Part 6 (1/2)
We wander around the store for a few minutes until I spot something that takes my breath away.
”Oh, Fletch, look, isn't it dreamy?” I ask, caressing the side of the loveliest couch in the entire world. This magnificent piece of craftsmans.h.i.+p is covered in creamy taupe leather and shaped like a twin mattress standing on glossy cherrywood legs. Dotted with tufted b.u.t.tons, the ends swirl up into delicate rolled espresso-colored suede armrests. I'm not sure if I want to lie on it or lick it.
”You certainly have the eye,” says a salesman, appearing out of nowhere. ”The MOMA featured this couch in a minimalist design exhibit.”
”Fletch! Did you hear that? The MOMA! A MOMA couch would definitely suit my, er, I mean, our needs,” I gush.
”Do you even know what the MOMA is?” he asks.
”Shut up! Of course, I do,” I snap.37 ”Don't you love it? Don't you want to have it right this minute?”
”This is the finest piece in our collection. Each one is handcrafted by a master carpenter in Italy,” notes the salesman.
”Fletch! An Italian master carpenter!” I am practically swooning.
”Do you notice what it's missing?” he asks.
”Nothing! It's perfect!” I exclaim.
”Jen, there's no back. This is a backless couch. How do you get comfortable on a backless couch?”
”Oh. I think you lie flat on it.” I sit down with a thud for a trial run. Ow! For such a pretty piece, it's surprisingly uncomfortable. When I lie down, each tufted b.u.t.ton digs into my back. I sit up, and that's not so nice either.... It kind of feels like I'm straddling a bucket of golf b.a.l.l.s. But so what? It's still exquisite and I must make it mine. ”Or, um, we can put it against the wall and not really sit on it. We could just admire it and use it for company. Maybe once in a while I'd pose on it and eat a peeled grape or something? You really wouldn't want to sit on a couch this beautiful every day.”
”Let me get this straight.... You advocate we trade our like-new and incredibly comfortable down sofa for one we can't use to impress people we don't know?”
”Handcrafted!” I bleat, mesmerized by the thought of me supine, sipping a dirty martini and entertaining my haute couture minions.
The salesman chortles at us. ”You married couples are all alike. She wants style, he wants substance.”
”We're not married,” I reply.
”And we never will be if we spend”-Fletch pauses to pick up the price tag-”almost seven thousand dollars!” He clutches his heart in what I think is mock terror. Turning to the salesman he says, ”Please excuse us for a moment.” He waits while the salesman sails away in a really yummy pair of buckskin Kenneth Cole loafers.
”Jen, seriously, no. Listen to me, N-O. No, no, no, no, no. There is no way in h.e.l.l I'm paying for a couch I'm not allowed to sit on. Absolutely not. I'm putting my foot down. Completely out of the question. Get it out of your mind.”
”But why not?” I whine.
”Because we could buy a used car for the same price.”
I'll admit he's got me there. But what of my minions? No self-respecting minion is going to kneel at the foot of a khaki canvas chain store divan.
”Fine! Then...then...then...I'll buy it myself! I don't need YOUR money!” I say, a bit louder than intended.
”How? You have no room left on your Visa, you destroyed your credit rating with your 'They don't really expect me to pay in full each month' American Express experiment, and you spend all your cash shopping during your lunch break.”
”I'll economize. I'll stop taking cabs to work,” I pledge.
”Ha! You were the one who said, 'The thing about ma.s.s transportation is it transports the ma.s.ses.' You won't last five seconds on the el, Your Majesty.”
”Then I'll ride the bus. It'll be fine. You'll see.” As we retreat from the store, I call over my shoulder to the salesman, ”Remember us-we WILL be back.”
Public transportation doesn't quite work out as planned. To save a thirty-cent transfer, I walk up Michigan Avenue to catch the express bus to Bucktown just past Neiman Marcus. Inevitably I need change, so I end up stepping inside to buy something little. Like a pair of trouser socks.
Or a wee handbag.
Or a five-carat white topaz ring.
Riding the bus has been a bit of a false economy.
I guess it's time for Plan B: Make More Money.
Courtney sashays up to my desk with a giant smile on her face, waving what looks like an MNOW contract. MNOW is the abbreviation for one of the products I manage. Once I tried to list all the acronyms we use here and I gave up around seventy-six. Alphabet soup has nothing on us.
”Guess what, guess what, guess what!!” she shrieks, doing a small victory dance.
”You sold an MNOW?” I correctly surmise. ”Congratulations, Court! Well done.” Woo-hoo! That commission is going straight into the couch kitty.
Courtney is the only account executive who moves my line without major hand-holding. In theory, my AEs should sell to clients, and I support the effort by creating marketing tools, training, strategy, and giving the occasional presentation, but it never shakes out that way. The last time r.e.t.a.r.d-y Arty sold an MNOW, I uncovered the lead, scheduled the appointment, conducted the meeting, did the follow-up, drafted the contract, and closed the deal. Yet he still paraded around the office exclaiming, ”I made a sale!”38 Courtney hands me the signed agreement with a flourish and says, ”Check it out.”
I scan the contract for the project details. ”Let's see, client is Wake-Hammond...nicely done! Once your other clients hear W-H uses the MNOW, they'll want it, too. OK...MNOW needs to be live by August first...uh-huh, I'll get the technicians on this immediately.... They expect to have around one thousand users...a little bigger audience than usual, but certainly within our parameters...and we'll bill out at $70,000.”
I hold the contract up to my eyes and it still looks like it says ”$70,000.” Whoa, I'm seeing extra zeroes. Aren't I too young to be going farsighted? Am I going to have to get those ugly half-gla.s.ses that hang on a gold chain? And start doing needlepoint? And complaining about my bunions and no-account grandchildren who never call their nana? I hold the paper out at arm's length, and although it's blurry, the number doesn't change. Yes, I definitely see ”$70,000,” which is totally wrong, but thank G.o.d, I don't need bifocals.
”Hey, Courtney? You have a typo here. These cost $7,000.”
”No, that's right. They have one thousand users, so I took one thousand times the selling price,” she explains.
”Does no one listen to me when I do product training? We went over pricing two days ago. MNOWs don't have a per-user cost, remember? We charge a flat $7,000.”
”Yes, but if they weren't willing to pay $70,000, then they wouldn't have signed the contract,” she argues.
It takes me a moment to process what she's saying. ”You knew you overcharged them?”
”You said in our training session there's no margin on this product. W-H said they always paid a per-user fee so that's how I billed them. Now at least we're making a reasonable profit.”
I quickly multiply my commission. Holy cats, I could buy my couch TOMORROW with a sale like this! Let's see, it would take a couple of months to build it and maybe a few weeks to s.h.i.+p the piece, so I estimate I could be eating peeled grapes from the comfort and elegance of my prize possession by late August! That would give me enough time to make stylish new friends and buy cool new martini gla.s.ses and take tango lessons and-oh, wait. Hold the phone.
I can't do this.
I can't willingly bilk a 900 percent profit from a client. It's wrong. G.o.d knows I want the commission, but I just can't do it. All of a sudden, I'm a kid again, and my dad is taking bids to build his company's new warehouse in Indiana. He's back from his business trip, disgusted a shady developer offered him a 10 percent kickback on all construction costs. Although he stands to gain about $400K, he won't even consider it. Dreaming of ponies with braided manes and Barbie dream homes with built-in swimming pools, I tell my father he's crazy for not taking the offer. Big Daddy replies, ”Jennifer, at the end of the day, all I have is my integrity.”
At ten, I didn't understand what he meant.
But now I do. Dammit.
I have to do the right thing even though I REALLY, REALLY don't want to. I sigh deeply and shake my head. ”Courtney, we can't.”
”Of course, we can-we'll be heroes!”
”Read my lips: No. We. Can't. We're redoing the contract with the correct price.”