The Man Who Jump-Started Everything

That night, right before bed, I posted my third message on the bulletin board:

“Announcing PowerBuilder Developer’s Journal. Respond to this message to receive your sample copy!”

I hit send and went to sleep fully expecting what had become my new normal: absolutely nothing.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up early and drove my battle-scarred 1985 Honda Civic to work — a car held together by rust, hope, and unpaid parking tickets.

That evening, the moment I walked through the door, I dialed into the Powersoft BBS.

No dinner. No small talk. Straight to the modem.

OMG.

OMG.

There were thirty-six replies to the message I had posted the night before.

Thirty-six.

I stared at the screen like it had made a typo.

Then I started reading them slowly, carefully, as if they might disappear if I moved too fast. Every single one said the same thing:

Yes, send me a sample copy.

That’s when my childhood friend — my roommate — walked in from Stevens Institute of Technology.

I jumped out of my chair and yelled:

“You won’t believe this!”

He looked concerned.

Rightly so.

“There are thirty-six replies to my post from last night,” I said.

“They all want sample copies of PowerBuilder Developer’s Journal!”

He looked at my face, then at the screen, then back at me.

“You are now in very deep trouble.”

I nodded.

“Maybe.”

What I didn’t say out loud was the real problem — and he knew it.

I didn’t actually have a magazine.

Not a layout. Not an editor. Not a printer.

Not even a clue about what PowerBuilder does.

I had demand.

Which, as I was about to learn, is the most dangerous thing you can have without a plan.

And completely terrifying.

I kept reading the messages. That’s when I noticed something new.

A few people weren’t asking for sample copies.

They were asking if they could write articles.

That felt like skipping ten steps ahead on a staircase I hadn’t even found yet.

I replied to everyone with the most professional sentence I could come up with:

“Please submit your article proposals by email to my AOL address, including screenshots.”

The moment I hit send, I thought, Wow. I sound like someone who runs a magazine.

* * *

One name kept appearing in the forum threads.

He was everywhere — answering questions, correcting mistakes, debating features.

He clearly knew PowerBuilder better than anyone else in the room.

His name was Steve Benfield.

I sent him a private message.

“Would you be interested in being the editor?”

He replied:

“Me? Chief editor of PowerBuilder Developer’s Journal?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

Then his answer came back:

“Sure. Of course.”

Just like that, I had an editor.

Before he could change his mind, I posted a public message:

“Steve Benfield is the chief editor of PowerBuilder Developer’s Journal. Please submit all article proposals to him.”

And that’s how I hired my first editor.

No contracts. No meetings. No magazine.

Just confidence, a modem, and an AOL email address.

Somehow, it was starting to work.

Then I received a message that stopped me cold.

It was from a man named Mitchell Kertzman.

He wrote:

“Fuat, congratulations on PowerBuilder Developer’s Journal. How can we help?”

I typed back:

“Who are you? How can you help?”

His reply came quickly.

“I’m the chairman of Powersoft. Let me know how we can help you.”

That was not what I was expecting.

The chairman of the company.

Offering me help.

I was shaking.

* * *

Up until that moment, my entire business plan came from one memory: every time I bought a software upgrade, there was a subscription card inside the box. That’s how I subscribed to my favorite journals. So yes — I had ideas. But none of them involved talking to the chairman of Powersoft.

* * *

Steve Benfield immediately sent me a private message.

“Mitchell hates people calling him Mitch. Never call him Mitch. Always say Mitchell.”

Understood.

A moment later, Mitchell posted again:

“We’re in Boston. Why don’t you come to our office and we talk?”

And just like that, a magazine that didn’t yet exist had been invited to headquarters.

* * *

Later that night, my roommate wandered into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I gave him the update.

“I’ve recruited writers. I hired an editor-in-chief. And now the chairman of Powersoft wants to meet me.”

He froze.

“So,” I added, “are you sure you don’t want to be fifty-fifty partners?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’m one hundred percent sure I want no part of your dangerous midnight adventure.”

Fair enough. The problem was getting to Boston.

My Honda had already voted no.

“I need to rent a car,” I said. “Will you come with

 me?”

After some negotiation, he agreed — not as a partner, not as support.

Just as a witness.

At Powersoft headquarters, I was escorted into Mitchell Kertzman’s office.

He gestured to a chair.

“Please, sit.”

PowerBuilder 4.0 was shipping in a few weeks, he explained. Then he handed me an address.

“There’s a company in Vermont that does our shrink-wrapping. Send them seventy-five thousand subscription cards. They’ll insert them into the product boxes.”

That was the meeting.

No pitch deck. No committees. No debate.

Just instructions.

The chairman of Powersoft had just given me access to seventy-five thousand customers.

* * *

Back in the car, reality returned. How was I supposed to print and ship seventy-five thousand subscription cards? I studied magazines at Barnes & Noble like blueprints. At home, I recreated the cards on my Macintosh Classic. For the mailing address, I used my townhouse:

46 Holly Street Jersey City, NJ 07302

I printed the cards at a small shop in Chinatown — black and white, simple, affordable.

When they were ready, I boxed them up and mailed everything to Vermont.