. They didn’t want another white label brand on the shelf.
I decided that if they didn’t want a new brand, I would bring them one they already knew. With a lot of siyata dishmaya, I managed to start a conversation with Black & Decker. After months of meetings and going back and forth with their licensing team, we cut a deal: My company would design and manufacture an entire product line under their name, and they’d get a cut of every sale. We signed a five-year contract, and I got to work, flying around the country to pitch it to big box stores.
But then Amazon shut down our company’s main account right before the season. They had too many side projects and everything collapsed. One of the partners took over my project, but the opportunity was gone. The whole thing unraveled.
I always end relationships cleanly. I don’t want to ever have to avoid people in the street. I left that job in the right way, and to this day I speak to my previous employers; they even call me sometimes for marketing advice.
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