MBA Admissions Essays - The Art of Business :: MBA College Admissions Essays

MBA Admissions Essays - The Art of Business   We stroll through a marketplace in Beer-Sheva, inhaling a conglomeration of smells and sounds that feel as though they atomic number 18 part of a different century. My father and I enter a depleted stand. A little woman sits in the corner scanning her aliveness like a hawk monitoring her nest. She promotes her wares not for a quarterly report but to feed and clothe her family. My father picks up a small wooden camel and calls out in our native tongue, How much? Fifty Shekel, she responds. Her reply is automatic. This is what she does all day, every day.   My father eyes her directly. He doesnt flinch. Ill give you ten. He remembers the stake as if hed been playing it daily since he left his homeland. She opens high and he counters low, each one hoping the other will give in first. I observe, fetching mental notes.   She replies with conviction, Its handmade, I cant go lower than forty. We all know the camel was made in a local factory, but he doesnt contradict her. To call her credibleness into question at this stage could ruin the transaction.   I only have twenty, fires my dad, as if he had rehearsed his line. I glance at his back pocket convex with Israeli currency but dont let on, for shes searching my face for a sign of weakness. Im beginning to see what the game is all more or less.   I cannot sell for little than forty, she retorts. My father squeezes my hand subtly and I latch on to his paw. We slowly start to leave the stall.   So be it, he voices over his shoulder with an aureole of studied ease. We continue out of the cool shadows toward the fascinating frenzy of the exotic streets.   Just as our sandaled feet touch the dirt road and we are about to rejoin the crowd, we hear a shriek. Wait Give me thirty. My father winks at me, turns nonchalantly, and swaggers toward the woman. I quickly pull thirty Shekel out of my pocket and thrust them into his hand, so the woman wont discover the treasures buried in his pocket. I smile at my quick thinking. My father plays it straight, as if I were supposed to hand him the money.   He works his thick fingers around a five-shekel piece and with a magicians sleight-of-hand, swiftly transfers the coin to his other palm.