Louis Roney: Listen!

A friend told me Walter P. Chrysler, the auto-maker, was a frequent guest in his family’s home and told the following story: Chrysler decided to buy a winter home in Southern California. He dictated a brief letter and had his secretary send it to half a dozen Los Angeles real estate brokers who specialized in large homes. “I grew up where there were beautiful woods. I’m looking to buy a house with lots of trees in the Los Angeles area. Tell your people to line up some nice houses and be ready to show me around. I’ll be at the Beverly Hills Hotel next Friday. Call me there.” When Chrysler arrived at the hotel on Sunday night, notes from six realtors were waiting in his box. He set up a day for each realtor. The first realtor took him to a magnificent mansion. He pointed out to Chrysler that the ballroom was a perfect miniature of the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace at Versailles. The garage held 10 cars. The stairway was hand-carved in Italy. Chrysler said he’d “think it over.”

The second realtor showed Chrysler a house with 12 bedrooms — “and each bedroom has its own bathroom with walls of Travertine marble. The kitchen features a walk-in deepfreeze with enough space to hold provisions for a small army.”

Chrysler thanked the lady and went out to play golf.

The next realtor showed him a Frank Lloyd Wright house on a hill with a view of the Pacific. The house contained a frescoed motion picture theater with 100 seats, and with hand-painted murals on walls and ceiling. Chrysler thanked him, and went back to the hotel for dinner with friends.

At the end of five days, Chrysler had seen seven or eight mansions. He had not made up his mind.

On Saturday, the last day, a slender young man picked Mr. Chrysler up in a Plymouth two-seater coupe. He drove about 5 miles out into the mountain foothills. He turned into a long driveway at the end of which stood a stately English country house. Instead of stopping in front of the broad, marble-banistered stairway before the front door, he drove on a circular drive which led around to the back of the house. He stopped the car.

He walked quickly around the car and opened the door. Chrysler got out of the car. The young man turned around, his back to the house. He stretched out his arms, palms up.

“Just look at those trees, Mr. Chrysler! Did you ever see such trees?”

”Chrysler stood for two or three minutes. He gazed at an enormous grove of Ponderosa pines, eucalyptus trees, and ancient oaks.

“You just made a sale!” said Chrysler. “You know, young fellow, you’re the only person who remembered I said ‘trees.’ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s the house?”

“Very nice. When you’re ready, I’ll show you through it.”

“Good. Let me look at the trees a minute longer. I’m sure it’s a fine house. Anyway, it’s easy to fix a house any way you want it. But trees like those! ”

If you ever become a teacher of anything, you develop an instinct for spotting those who are listening acutely, and concentrating on the subject at hand. Those attentive people become the “successes” of whom you are forever proud.

Someone long ago told me a tale about a man who had built his own small corporation, and who wanted to hire a bright young assistant who would eventually take over the business. He placed job advertisements in several large newspapers. He narrowed down the hundreds of replies he received to 10, and invited these to come to his office and talk privately with him. After he had greeted each applicant, he told the following story:

“I have a big country place about 20 miles out of town and keep some milk cows and some good riding horses there. For a long time a tomcat has come and sat on the windowsill in my barn across the way from my bedroom. This cat has howled all night. I haven’t been able to sleep because of his loud caterwauling. Last Saturday night I got out my rifle, and opened my bedroom window. When the cat started howling, I aimed at him and pulled the trigger. It was a tragedy for me. You see, the bullet hit an oil lamp I always leave burning in the barn. The lamp oil sprayed all over the place. Fortunately the livestock were outdoors in pens. But my barn burned to the ground.”

After hearing this “tale of woe,” applicant after applicant expressed condolences over what had happened to the man they hoped would be their future “boss.”

They said such things as, “Oh, what a terrible thing!” “I’m so sorry!” “You must be so unhappy.” “Are you going to rebuild it soon?” etc., etc.

The last applicant came in. She had worked as a waitress in a restaurant to pay her way through business school. When the boss finished his tale of woe about the bullet hitting the lamp, and burning down his barn, she looked him straight in the eye and asked, “Did you hit the cat?”

“Young lady, you’re hired!” said the boss.