ones you find elsewhere—but the people who play them do tend to be more deliberate and smarter.
Kurt paused at a coffee machine in the hallway. “Care for a cup of joe?” he asked. He reached into his pocket for some change before I stopped him. “No thanks,” I said. I never let clients buy me coffee or other refreshments, unless it’s served at a meeting. Bad form. And it can also be a maneuver employed to instill a sense of debt. Crazy , you say? You’d be surprised at the subtle little techniques that experienced operators like Kurt Myers use in negotiations.
Kurt led me to an empty meeting room. It was much smaller than the executive boardroom we had just left. He directed me to have a seat at the chamber's plain imitation wood table. He sat down across from me. I could smell his expensive cologne in the enclosed space.
"Mind if I ask you a personal question?" Kurt asked.
This inquiry seemed absurd, in a way, given the exchange that had just taken place between him and Kevin. In the aftermath of that meeting, there seemed to be no aspect of anyone's personal life that was off-limits to Kurt Myers, Vice President of Strategic Operations at TP Automotive.
"Not at all," I said.
"Do you have any children?" Kurt asked.
I shook my head. "Can't say that I do."
"Is there a Mrs. Craig Walker?"
I thought about my current bedmate. The idea of Claire Turner as Mrs. Craig Walker—or Mrs. Anyone—for that matter, struck me as both absurd and infeasible from multiple angles. And the image of Claire changing diapers? I couldn't go there, not even in my own head.
"No sir."
This struck Kurt as unusual. I was, after all, a good-looking, clearly heterosexual male who was no longer a kid.
"Well," he said, waving the concern away. "You work a lot of hours. You just haven't found the right woman yet." I knew that Kurt was moving in the direction of another topic. He couldn't possibly have cared about my personal life. "But I do have a son," he said.
So here was the motive behind this little man-to-man chat: Kurt wanted to talk about his son, Shawn.
I would have to tread carefully here. Shawn's behavior in the meeting, and his overall demeanor, had given me ample material from which to make an initial assessment: Shawn Myers was a swaggering bully who was riding his father's coattails. And he was not even doing a very competent job of that. When Shawn's name had come up during my consultations with Beth, she had stopped short of explicitly criticizing the son of the TP Automotive vice president. But her tone and her facial expression had told me all that I needed to know.
When you spend enough time in large corporations—where people are generally unable to speak freely—you learn to pick up those subterranean currents of resentment, fear, disdain, and outright loathing. There is a phenomenon that I sometimes call “the look.” This is a slight shift in facial expression—usually a subdued frown—that accompanies the name of a person who is secretly despised or disdained within an organization. I had seen Beth Fisk give the look on more than one occasion while referring to Shawn. She would have denied this on pain of death, needless to say. But I had seen it.
"You mean Shawn, of course," I said.
"Exactly. Would it surprise you, Craig, to learn that my son's progression in his life and professional career thus far has been—what shall we say—uneven?"
And now Kurt fixed me with that smile of his. The smile that was not really a smile, but a way of disarming his subordinates, allies, enemies, and colleagues. I was unsure of how I should respond. Should I play it deadpan or go along with the joke?
I opted for deadpan.
"I suppose I haven't really had enough time with Shawn," I said. "To make me qualified to speculate on that sort of thing."
Kurt waved away my reticence. His smile was suddenly gone. "Shawn hit a rough patch or two in college. His mother and I wondered if he was ever going to get serious about
Kurt paused at a coffee machine in the hallway. “Care for a cup of joe?” he asked. He reached into his pocket for some change before I stopped him. “No thanks,” I said. I never let clients buy me coffee or other refreshments, unless it’s served at a meeting. Bad form. And it can also be a maneuver employed to instill a sense of debt. Crazy , you say? You’d be surprised at the subtle little techniques that experienced operators like Kurt Myers use in negotiations.
Kurt led me to an empty meeting room. It was much smaller than the executive boardroom we had just left. He directed me to have a seat at the chamber's plain imitation wood table. He sat down across from me. I could smell his expensive cologne in the enclosed space.
"Mind if I ask you a personal question?" Kurt asked.
This inquiry seemed absurd, in a way, given the exchange that had just taken place between him and Kevin. In the aftermath of that meeting, there seemed to be no aspect of anyone's personal life that was off-limits to Kurt Myers, Vice President of Strategic Operations at TP Automotive.
"Not at all," I said.
"Do you have any children?" Kurt asked.
I shook my head. "Can't say that I do."
"Is there a Mrs. Craig Walker?"
I thought about my current bedmate. The idea of Claire Turner as Mrs. Craig Walker—or Mrs. Anyone—for that matter, struck me as both absurd and infeasible from multiple angles. And the image of Claire changing diapers? I couldn't go there, not even in my own head.
"No sir."
This struck Kurt as unusual. I was, after all, a good-looking, clearly heterosexual male who was no longer a kid.
"Well," he said, waving the concern away. "You work a lot of hours. You just haven't found the right woman yet." I knew that Kurt was moving in the direction of another topic. He couldn't possibly have cared about my personal life. "But I do have a son," he said.
So here was the motive behind this little man-to-man chat: Kurt wanted to talk about his son, Shawn.
I would have to tread carefully here. Shawn's behavior in the meeting, and his overall demeanor, had given me ample material from which to make an initial assessment: Shawn Myers was a swaggering bully who was riding his father's coattails. And he was not even doing a very competent job of that. When Shawn's name had come up during my consultations with Beth, she had stopped short of explicitly criticizing the son of the TP Automotive vice president. But her tone and her facial expression had told me all that I needed to know.
When you spend enough time in large corporations—where people are generally unable to speak freely—you learn to pick up those subterranean currents of resentment, fear, disdain, and outright loathing. There is a phenomenon that I sometimes call “the look.” This is a slight shift in facial expression—usually a subdued frown—that accompanies the name of a person who is secretly despised or disdained within an organization. I had seen Beth Fisk give the look on more than one occasion while referring to Shawn. She would have denied this on pain of death, needless to say. But I had seen it.
"You mean Shawn, of course," I said.
"Exactly. Would it surprise you, Craig, to learn that my son's progression in his life and professional career thus far has been—what shall we say—uneven?"
And now Kurt fixed me with that smile of his. The smile that was not really a smile, but a way of disarming his subordinates, allies, enemies, and colleagues. I was unsure of how I should respond. Should I play it deadpan or go along with the joke?
I opted for deadpan.
"I suppose I haven't really had enough time with Shawn," I said. "To make me qualified to speculate on that sort of thing."
Kurt waved away my reticence. His smile was suddenly gone. "Shawn hit a rough patch or two in college. His mother and I wondered if he was ever going to get serious about
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