A Story about Matters in Negotiations

At the head of the table sat The Great Man. Older now, he had pioneered the development of mass-produced homes, perfectly aligned with the return of millions from the Second World War. The soldiers had the GI Bill, and the newly created rows of tract houses matched the bill’s financial provisions to a tee. The combination was so powerful that an entire town, largely populated by these dye-cut structures carried the Great Man’s name. He was, of course, extremely wealthy.

I sat at the other end of the long table, a privileged witness to the closing of a massive land deal in South Carolina. A young financial analyst, I was invited as a reward for doing well and showing promise. The conversations bounced around the lunch service, and I chatted with others in my station, happy for the good meal and the coming chance to brag to friends. In a voice just a notch too loud, I commented to my gaggle “I didn’t know that all of South Carolina was worth $130 million.”

Often at parties, there is this moment, just a few seconds actually when everyone in the room pauses at the same time. That moment came at that table, just as I spoke. The words sounded like a shout, carrying across the assembled executives and landing on the Great Man like an accusation.

“So, I’m apparently overpaying for this property, am I?”

I looked for a convenient hole to crawl into. Finding none, I sheepishly responded.

“No, sir. I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean… I wasn’t…”

The Great Man beckoned me to come to his seat. The walk, through the crowded restaurant, was an interminable death march, made worse by the snickering of my boss’s boss’s bosses, and the downcast looks of my peers. I dragged what I imagined was left of my young career behind me as I approached the head of the table.

“I apologize, sir… it wasn’t…”

“Nonsense! Maybe it’s a sign.” He turned to the smiling suit to his right. “Let’s look into this. Perhaps we should call off the deal.”

“Sir, I.. I…”

“Hush. I appreciate your advice. Look, you’ve been invited to this important lunch. Your bosses must think that you’re special. You might have just saved me millions.”

At this point, the laughter at the table was no longer subtle. I was being humiliated, which was fine… I just couldn’t figure out how to make it end. It quickly became obvious that I wasn’t going to be let off easy.

“You know, I like to help out good young men like yourself. Let’s see if I can’t make your life a little better today. Did you drive here?”

“Umm… yes, I did, sir…”

“Wonderful, wonderful… here’s what I’ll do. I’ll offer you $1 million for your car. That should help give you a good start.”

“Sir?”

The laughter seemed like it was coming from not only our table but from all of the tables in the restaurant. Everyone that was with us was now leaning forward, waiting for the coup de grace to be inserted somewhere painful.

“I’m good for it, you know that. Let’s make a deal — $1 million for your car, sight unseen. Let’s shake on it.”

“I can’t, sir… it’s not worth that at all. I can’t take your money.”

“Of course you can! You just pointed out that I was wasting over a hundred million dollars; the least I can do is give you some of what you’ve saved me!”

The trap was closing tighter, and I couldn’t find an escape hatch. I looked around at all the people who would never be my bosses because I’d made a silly remark, and swallowed hard.

“Sir, I thank you, but I couldn’t accept it. I…”

“Ridiculous. Would you like to insult me now by refusing me?”

Done. Trapped, skinned and trimmed for feeding to the hogs. Nothing but the darkness ahead.

“No, sir. I’d never…”

“Then take my million dollars. Here, shake on it.”

He extended his hand. I grasped it, and he pulled me closer to his face. ”We’ll set the terms outside. Let’s go see my new car.”

We got up from the table and headed towards the door, the whole top level of the firm in laughing, gesturing tow. I handed my ticket to the valet and stood shivering in the July sun. As the car approached, a vintage Mustang that I loved, the Great Man spoke again.

“Well, this is a better car than I expected! I’m quite pleased… tell you what I’m going to do. I was going to pay you $1 per year for a million years… I’m so impressed, I’m going to make it $10 per year for a hundred thousand years. How is that?”

The red cape had disappeared, what was left was the sword piercing my neck, reaching down into my spine. Death would be quick.

“Sir, I can’t sell you my car for $10.”

“First of all, you already did sell me your car. We have a dozen witnesses, right boys?” Verbal assent amidst the laughter. “Besides, you didn’t sell it for $10. You sold it for $1 million. You can tell all your friends that you made the deal of the century!”

He reached to my shoulder and pulled me close. He spoke softly, privately and — shockingly — warmly.

“Always remember this: it’s not the amount of the deal that matters, it’s the terms.”

I picked up my car from his office later that week, after taking a cab to my cubicle when lunch was done. The story made the rounds quickly, but the pain wasn’t permanent; in fact, it brought me into a sort of club that I didn’t know existed. I wasn’t the first to be humiliated in public.

Nobody knew what the Great Man had told me, and I didn’t realize the impact that it would have on the rest of my life. I knew, immediately, that I had learned something important and meaningful, it just took adding experience to the statement to give it depth and resonance. In my letter to the Great Man, thanking him for his advice (and for the return of my car) I tried to make sense of it, tried to share the many questions that it raised, but I failed, and left it with just my sincere appreciation, and the somewhat cocky comment that I’d look forward to passing it on someday. Unsaid was my own promise to myself, that when that day came, when I was sitting in the Great Man chair… I wouldn’t actually take the car.