his arms folded across his chest, scowling and shaking his head. After a few seconds, I said, “Mr. Smith? Do you agree?”
He unfolded his arms and slapped the table. “He’s all agreeable now because we’re in public, but I don’t care if it’s one person or three people speaking, if he talks trash to me I’m out of here and in court. He cheated me, he promised to do work on my bathroom and he did a crappy job and used crappy materials. He charged me for the good stuff and pocketed the difference. Plus, he’s taking my money, the money he stole from me, and giving it to that group that thinks building the damn casino is gonna solve everybody’s damn problems.”
No matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from the casino.
“You’ll have a chance to talk about everything that’s on your mind, Mr. Smith. But I want to know if you can agree to let one person at a time speak.”
“He’s got a temper and he—”
“Shut up, Caterra. I can talk for myself.” Mr. Smith gripped his pencil so tightly it nearly snapped. “I’ll try.”
He didn’t say that going to court was an expensive, time-consuming alternative that he wanted to avoid, but I could see it on his face. So far, so good—nobody had leaped across the table or made threatening gestures or stormed out of the room.
For the next fifteen minutes, first Smith and then Caterra told their stories. Smith claimed that he had hired Caterra to redo his bathroom, that the work had taken a little over a week as specified, and that he had paid $4,359 for labor and materials. He slapped a sheaf of receipts on the table, each marked paid. And then he told how a week later, a leak had caused his bathroom to collapse into the dining room downstairs. He slapped another thicket of papers on the table—estimates of damage to his table, a family heirloom, and the repair of the plumbing, the sheetrock, and all painting. He claimed that Caterra had used inferior materials and had neglected to seal and caulk crucial joints. He wanted full compensation for all the repairs and restoration, plus enough money to cover the two days he’d had to miss work.
“He thinks he’s gonna get a piece of the construction work for that casino? I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll take this jerk to court and then the whole county will know what scum he is and how he screws over honest, hardworking families. Just because I don’t have a college degree don’t mean you can run your little scam right over me like a Sherman tank,” Smith declared between clenched teeth.
There it was. In business disputes, respect was almost always one of the unspoken concerns. “So, Mr. Smith, there’s been some damage done to your furniture and your dining room ceiling. You believe that Mr. Caterra used materials and processes that were inappropriate to repair your leak. You also feel that Mr. Smith hasn’t treated you respectfully, and you’re upset that some of the money you paid him might go to help bring a casino you don’t support to Walden Corners. Did I get that right?”
Smith scowled, but he nodded. Then it was Caterra’s turn.
Caterra denied everything. He had used materials that were within Smith’s budget and his workman had properly sealed joints and edges. The problem, he said, was that Smith had dumped sludge from his motorcycle down the new drain, causing a backup and the subsequent flooding.
“And how I spend the money I earn is my business. If I want to buy a million purple lollipops or give it to a girl who wants to open a massage parlor then that’s what I’ll do. But let’s get this clear. You’re blowing foul air all over town—I want you to stop telling people I’m a crook. If you continue to badmouth me, I’ll sue your butt for defamation,” Caterra said with a smile, “and enjoy every minute of it.”
And there was the other unspoken concern. Reputation—a businessman’s make or break commodity. Again, I summarized what Caterra had said,
He unfolded his arms and slapped the table. “He’s all agreeable now because we’re in public, but I don’t care if it’s one person or three people speaking, if he talks trash to me I’m out of here and in court. He cheated me, he promised to do work on my bathroom and he did a crappy job and used crappy materials. He charged me for the good stuff and pocketed the difference. Plus, he’s taking my money, the money he stole from me, and giving it to that group that thinks building the damn casino is gonna solve everybody’s damn problems.”
No matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from the casino.
“You’ll have a chance to talk about everything that’s on your mind, Mr. Smith. But I want to know if you can agree to let one person at a time speak.”
“He’s got a temper and he—”
“Shut up, Caterra. I can talk for myself.” Mr. Smith gripped his pencil so tightly it nearly snapped. “I’ll try.”
He didn’t say that going to court was an expensive, time-consuming alternative that he wanted to avoid, but I could see it on his face. So far, so good—nobody had leaped across the table or made threatening gestures or stormed out of the room.
For the next fifteen minutes, first Smith and then Caterra told their stories. Smith claimed that he had hired Caterra to redo his bathroom, that the work had taken a little over a week as specified, and that he had paid $4,359 for labor and materials. He slapped a sheaf of receipts on the table, each marked paid. And then he told how a week later, a leak had caused his bathroom to collapse into the dining room downstairs. He slapped another thicket of papers on the table—estimates of damage to his table, a family heirloom, and the repair of the plumbing, the sheetrock, and all painting. He claimed that Caterra had used inferior materials and had neglected to seal and caulk crucial joints. He wanted full compensation for all the repairs and restoration, plus enough money to cover the two days he’d had to miss work.
“He thinks he’s gonna get a piece of the construction work for that casino? I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll take this jerk to court and then the whole county will know what scum he is and how he screws over honest, hardworking families. Just because I don’t have a college degree don’t mean you can run your little scam right over me like a Sherman tank,” Smith declared between clenched teeth.
There it was. In business disputes, respect was almost always one of the unspoken concerns. “So, Mr. Smith, there’s been some damage done to your furniture and your dining room ceiling. You believe that Mr. Caterra used materials and processes that were inappropriate to repair your leak. You also feel that Mr. Smith hasn’t treated you respectfully, and you’re upset that some of the money you paid him might go to help bring a casino you don’t support to Walden Corners. Did I get that right?”
Smith scowled, but he nodded. Then it was Caterra’s turn.
Caterra denied everything. He had used materials that were within Smith’s budget and his workman had properly sealed joints and edges. The problem, he said, was that Smith had dumped sludge from his motorcycle down the new drain, causing a backup and the subsequent flooding.
“And how I spend the money I earn is my business. If I want to buy a million purple lollipops or give it to a girl who wants to open a massage parlor then that’s what I’ll do. But let’s get this clear. You’re blowing foul air all over town—I want you to stop telling people I’m a crook. If you continue to badmouth me, I’ll sue your butt for defamation,” Caterra said with a smile, “and enjoy every minute of it.”
And there was the other unspoken concern. Reputation—a businessman’s make or break commodity. Again, I summarized what Caterra had said,
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