The Dime on the Concrete
A nineteen-year-old kid is sitting in the passenger seat, watching a man who has just purchased $2 million in real estate in forty-five minutes fish a dime out from between the seat and the car door. Cars are honking behind them at a campus toll kiosk. The man — Paul Orfalea, founder of Kinko's, worth a quarter of a billion dollars, superstitious about black cats and haunted roads — finds the coin, leaps out, places it on the concrete, and stomps his heel on it several times before climbing back in. The kid is silent. Orfalea lets the silence do its work, then says: You know what the lesson in there is? Never lose money.
The kid would become a partner in the organization, sit on the board of directors, and stay for twenty years. He never forgot the dime. Nobody who encountered Paul Orfalea ever quite forgot whatever strange, kinetic, paradox-laden thing he did in their presence — the man who couldn't read building an empire predicated on the written word, the CEO who couldn't operate a single machine in his own stores, the hyperactive dropout who treated stillness like a mortal threat and turned that restlessness into a $2 billion business that Fortune magazine named one of the best places in America to work three years running. The dime was a parable, or maybe a joke, or maybe just Paul being Paul. Probably all three.
This is a story about what happens when the qualities a system rejects turn out to be precisely the qualities the market rewards — and about a man who figured that out not through theory but through the accumulated evidence of his own ungovernable life.
By the Numbers
Kinko's: From Sidewalk to Empire
$5,000Bank loan that started Kinko's in 1970
100 sq ftSize of the first store — a converted hamburger stand
4¢Price per copy at the original location
1,200+Locations worldwide at peak
$2BAnnual revenue before acquisition
$2.4BFedEx acquisition price in 2004
23,000Employees ('co-workers') at peak
The Alphabet as Enemy
In second grade, at a Catholic school in Los Angeles, a boy named Paul Orfalea could not recite the alphabet. The nuns had assigned prayers to be read aloud and letter blocks to be matched to the words in those prayers. Orfalea memorized the prayers by ear, performing the theater of literacy so convincingly that his teacher didn't realize until April or May — nearly the entire school year — that he couldn't identify a single letter on the page. "I can remember her expression of total shock," he later recalled, "that I had gotten all the way through the second grade without her knowing this."
He flunked. Repeated the grade. Still couldn't master the alphabet. His mother, Virginia Orfalea — a formidable woman of Lebanese descent who had married into a family that ran clothing stores in the Los Angeles garment district — launched what can only be described as a diagnostic crusade. She paid Paul's brother and sister $50 each to teach him the alphabet. They failed. She hauled him to clinics, colleges, specialists. One eye doctor, convinced the problem was weak ocular muscles, put the boy through two years of exercises. A speech teacher diagnosed a "lazy tongue." He spent vacations in summer school. During the school year, he cycled through special groups and, in third grade, landed in the class reserved for mentally handicapped students.
The only word he could reliably identify was the. He would follow along during group reading by jumping from one the to the next across the page, an archipelago of recognition in an ocean of incomprehension.
Finally, his mother found a remedial reading teacher who diagnosed what no one else had named: dyslexia. "Back then," Orfalea told Wired, "they didn't even have a word for 'dyslexia.'" He also had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, though that diagnosis wouldn't come for years. The identification helped explain the problem but did not solve it. He flunked ninth grade. Was expelled from multiple schools. A high school vice principal suggested to his mother that the boy's prospects would never rise above laying carpet. His typical report card, by his own accounting: "two C's, three D's, and an F." He was a woodshop major. He graduated ranked approximately 1,482nd out of 1,500 students, with a GPA of 1.2.
And yet — the paradox at the center of everything — he was tested and found to have an IQ of 130.
Some people say they have dyslexia. I got the real thing.
The Peddler's Education
What Paul Orfalea could not do: read fluently, write legibly, sit still, operate machinery, hold a conventional job. What he could do: notice things. Watch people. Feel the temperature of a room. Sense, with almost animal acuity, where money was moving and where it was stuck.
His father and grandmother ran clothing stores in Los Angeles. The garment district was his first classroom — one that asked nothing of the alphabet and everything of observation. His father redesigned product lines six times a year, a treadmill of inventory that the boy watched with the kind of attention his teachers never saw in a classroom. He internalized a lesson he wouldn't articulate for decades: he wanted a business that didn't depend on constantly changing inventory.
As a fifth-grader, he began ditching school to visit Charles O'Reilly Doud, a family friend and Los Angeles stockbroker, at his office. "I'd say, 'What are you doing here, Paul?'" Doud later recalled. "He'd come in and sit down. I'd pull out various papers and show him what a growing company was." How many fifth-graders skip school to troll for good stocks? Doud remained his stockbroker into adulthood.
The boy was not simply unintelligent in the way the school system understood intelligence. He was intelligent in ways the system couldn't measure — or, more precisely, in ways that the system's measurement instruments were designed to miss. Every formal assessment told him he was deficient. Every informal encounter with the actual world told him something different. The dissonance was formative. It taught him, very early, to trust his eyes over his ears — to trust what he could see happening in front of him over what anyone told him was supposed to happen.
"Your eyes believe what they see," he would say, decades later, to auditoriums full of students. "Your ears believe others. Believe your eyes. Follow your intuition."
He enrolled at a community college. Transferred to the University of Southern California. Managed to graduate in 1971 with a C average and a degree in finance. He paid attention in class — not with notes, which were beyond him, but with a kind of alert, magpie-like selective retention. A professor mentioned Subchapter S corporations, and Orfalea thought: That's a great way to get out of taxes. A professor explained LIFO versus FIFO inventory accounting, and he thought about inflation. He absorbed concepts the way a sponge absorbs water — unevenly, in patches, but with a saturation that turned out to be surprisingly durable.
"If I learned it, I remembered it," he said. The filtering mechanism that his disabilities imposed — the inability to take notes, to read textbooks, to study in the conventional sense — paradoxically concentrated his attention on the things that actually mattered. He was, without knowing it, practicing a brutal form of intellectual triage.
The Line at the Library
The origin story of Kinko's has the quality of a parable — so clean in its outlines that you almost suspect embellishment, except that Orfalea was constitutionally incapable of pretension and the details are too specific to be invented.
He was a student at USC. He noticed a line of students at the university library, waiting to use a pay-per-copy machine at ten cents a page. That line — the physical evidence of demand exceeding supply, visible to anyone who walked past it, registered by almost no one as a business opportunity — struck him with the force of revelation. He had taken a marketing course that studied product life cycles. Looking at the copy machine, he applied the framework: "This thing here is going to go for a long time."
He couldn't read. He couldn't write. He had no mechanical ability. He had been fired from multiple jobs. But he could see a line and understand what it meant.
In 1970, with $5,000 borrowed from the Bank of America — the loan cosigned by his father — Orfalea leased an 80-square-foot former hamburger stand in Isla Vista, the student neighborhood adjacent to the University of California at Santa Barbara. He rented a small Xerox copier. Charged four cents a page. The space was so cramped that the copier had to be wheeled out onto the sidewalk during operating hours. He and a few friends also sold notebooks and pens — about $2,000 a day worth of school supplies — out of the makeshift store. In the evenings, he supplemented income by going door to door in dormitories, hawking wares from a knapsack.
He named the shop after his nickname. His curly red hair had earned him the moniker "Kinko" from friends. It was not a name anyone would have chosen in a branding meeting. It was slightly ridiculous, impossible to forget, and — in a way that mattered more than anyone realized at the time — it signaled something about the founder's refusal to take himself too seriously.
"I'm very lucky I wasn't bogged down with a lot of capabilities," he later joked. "I was in business to make money. I didn't like reading, I didn't like machines. I was in it for the money."
The self-deprecation was real but also strategic. By constantly lowering expectations — by insisting, publicly and often, that he was "basically unemployable," "sort of a peddler" — Orfalea created room to be underestimated. And being underestimated, for a man whose greatest gift was observation, was a kind of camouflage.
Partnerships, Not Franchises
The most consequential business decision Paul Orfalea ever made was structural, and it was born not from strategic vision but from constraint. He wanted to expand beyond the Isla Vista store. He didn't have the capital to finance new locations himself. He didn't want to franchise — franchising, with its rigid systems and manuals, was the last thing a man who couldn't read a manual would gravitate toward. So he did something unusual: he formed partnerships with owner-operators, retaining a controlling (majority) interest in each store while giving local operators skin in the game.
These first partners were other students — surfers, fraternity brothers, dreamers — who scouted locations along the West Coast, sleeping in Volkswagen buses or fraternity houses. Jim Warren was a surfer who met Orfalea at a keg party and was persuaded to take the enterprise to the Southeast. He and his wife rented a small storefront near the University of Georgia in 1978, "where they kept a fire extinguisher and nothing else," according to one account. Publicity consisted of flyers stuffed in mailboxes. Orders were taken and delivered personally. Some of these pioneers were still owner-operators decades later.
The partnership model was, from a corporate-governance perspective, a headache. By the mid-1990s, Kinko's had grown to 127 separate partnerships — each store effectively its own entity, each operator with their own ideas about logo design, pricing, hours of operation, and the meaning of brand consistency. Far-flung owners couldn't agree on basics. The organizational chart looked less like a corporation than like a confederacy of loosely affiliated copy shops held together by Orfalea's personality and a shared cut of the profits.
But the model had virtues that a conventional franchise structure couldn't replicate. Partners who owned a piece of their store cared about it in a way that salaried managers never would. They stayed late. They noticed when a regular customer was unhappy. They innovated at the local level — adding services, adjusting hours, responding to the specific needs of their specific market — without waiting for permission from headquarters. The centrifugal messiness of 127 partnerships generated more useful ideas than any centralized R&D department could have.
Orfalea understood this intuitively. "The cardinal rule," he told students at Cal Poly, "is never listen to the president of your company. CEOs always lie." It was a joke, mostly, but it contained a real conviction: the best information in any organization flows from the edges, not the center, and the job of the person at the center is to stay out of the way — or, better, to wander the edges and listen.
The Wanderer's Method
Paul Orfalea did not manage Kinko's from an office. His office, such as it was, was legendarily bare: no stacks of business reports, no statistical charts, no computer maxed out of memory. His filing cabinets contained no files. He often didn't have a pen. Coworkers helped him with written correspondence. He couldn't operate a single machine in his own stores.
Instead, he wandered. He visited stores — obsessively, constantly, sometimes eight properties in under an hour. He talked to customers. He talked to the people behind the counter. He watched. He noticed things. He noticed, for instance, that customers were coming into stores looking for computers to use — and from that observation, he expanded Kinko's to include computer terminals for small business owners and the self-employed. He noticed that customers wanted to come in at all hours — and from that observation came the 24-hour policy that became one of Kinko's most distinctive features. He noticed that single mothers working at his stores couldn't afford childcare — and from that observation came the company's daycare benefits and family-friendly policies that helped land Kinko's on Working Mother magazine's "Best Companies for Working Mothers" list.
His restlessness — the ADHD that had made him a disciplinary problem in every classroom he'd ever entered — was, in a business context, a superpower. He couldn't sit still, so he moved. He moved through stores, through conversations, through markets. The inability to focus on paperwork meant he focused on people. The inability to read reports meant he had to see things for himself. Every deficit was, in the right frame, an asset.
"My learning disability gave me certain advantages," he reflected, "because I was able to live in the moment and capitalize on the opportunities I spotted. With ADHD, you're curious. Your eyes believe what they see. Your ears believe what others say. I learned to trust my eyes."
I get bored easily, and that is a great motivator. I think everybody should have dyslexia and ADD.
Donald Gogel, president of Clayton, Dubilier & Rice — the New York investment firm that would eventually buy a third of Kinko's for $219 million in January 1997 — described Orfalea as "a nonlinear thinker." It was a polite corporate way of saying that Orfalea's mind worked by association, juxtaposition, and intuition rather than by sequential analysis. He would see a black cat 300 yards ahead and screech the car into a U-turn. He would buy $2 million in real estate in forty-five minutes and then spend two minutes fishing out a dime. The connections he drew were invisible to linear thinkers, and the results were visible to everyone.
The Xerox Trick and Other Acts of Cunning
Orfalea's approach to vendors revealed the same pattern of apparent simplicity masking genuine shrewdness. Xerox was Kinko's biggest supplier — the machines were the whole business — and Orfalea developed a purchasing strategy that exploited the structural stupidities of large corporations with the glee of a boy who'd spent his childhood outmaneuvering school systems designed to fail him.
Every September or October, as Xerox salespeople grew anxious about hitting their annual numbers, Orfalea would approach them with an offer: he wanted to buy hundreds of machines, and he'd pay full list price. No discount on the hardware. The catch — the brilliance — was in what he demanded in return: extended service contracts. Four, five years of unlimited repair coverage. The machines broke constantly, and repair costs were the real expense. Xerox would book the revenue that year, making their numbers, but the contingent liability for years of service went inadequately accounted for on their books. The salespeople didn't care — they got their commissions. The corporate accounting didn't flag it — the revenue looked good in the quarter. And Orfalea got years of free repairs on machines he was running into the ground twenty-four hours a day.
"Understand," he told an interviewer, "these big companies are stupid. You know what a dinosaur is — you cut the tail of a dinosaur, it takes a minute for the pain to register in its head." It was the language of a peddler, not an MBA. But the insight — that large organizations compensate for things that defy common sense, that their incentive structures create exploitable gaps — was as sophisticated as anything taught at Wharton.
He also faced down a major lawsuit from textbook publishers, who objected to Kinko's copying of course materials — a practice that had been the foundation of the business near college campuses. The legal defeat forced a radical pivot: Kinko's had to shift its primary clientele from university students to downtown business users. It was, by multiple accounts, an intensely stressful period. But the partners and long-term leaders who had built the business were still in place, and the transition worked — precisely because the partnership model had cultivated people who understood their local markets well enough to adapt without waiting for instructions from above.
Happy Fingers Ring Happy Registers
The phrase was Orfalea's own, and it captured a management philosophy so simple it was easy to dismiss and so effective it was difficult to replicate. He did not call his employees "employees." He called them "co-workers." This was not branding. It was a statement about organizational architecture.
Orfalea believed — with the conviction of a man who had spent his entire life depending on other people to do the things he couldn't do himself — that the health of a company was a direct function of the happiness of the people who worked in it. His dyslexia had taught him to delegate not as a management technique but as a survival strategy. He needed people to read his mail, to write his correspondence, to operate the machines. The experience of radical dependence — of being, in the most literal sense, unable to function without the help of others — gave him an understanding of teamwork that no business school case study could provide.
Fortune magazine named Kinko's one of the "100 Best Companies to Work for in America" in 1999, 2000, and 2001. The ranking was based largely on employee polls. Forbes ranked Kinko's 84th on its 2000 "Forbes 500 Biggest Private Companies" list. The conjunction of these two facts — a company that was both enormous and beloved by the people inside it — was Orfalea's most significant achievement, and the one that mattered most to him.
"I'm proud of the way we treated people," he said. Employees had access to daycare. They had good health benefits. They were encouraged to share ideas freely, at every level, in organizational decisions. Generous incentive programs rewarded creativity. The culture was loose, eccentric, occasionally chaotic — a reflection of the founder's own temperament — but it generated a loyalty that more regimented organizations struggled to match.
"Happy fingers ring happy registers" was not a theory of human resources. It was an observation about causality, as blunt and empirical as watching a line form at a library copy machine.
The Rolling Up and the Falling Apart
The partnership structure that had made Kinko's work also made Kinko's difficult to sell. By the mid-1990s, the 127 separate partnerships needed to be consolidated into a single corporate entity. In January 1997, Clayton, Dubilier & Rice bought a third of the company for $219 million and helped roll the partnerships into one organization. The stated goal was to expand to 2,000 locations by 2000, creating a global network to take advantage of digital technologies — customers composing reports in New York and sending them by modem to be printed and bound in Amsterdam.
The consolidation required eliminating the founding partners who had built the business. The people who had scouted locations from Volkswagen buses, who had kept fire extinguishers and nothing else in their first storefronts, were being bought out to make the corporate structure legible to Wall Street. One former employee who managed stores for thirteen years — who had opened new locations, taken over struggling ones, spent time with Orfalea on multiple occasions — described the sequence in stark terms: the investment firm brought in executive leadership with experience at Pizza Hut and PepsiCo. These were people who had "streamlined and flipped many companies before but simply didn't understand what had made Kinko's so successful."
Financial results started to deteriorate. Store and regional leaders were pulled away from customers, sales, and co-workers, and told to spend their days submitting spreadsheets that, the former employee believed, "were never seen by anyone." Another chunk of the company was sold to AOL Time Warner. Same result. With most founding partners and leaders gone, the culture that had generated Fortune's "Best Companies" ranking evaporated. The headquarters was moved from Ventura, California, to Dallas — over Orfalea's objections.
Orfalea had retired from his position as Kinko's chairman in 2000, assuming the role of chairman emeritus. He sold his remaining stock in several transactions through the late 1990s. By the time FedEx acquired Kinko's for $2.4 billion in December 2003 — a deal announced on New Year's Eve — Orfalea had no part in the transaction. The buyers got the stores and the brand. They did not get the culture, because the culture had already left the building.
FedEx eventually shed the Kinko's name entirely, rebranding the stores as FedEx Office. The name — committee-approved, focus-grouped, devoid of personality — was the antithesis of everything the original moniker had represented. Nobody ever said "I need to run to FedEx Office" with the casual familiarity that had once attached to "I need to run to Kinko's." The curly-haired peddler's nickname, stamped on an 80-square-foot hamburger stand in 1970, had become a word. The word became a brand. The brand became a commodity. And then the commodity was absorbed into a logistics empire and the word disappeared.
The Entrepreneur's Paradox of Departure
Orfalea's advice to entrepreneurs who sell their businesses is unequivocal: leave immediately. "Staying on without authority can lead to frustration and unnecessary stress," he has said. He learned this the hard way. The sale of Kinko's — the company he had built from a sidewalk copier into a global network of 1,200 locations — was both the culmination of an extraordinary entrepreneurial career and, by his own account, one of the most painful experiences of his life.
"Becoming a billionaire brought more relief than joy," he told one interviewer, a striking admission from a man whose entire identity had been bound up in the building. It resolved his financial issues and provided peace of mind — but it didn't change who he was. "You still wake up as the same person you were before your wealth accumulation." The transaction was not a triumph; it was a release of pressure, like a valve opening. And with the pressure went the purpose.
He refers to his post-Kinko's life not as "retirement" but as being "repurposed" — a verb that captures both the intentionality and the uncertainty of starting over at fifty-three with a quarter-billion dollars and no company to run. He invested in real estate — the Isla Vista properties where he'd started, among others — and became involved with West Coast Asset Management and Stone Canyon Venture Partners. He taught at USC, UC Santa Barbara, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, Loyola Marymount, and a rotating cast of other universities. He spoke at Harvard, Princeton, Wharton, NYU.
But the core of his post-Kinko's identity became philanthropy. In 2000, the same year he retired, he and his then-wife Natalie started the Orfalea Family Foundation. Over fifteen years, the Orfaleas reportedly donated a staggering $175 million, most of it concentrated in Santa Barbara County. The foundation focused on early childhood education, school food reform, disaster readiness, and — inevitably, given the founder's biography — learning differences.
If you don't have savings, it's harder to keep your integrity. Don't be a slave to anybody.
The pattern was telling. A man who had been failed by the education system spent his fortune trying to fix it — not by reforming curricula or lobbying for policy changes, but by investing in the conditions that made learning possible: childcare for working parents, nutritious food in public schools, preschool programs that identified and supported children who learned differently. He wasn't trying to change what was taught. He was trying to change who got to learn.
Cal Poly named its business school in his honor — the Orfalea College of Business — a fact laden with irony so rich that Orfalea himself surely appreciated it: the man who graduated high school ranked 1,482nd out of 1,500 now had his name on a college.
The Furniture of the Mind
To understand Paul Orfalea, you have to understand what it means to navigate the world without the tool that the world considers indispensable. Reading is not merely a skill; it is the medium through which modern civilization transmits knowledge, enforces rules, conducts commerce, and maintains social order. A person who cannot read is not just disadvantaged. They are, in the most literal sense, excluded from the operating system.
Orfalea's response to this exclusion was not to overcome it in the conventional sense — he never became a fluent reader; to this day he relies on assistants for written correspondence — but to develop an alternative operating system. Where others processed information through text, he processed it through observation, conversation, and physical presence. Where others accumulated knowledge through reading, he accumulated it through listening and watching. Where others managed through memos, reports, and spreadsheets, he managed through wandering, asking questions, and trusting the people closest to the work.
His learning differences, he insisted, were not disabilities but "learning opportunities" — and while that phrase sounds like the kind of reframing that motivational speakers traffic in, Orfalea lived it with a specificity that elevated it beyond platitude. His dyslexia forced him to see the big picture because he literally could not see the small print. His ADHD made him restless, which made him visit stores, which made him notice things that sedentary executives missed. His inability to read reports made him talk to people, which gave him information that reports couldn't capture. His impulsiveness made him act quickly on new ideas, which gave Kinko's a culture of rapid experimentation that more deliberate organizations couldn't match.
The dyslexic CEO who built a copy empire. The man who couldn't read, surrounded by reading material. The hyperactive kid expelled from school after school, building a company so humane that its workers called it one of the best places in America to work. The contradictions don't resolve. They aren't supposed to. They are the engine.
Richard Branson, who shares Orfalea's dyslexia, once wrote that his condition "freed me up to look at the bigger picture."
Barbara Corcoran, the real estate mogul, said dyslexia "made me more creative, more social and more competitive." John Chambers, the former Cisco CEO, described learning to "eliminate the wrong answers quicker than I can get the right answer." Charles Schwab, the brokerage founder, became an advocate for dyslexia awareness after his son was diagnosed. Orfalea belongs to this lineage — a cohort of entrepreneurs whose brains were wired differently enough to be punished by educational institutions and rewarded by markets.
But Orfalea may be the purest case in the group, because his disability was the most severe and his workaround the most radical. He didn't just delegate his weaknesses. He built an entire organizational culture around the principle that nobody should have to be good at everything — that the point of a team is to let each person contribute what they're best at and be supported in what they're worst at. This wasn't just management philosophy. It was autobiography.
An Hour a Day to Just Be Stupid
"Every day you need your soul to catch up to your body," Orfalea told an auditorium at Cal Poly. "Give yourself an hour a day to just be stupid."
He was sixty-eight when he invested in an 11,000-square-foot State Street property in Santa Barbara that became an Impact Hub — a shared workspace for socially minded and eco-conscious enterprises, where space could be secured for as little as $5 to $10 a day. It was, in miniature, a recreation of the Kinko's ethos: a physical space where entrepreneurially minded people could work in close proximity and achieve, as one reporter put it, "a great synergistic buzz." The investment was his first in five or six years. "When you're young, responsibilities are kind of fun," he explained. "Well, when you get older, they become a burden. I don't want more phone calls."
The candor was disarming and characteristic. Orfalea had never performed the role of wise elder with any particular discipline. He made fun of people taking notes during his speeches. He told MBA students that CEOs always lie. He advised young people to save money, avoid credit card debt, and never be a slave to anybody. His life advice had the quality of aphorisms scrawled on napkins — unsystematic, occasionally contradictory, rooted in lived experience rather than theory.
"When you're 20, you care about what people think about you," he told a student audience. "When you're forty, you don't really care as much about what people think about you. When you're sixty, you realize people were never thinking about you in the first place."
He divided life into decades, each with its own logic. He emphasized work, love, and play as the three pillars that needed to remain in balance. "Who wants to follow a guy who's tired, lonely, and haggard?" he asked undergraduates at Florida Southern College. The question contained its own answer, and the answer contained a critique of every grinding, sleep-deprived, relationship-sacrificing model of entrepreneurial success that Silicon Valley would later canonize.
His business, he insisted, was "an instrument to make you happy; you own it — it doesn't own you." When asked what his favorite time of life was, he said: now. Always now. The man whose ADHD kept him locked in the present tense turned that constraint into a philosophy.
The Garment District and the Copy Shop
Paul Orfalea's parents were Lebanese Eastern Orthodox Christians who had immigrated to Los Angeles and built a life in the garment district. His father ran a women's clothing factory. His grandmother ran a store. The family's commercial instinct was as natural as breathing — buying, selling, reading a customer's face, knowing when to haggle and when to close. This was not the entrepreneurship of MBA programs and pitch decks. It was the entrepreneurship of immigrant families who understood, in their bones, that survival and commerce were the same activity.
At the 1997 USC dinner where Orfalea received an award for entrepreneurship, at least 400 relatives, employees, and friends showed up — the largest turnout for any such event in the university's history. Orfalea spent much of his time at the podium thanking people in the crowd, one by one: "And Mary and Steve, thank you. Fred, Bill, Dolores, thank you." An elderly aunt shouted from her table: "Louder, please." "I have a lot of aunts," Orfalea confided afterward.
The family was the first partnership structure he ever understood — a network of relationships bound by obligation, affection, and shared economic interest. The Kinko's partnership model was, in a sense, a formalization of the garment-district ethos: give people a stake, trust them to do their work, show up regularly to check on things, and never forget that the business exists to serve the people in it, not the other way around.
His Lebanese heritage also placed him in a particular relationship to American capitalism. He was an outsider by origin — the child of immigrants, the bearer of an unpronounceable surname (Or-fa-la, he was always careful to specify), a man whose face and name marked him as something other than the default. This outsider status rhymed with his outsider status in every classroom he'd ever entered. The boy who couldn't read, the son of immigrants who couldn't pronounce the family name — both were forms of not-quite-belonging that, paradoxically, sharpened his ability to see what insiders overlooked. The line at the library. The struggling single mother in San Antonio. The students who needed a place to copy notes and couldn't afford ten cents a page. He saw these things because he was, in some essential way, one of them.
In 2004, he received the Ellis Island Medal of Honor — an award given to Americans of immigrant heritage who have made exceptional contributions to the country. The medal linked the garment district to the copy shop, the Lebanese grandmother's store to the 1,200 worldwide locations, the family's instinct for commerce to the son's capacity to scale it. The throughline was unbroken.
There is a photograph — widely circulated, impossible to date precisely — of Paul Orfalea walking somewhere in Santa Barbara, sport coat slung jauntily over his shoulder, palm trees waving in the warm ocean breeze behind him. The curly red hair that gave him his nickname is gone, cropped close. The man in the photograph looks relaxed in the way that only people who have nothing left to prove can look relaxed.
He had started with 100 square feet and a single copier. He had ended with $2.4 billion and a name on a college of business. Between those two points lay thirty years of partnerships formed and dissolved, lawsuits survived, stores opened and closed, investors courted and sometimes regretted, a culture built and then dismantled by people who thought culture was a line item. He had given away $175 million. He had been divorced. He had written books —
Copy This!, co-authored with journalist Ann Marsh, and
Two Billion Dollars in Nickels — that turned his story into a curriculum for people who learned the way he did: by example, by anecdote, by the accumulated weight of someone else's experience.
The store in Isla Vista — the former hamburger stand where the copier was wheeled out onto the sidewalk — is gone now, or rather, it's something else. The name on it is different. The machines inside are different. The students walking past it are different. But the line at the library still forms, metaphorically if not literally, in a thousand variations across a thousand campuses and strip malls and coworking spaces — people who need something done and are willing to pay someone to do it, standing in a queue that is invisible to almost everyone except the person who is constitutionally unable to look away.
Paul Orfalea, born November 28, 1947, in Los Angeles, California, to a family of Lebanese immigrants. Ranked 1,482nd out of 1,500. IQ of 130. Couldn't read, couldn't write, couldn't sit still, couldn't operate a machine. Built a $2 billion company and named it after his hair.
Somewhere, there is a dime on a piece of concrete with a heel print on it.
