2005-07-06 - 2:42 p.m.
Oh it's Bull, alright
I sent the final logo over to the customer.
I know, can you believe it? We settled on a final. I was relieved, though skeptical.
Two days ago, we�d finally agreed to something that he seemed to like, and that I could live with. Yes, I avoided the flower altogether with as much grace and poise as I could muster. I showed him three horrible examples with a flower pasted on, praying that he wouldn�t choose any of them. It�s such a dangerous chance to take, but I was feeling lucky, I guess. He was just so stuck on the damn flower.
I made all his changes (and his partners� changes, his clients� changes, his friends� changes, his family�s changes and probably his nephew�s orthodontist�s changes too, the way this thing has been going) that made sense to make. The others, the ones I couldn�t make because they were just bad design, well I glossed over them.
I went over to his office after I left work to show him the updates. The office building where he works has a bustling little corporate village on the first floor with the requisite dining areas, newsstand, coffee shop. We met in the bar, which was packed with suited, toothy individuals, jackets removed, ties loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, laughing heartily and wide-mouthed at unclever corporate humor. It was happy hour and people were meeting up for after-work drinks and to watch sports before returning to the suburbs. He invited me to grab a drink and sit in a booth to go over the work I�d brought him.
As you might imagine, a bar is truly the perfect place to talk about anything work related, especially a loud bar. And especially with a distracted individual. For the first fifteen minutes, he was trying to get the waitress�s attention. He grew more distracted and seemingly annoyed that she had other people to tend to. Of course, we can�t do any talking until we have our drinks. We need our drinks. And quite possibly appetizers, because lord knows he�s had a long day and needs the fortitude that only hot wings will bring to make it through this grueling session.
She finally gets to us, poor thing, and has to listen to his griping about the time it took and how he could have gone behind the bar and made his own damn drink by now. I try to give her a sympathetic look that says I appreciate how busy she is and I�m not really with this guy, so please don�t hate me too. He orders the sampler and bourbon on ice. I am super polite as I order a tonic water with lime, trying to make up for his condescension and ignoring his comment about not getting a real drink.
After she leaves with our orders, and hoping she doesn�t spit in my drink, I pull the samples from the leatherette portfolio.
He likes the changes. (He wants to know where the waitress is with our drinks.)
He doesn�t like the flower, though it wasn�t how he was picturing it. (Thank heaven. My chancy scheme worked.) (He wants his food. He�s hungry!)
(Where the hell is our waitress? He rants, and goes to the bar to create a scene. I cringe with embarrassment and try to look apologetic.)
He decides on a color scheme, and then he goes into it for the third time: the price issue.
Indeed, even though he accepted my proposal that listed my deliverables and prices clearly, he still wants me to knock down the price. We have had this conversation before, buddy. Fat chance. I state my case, factually and politely, and then I pull the negotiating technique taught to me by a professor once: leave the uncomfortable silence alone. Do not be the one to break it, as the one who breaks it is the one who loses.
It goes on, seemingly forever.
(Oh my word, this is killing me. Now even I am wondering what is taking her so long. Anything to stop this hideous silence. It may just be my perception, but did the whole place suddenly get quiet?) He�s looking at me, and I refuse to look away.
He breaks the silence with a new rant about the service. Then he returns to the logo and says how much he likes it. ( I swear, sometimes I think this guy must be bipolar.)
A different waitress brings our order. It�s wrong. He freaks and goes to find the manager or something.
I apologize sheepishly.
He comes back with a satisfied smirk saying our order has been comped. Damn, now I know not to touch my drink. There�s got to be spit in it.
The waitress brings the goods. Now it�s social time. He talks and talks and talks. I keep looking at my watch. I say I need to go walk my dogs, but no. We have to hang out. Business is over, we must be social and enjoy these complimentary victuals. He tells me too much about his life. I laugh at his jokes. Finally, I manage to escape when my cell phone rings.
The next day, I have his logo sent over for final sign off.
He calls my cell phone four times during the day. I am busy. I do not check my messages for fear of the turmoil they may hold.
Guess what, he�s rethought the color. Someone suggested to him that we look at the colors of the NBA to get ideas. His favorite team is the Bulls, so let�s try NBA colors starting with Chicago.
