Source: Beijing Weekend Author: Kublai Khan 07/13/2007
Subject Concerned: Aircraft Opinion
There's no such thing as haggling when you're in the market for a private jet. The time had come I thought, to look at expanding my range of options for what to do on weekends and there's no better way of broadening one's social horizons than to hit the skies. It would just be nice to have a guy called Captain Cliff call you to report that your jet is fuelled and ready to fly to the Color Me Badd reunion gig in Toronto.
I live in a city where pretty much any price for any item is negotiable. My Ralph Lauren sweaters: cost price, my hand-hammered Sabian cymbals: a steal, my pet tarantula Nancy: exchanged for a New Kids on the Block CD. But when it comes to dealing with jet salesmen, they tend to just stare blankly at you if you throw your hands up and protest "tai gui le".
In fact most of the Western companies that I have consulted about buying a jet thought I was joking when I asked for their "best price". One actually laughed out loud down the phone and complimented me on my sense of humor. Rich folk, it seems, are supposed to pay through the nose and not be so petty as to ask for a discount. One guy, a salesman mind you, had the nerve to suggest that by asking for a cheaper price that I risked "losing face", which was interesting because if he continued with his patronizing tone I was going to remove his face with my switchblade. And then there was one memorable conversation I had with one of these jet-selling jesters when I was last in New York.
"Hi there, I'm interested in the Bombardier Challenger 605," I said. "Can you take me through the features, price and all that stuff?"
"The Challenger 605?" he said. "That's a jet that screams 'balls', a man's jet, the kind of jet that if it were a band would never play ballads, if you know what I mean."
In my life I have personally disemboweled hundreds of men but I also choke up like a 6-year-old every time I hear Nuno Bettencourt strum the first chords of Extreme's More Than Words. Anyway, I was here for the plane, so I persevered chatting with this pond scum.
"Yeah I really like the sleek design," I said. "I know that Learjets are synonymous with personalized aviation but I'm not exactly a traditionalist when it comes to these things."
"I know what you mean, sir, I like to break the rules myself," he said, smirking like a screw from that show Prison Break. "Ask my accountant."
"OK, so how much does it cost?" I asked.
"Well, you won't be getting much change from US$28 million - and that's US dollars not, with respect sir, the currency of the country that you may come from."
"Tai gui le," I shouted throwing my hands up in the air in mock disgust. I knew how much the plane was worth, and was prepared to buy a fleet of them but I was looking to force a bargain.
"Tai-what sir?"
"Too expensive," I said. "What is your best price?"
"Err, that is our best price sir," he said. "But if that's too much for you, I know a guy who can sell you a second-hand Cessna if you can't afford the Challenger 605. Failing that you can always just catch a cab, or the train home."
A few other staff members overheard his comment and erupted in laughter. One even pointed and yelled: "Yeah, take your white-linen-wearing butt to the subway pal" before hi-fiving another one of his colleagues. Then a man who I think was the boss shouted: "That's enough".
He patted me on the back and escorted me to the door. "I am sincerely sorry for this sir," he said. The boss-guy then started to snigger and I felt a kick on my rump. I looked in the mirrored glass behind me and saw that a Post-It note had been stuck on my jacket. It read: "Kick the cheapskate".
Now with a sore behind to match my bruised ego, I was none-too-pleased that the cab I hailed had wooden-beaded car seat covers.