I’m reluctant to accept being labelled ‘cheap’. ‘Value-seeking,’ would be preferable. ‘A discerning eye,’ better yet. But I’ve been known to chase a dollar while wasting countless more.
A recent example: I’m in search of a piano, the digital kind. The kind you can lift but do sit down to as a piece of furniture and get to hammer on 88 keys.
There are several out there and several suppliers out there so it’s pretty easy to get a salesman pumped.
First of all, I must explain that I’m not only focused on saving a buck but also super focused on making the most perfect decision.
I had already had a piano by this manufacturer. It was an upright acoustic piano that got lost in the move when we downsized to a condo. I was, therefore, prejudiced to this brand and this supplier also has a good reputation for digital pianos.
After what seemed like more than enough time, I decided on a model. We’ll call it model X. And model X is listed at $Y. Everywhere it’s $Y. So my discerning eye didn’t have too far to wander.
I go to the maker’s internet site to find the closest dealer and lo and behold they announced that a better model than model X is due, let’s call it model X1 at $Y1. I know what you’re thinking, go for model X, there will be a glut of them on the market; they’ll have to drop the price. But, of course model X1 is just that little bit better and I’m a gotta-have-it-a-little-bit-better kind of guy. So off I go to the nearest dealer to try out model X as to its looks and action. I’m already convinced that it won’t be great enough so that I can get the greater one in a few weeks. But model X should tell me that it’s what I want in a just-less-than-great piano.
After a gas-tank-emptying drive of several out-of-the-way kilometers, the GPS announces, ‘You have reached your destination. Your destination is on the left.’ I’m on the right hand side of the street and as I glance to the left, looking for my destination, all I can see is an empty store window. I can visualize the wrecking ball ambling down the street sizing up its prey.
But there’s another music store next to it that looks inhabited and, since I’ve come this far, I decide to give it a look.
The parking meter says, 1 hour costs you $1.50. A while back, a friendly meter person said you don’t have to put in the whole $1.50, it will accept partial amounts; it’s just a form of read-the-fine-print taxation that escapes most users. So my ‘value-seeking’ mind calculates the options:
- Don’t pay a thing, run directly across the street to see if they’re still in business. Running is key; this way you minimize the chances of getting caught by 0.033%. Cost: either $0.00 or $50.00 for the ticket written by the policeperson hiding behind the snowbank and $100.00 for jay walking when same policeperson has you wait until he/she’s finished writing out your parking ticket.
- Pay $1.50. Cost: deep depression when you find out the store is no more or at least a loss of $0.50 cause the store is open but you don’t need an hour to try out the piano.
- Pay $1.00. Cost: $1.00 and you confirm they’re out of business but you don’t feel as badly as if you’d paid $1.50. And maybe they’re open. And maybe you’ll get to play the piano. And maybe they’ll give you $1.00 when you find your receipt.
Decision? Dot 3.
I warily enter the store beside the soon-to-be-bordered up neighbour and am immediately faced with what could charitably be called a disaster. There are some musical instruments on racks, true, but they’re overwhelmed by boxes everywhere and in every state of use: some unopened, some opened and empty, some open and in a state of un-pack-ed ness and some being packed. I zone in on an individual committed to one of the boxes.
‘Let me guess, I just blew $1.00 on parking and you’re going out of business.’
‘No, no, not at all, just filling some orders.’
‘Don’t you usually fill orders somewhere besides in a showroom?’
‘Well our business is changing, the name’s Sam by the way, and we’re doing more business on-line than in the store. This guitar’s going to Montreal. So we spend a lot of time packing.’
‘Sam, I was hoping to try out the model X digital piano.’
‘Lovely, lovely piano. Sorry, everything’s in boxes.’
‘How ‘bout opening a box?’
You immediately get the feeling Sam doesn’t really need this sale.
‘Well, it would have to be assembled. How much time did you say you put in the meter?’
Sam hits me where it hurts, but he continues punching.
‘Hey, there’s a model X1 coming out in a couple of weeks. Great, great piano. I’ll let you know when it comes in.’
‘Can I then try it before I consider buying it?’
Sam’s pulse rate does not change.
‘How ‘bout I buy it, take it in the box, don’t like it and return it?’
I get a semi-nod from Sam now heavily into the styrofoam.
‘Doesn’t sound like the greatest of deals,’ I semi-whine. Then all of a sudden, like Santa Claus, Sam lays his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, out of the box he rises and rushes to his desk returning with a calculator which he furiously punches and then proudly presents 10 centimeters from my face.
It’s a deal on the model X1. At a lower than advertised $Y1 price. A pretty good deal.
I keep fighting, ‘That includes delivery?’
‘I’ll help you put it in your car.’
All smiles.
Well, all things considered, this slice of out my life wasn’t perfect; I didn’t get to try out the piano I hadn’t planned to buy. I didn’t even get to see it, but I got an offer on the piano I probably will buy that’s going to be hard to beat. So maybe over all I probably broke even. Or maybe a worth-it-all touch better than even.
As I’m leaving the store, hand on the door, pushing it partially open, in an almost here’s-looking-at-you-kid movie moment, I turn to Sam, ‘Well, I should be pleased, it could have been worse,’ Sam looks up from his incessant packing, ‘I could have spent a buck fifty on parking.’
Post Script:
To help you truly understand, dear reader, and truly, truly appreciate the import of this experience, I saved $ 0.50 on a potential $2,000 purchase. So it’s not trivial.