Haggling

Dear Diary:

It was the 1980s. Microwave ovens were ubiquitous and affordable, and I wanted one.

The Lower East Side was an ideal place to shop for appliances in those days. Competition among the small retail stores in the Canal Street area was fierce, and bargaining for the best price was common.

Armed with the brand name and model number of the microwave oven with the highest rating from Consumer Reports, I entered a store filled to the ceiling with boxes. Salesmen scurried about, answering customers’ questions.

I caught the attention of a man who looked old enough to be one of the bosses. He hollered a command and a box with the microwave I wanted landed in front of me. Then, working an old calculator on the counter, he gave me a price.

“Too high,” I said.

He offered to take 5 percent off.

It was still out of price range, I whispered in a confessional tone.

He lowered his glasses and looked me in the eye.

“What kind of work do you do?” he asked.

“I am an architect,” I said.

He seemed delighted.

“You are just the man I am looking for,” he said.

“That’s nice,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“I want you to design a mausoleum for my mother-in-law.”

“May she rest in peace,” I said. “Did she pass away a long time ago?”