Life as an entrepreneur started for me in front of the TV set in 1972 in Woodinville, Washington. I was watching the Coyote Roadrunner Hour when my dad interrupted my Saturday morning ritual to entrust me with the sale of my sister Melody’s blue Schwinn bike. She had graduated to riding horses. Being the only girl of seven kids, none of us boys would be caught dead on it. With that many siblings, our parents were constantly on the run between swimming lessons, soccer practice, the doctor, etc. Which means we often were assigned spontaneous tasks, like selling Mel’s bike.
Dad’s direction was crystal clear. “A man and his daughter are coming by in 30 minutes to look at the bike,” he said, staring into the glazed over eyes of an 11-year-old who was still a bit transfixed on Wile-E Coyote’s latest fall from a Monument Valley cliff (you know that was shot in Arizona.). And then he grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me a smidge closer with eyes locked trying to pierce my cartoon world, and he said slowly, “We want $14, but we’ll take $11.”
“Right. Got it. No problem.” I said with complete confidence, finally awakening to this great endeavor he had just bestowed upon me. Money was an important thing in our household, and my parents never missed an opportunity to stress honesty, integrity and fiscal responsibility with us.
He left with two of my older brothers for baseball practice and I returned to the boob tube (his term for TV). His words resonated in my brain, “We want $14, but we’ll take $11.”
Sure enough, as the Roadrunner ran off safely into the sunset and the first strains of Scooby Doo’s opening music came up following the Coco Puffs commercial, the doorbell rang. “Hmm, who could that be?” I thought annoyed. In slow motion, with one eye trained on the TV and half my brain driving my feet, I moved to the back door. I opened it to find a strange man and girl at our house. “Can I help you?’ I asked. “Yes, we’re here to see the bike.” he said. There, in the breezeway, was the freshly cleaned Schwinn speedster leaning seductively on its kick stand with, I swear, a heavenly glimmer twinkling off it’s chrome handlebars. At once my world snapped back into focus. The weight of my sales goal landed squarely upon my small shoulders, like the bank safe falling on Wile-E Coyote’s head. As the little girl walked over and caressed the seat adoringly, her father turned to me and asked, “Is your Dad home?” “No,” I said clearing my throat to begin negotiations. “He has asked me to handle this transaction.”
“Well then, how much for the bike?” he asked. At that moment I realized my dad hadn’t talked price with the prospective buyer on the phone. I quickly and deftly sized up the situation. This guy was flying blind. I had him right where I wanted him. His daughter was obviously quite smitten with the two-wheeler, and the only thing between her joy and he being a hero was his wallet. What an opportunity. Pops is going to be so proud. My older brothers will look upon my brilliant salesmanship with respect and admiration. Mel will revere me as the prodigal horse trader because of the deal I was about to cut. Once again, the old man’s words rang through my head. I stepped up and with the cajoling smile of a used car salesman I said, “We want $14, but we’ll take $11.”
My words at first shocked the buyer. You could see it in his face. Then an odd thing happened. His shock ever so subtly turned to delight. It took the keen eye of a savvy salesman to detect it, but it was there. Then delight turned to humor, and that’s when it hit me. I not only gave him our asking price, but had revealed our bottom line as well. Dang! The tables had turned, and he knew it.
With a bit of a chuckle he pulled out his wallet. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you $12.50 for it.” In an effort to regain lost ground I leaped at the offer, “Done, done, and done!” I exclaimed with a handshake. He loaded his grinning daughter and her new bike into his Town & Country station wagon and drove off safely into the sunset. Wounded but wiser, I retreated to our family room to retrace the transaction feeling lucky to have gotten the $12.50.
Thirty-two years later I can tell you: What I learned was vastly more rewarding than what I earned pedaling my sister’s blue bike. Dad laughed and applauded my honesty. The buyer, who most certainly could have taken advantage of a cocky 11-year-old, had the integrity to meet me half way. And the transaction epitomized one of Dad’s greatest business morals: “A deal is only good if it’s good for all parties.”
I couldn’t have made a better sale that day.
That’s all folks!
