Plan A: With three shows, three cities, impossibly tight turnaround times, and a meticulously planned shipping schedule designed with the precision of a Swiss watch, what could possibly go wrong? Everything.

My company, Star Exhibits, was managing a seemingly straightforward multi-show schedule for a construction-supplies distributor. The client was exhibiting at The Pool and Spa Show (NESPA) in Atlantic City, followed by the International Roofing Expo (IRE) in San Antonio, with the International Builders' Show (IBS) in Las Vegas hot on its heels.

The timeframe between the San Antonio and Vegas shows was so tight that we'd planned to creatively split our client's shipments. We'd tear down in Atlantic City and send a portion of the booth properties to San Antonio for IRE, while shipping another chunk to Las Vegas for IBS.

The Atlantic City teardown went perfectly. We separated the two shipments with military precision — labeling crates, taking photos, making checklists, and triple-checking everything. But even the best laid plans — and the most clearly labeled exhibitry — often go awry.

By Sunday afternoon in San Antonio — less than two days before the show opened on Tuesday — our supervisor Kenny was doing his initial crate count when his face fell faster than hoverboard popularity. We were short. Way short. Several floor-based exhibit components and our client's large hanging sign that required rigging crew coordination had apparently evaporated into thin air.

The team scrambled through the marshaling yard, checked with the loading dock master, and called the shipping company. Nothing. We had no choice but to inform the client, who took the news well, and we assured him that we'd solve the mystery and then fix the problem.

Our team launched into detective mode, following the trail of paperwork like forensic accountants tracking embezzled funds. After dozens of calls, we finally hit pay dirt: The general contractor in Atlantic City had consolidated our carefully separated shipments and put everything on the same truck that had gone straight to Las Vegas — nearly 1,200 miles away.

Kenny, a man with more industry connections than a power strip at a technology convention, somehow located someone in Vegas who knew where our shipment was and was willing to extract it from the general contractor's staging area and put it on a truck to San Antonio.

“It's headed our way,” Kenny announced to the team early Sunday evening. “The driver is going to run straight through the night and be here by 7 a.m.” Crisis averted.

To prep for the arrival, we arranged for our labor crew to be on standby at 7 a.m. sharp. And we mapped out every minute of the installation to ensure we had everything else that could go up prior to rigging the sign installed within the footprint. So as soon as the shipment arrived, we could hang the sign and quickly shuffle everything into its proper location.

Monday morning arrived with our crew caffeinated and ready. Seven o'clock came and went. No truck. At 7:15, Kenny's phone rang. “Slight mechanical issue with the truck,” the dispatcher said casually. “New ETA is 4 p.m.” That was cutting it close, but still doable.

We told our labor crew to come back at 3:30. At 3:45, Kenny's phone rang again. “Good news and bad news,” the dispatcher said, which is industry code for, “There is no good news.” The truck was on the way, but the new ETA was 5 p.m.

By this point, our labor crew was lounging around the booth space, scrolling and napping. We couldn't dismiss them without risking not getting them back, so they were being paid to wait. Shortly before 5 p.m., the call came. The new ETA was 7 p.m.

All the while our client had been hanging out near or in the exhibit, and he was starting to worry. “Still coming?” he asked. “Absolutely,” Kenny replied with the kind of confidence typically reserved for people selling bridges in Brooklyn. The client nodded, then settled onto a couch we'd rented for the booth. “I'm staying here until it arrives,” he announced. Kenny set about crafting a plan of how we could rearrange the booth to fill the gaps of the missing components should the unthinkable happen.

At 6:55 p.m., another call. New ETA: 9 p.m. By then, our labor crew had established a makeshift camp in the booth space. Someone had ordered pizza. The client was dozing on the couch. Kenny was finalizing our emergency “Plan C” while making calls to what seemed like every transportation company in the Southwest.

Finally, at 12:30 a.m. — with mere hours before the hall would start filling with attendees — our truck hit the dock. We swung into action, our client peeled himself off the couch and headed back to his hotel room for some real shuteye. Plan B: What happened next was like watching a Formula One pit crew, if that pit crew had been awake for 36 hours straight, fueled only by cold pizza and desperation. The hanging sign was unpacked first and immediately handed off to the rigging crew, who had been persuaded to work in the middle of the night. Then, each piece of exhibitry was pulled from its container, assembled, and maneuvered into place. By 8:30 a.m., the booth was somehow complete.

You'd never know that just a few hours earlier, most of these parts were hiding out in Sin City. We never did find out why our 7 a.m. shipment arrived at 12:30 a.m. the next day. But when our client returned to the booth, showered and fully caffeinated, he was thrilled with the result. Meanwhile, Kenny, who was bleary eyed and beat down, headed back to his hotel room for a shower and some sleep.

Lessons learned?
First, no matter how carefully you separate and label shipments, sometimes things get consolidated in ways that defy logic and explicit instructions. Second, industry connections are worth their weight in gold. And finally, exhibit success isn't measured by how well things go according to plan, but by how gracefully you dance when the music suddenly changes. E