If You Don't Have Big Breasts, Put Ribbons on Your Pigtails (13 page)

I tried to move my chair closer to His Majesty's to get a peek at the numbers, but my chair wouldn't move. I stood up, took one

giant step forward, opened the file, scanned the typed columns of sale prices, and recognized the information as the same data I had already used. So far, so good, I thought, knowing I had regained my footing.

"Mr. Trump," I said, "I'm pleased to say that each of these transactions was already included in my calculation." I smiled at him. "But I sure do appreciate your sharing them with me, sir."

Mr. Trump pursed his lips and bellowed into his intercom. "Marsha! Bring your calculator and come in here!" When the big doors parted again, an Ivana look-alike entered and strode across the floor in va-vooms to Mr. Trump's desk. Va-voom, va-voom, va-voom. She bent down, her cleavage eye level with Mr. Trump, and entered numbers as he rattled them off. When she came up with the same totals I already had, the ones that placed Trump Tower squarely in fourth place, Va-voom was dismissed.

Mr. Trump was clearly becoming more frustrated and barked once more at his intercom: "Joe! Get in here! Bring those Trump Tower deals we were just talking about this morning." Joe muscled in, a compact man in a too-tight suit. He reminded me of Rocky Rocciano, the drummer I dated from Garfield High. Joe handed a sheet of paper to Mr. Trump and muscled out. Mr. Trump nodded, passing the paper my way. "Have a look at these sales!" he said glibly.

I surveyed the sheet of twenty sale prices, each belonging to an apartment I hadn't seen before. The prices were much higher than the others, and Mr. Trump smirked when he saw the surprise register on my face. I shifted in my seat trying to get my routine back on track. "Could I see the dates on each of these transactions, Mr. Trump?" I asked.

To my relief, he bragged, "They were all sold this weekend, Barbara! All twenty of them! I tell you, it's incredible, really incredible!"

"That really is incredible, Mr. Trump!" I agreed. "And if they had closed this weekend, I could have included those sales in my report."

He winced, and I noticed his hair looked like cotton candy back-lit by the western sky "Listen," he said, enunciating each word,

""everyone knows that Trump Tower is the most expensive address in the world, and putting anything else in your report is wrong/

The time had come for my grand finale, the moment to trump Trump.

"Mr. Trump." 1 began, "it's very important to me that I make you happy." I spoke slowly. "But I also need to publish a truthful report. Surely, there must be something you could think of that would make the report work for both of us."

And then. I made the move I had practiced a dozen times the night before. "Wait, wait just a minute!" I said, as if a lightbulb had jusl popped on in my head. I stood up, walked purposefully around to Mr. Trump's side of the desk, and leaned my forearm on his shoulder. "Lets see," I said, pointing to the Trump sale prices in my report. I paused a moment for dramatic effect. "What if we were to compute the prices on a cost per foot basis, instead of the total sale price like everyone else does? I wonder what that would do?"

I circled the highest-priced sale at Trump Tower, which was $3,033,500, divided it by its 2,509 square feet, and spit out the answer faster than a calculator. "Why that's one thousand two hundred nine dollars a square foot!" I concluded, drawing a circle around Apartment 62L and with an arrow moved it straight to the top of my "Top 10" list. I quickly divided Trump's next two most-expensive sales by their square footage, circled those answers, and moved them into second and third place.

"That's it! You've got it!" Trump enthused. "And I was just going to suggest it." The King of the Least for the Most was obviously pleased. "You know. Barbara, it puts Trump Tower exactly where it belongs—unmistakably the Most Expensive Address in the World!"

"And it's also honest," I said. I removed my arm from his shoulder, walked back around to the front of his desk, and offered my hand. "Thank you. Donald." I said. "You're a brilliant man and I really appreciate meeting you."

My new best friend stood up. shook my hand, and said. "You'll send me the revised copy, won't you?

Td be happy to."

"Today?"

"Sure," I said. Til send it over by messenger this afternoon."

As the brass-paneled elevator door shut, I caught the image of me in my new red suit. I put my hands on my hips, looked straight into my eyes, and told my own reflection to:

"Give meaK/... YT I said.

"Give me an E! . . . ET I said.

"Give me an SI... SF I said.

"What does it spell?"

"YES!" I cheered myself, thrusting my fist into the air.

I knew I had made the team.

Two days after the Top 10 Condominium Report was released to the press, Esther walked into my office holding up a copy of the Wall Street Journal. I could read the full-page ad from where I sat:

TRUMP TOWER

TOPS THE LIST

AS THE MOST

EXPENSIVE ADDRESS

IN THE WORLD! *

The asterisk referenced a bolded footnote at the bottom of the page. It had the words I most hoped to see, "Source: The Corcoran Report."

The phone rang and I recognized Donald Trump's voice on the other end. "Hello, Barbara. Have you seen this morning's paper?"

"Yes, I have. I'm looking at it now."

"Well, how do you like it?" he asked with Trump-sized confidence.

"I like it a lot," I said, "but I wish you could have made our name a little bigger."

The following Monday, I opened the New York Times to yet another full-page ad.

ACCORDING TO THE CORCORAN REPORT,

TRUMP TOWER IS THE MOST EXPENSIVE ADDRESS IN THE WORLD!

With equal billing in Trump's advertisement, The Corcoran Group became recognized as a major player in the New York real estate game.

MOM'S LESSON #13: If you want to be a cheerleader, you better know the cheers.

THE LESSON LEARNED ABOUT BEING PREPARED

I've never met a smart person who wasn't overprepared, and after my cheerleading embarrassment, I swore I would never be unprepared again.

Donald Trump became my advocate simply because I was well prepared. If I hadn't put in the time, I couldn't have carried the meeting off with the confidence that I did.

1. Preparation is the birthplace of confidence.

There's just no shortcut to a confident delivery. All good performances are a result of great preparation.

2. Preparation takes time.

Showing up without having done the needed preparation is the equivalent of leaving on a long trip without packing a suitcase. Chances are you'll be cold when you get there.

3. Self-doubt can be your very best friend.

Self-doubt always makes you overprepare. And when you over-prepare, your success is guaranteed.

4. There's no such thing as winging it.

Successful people might appear to be winging it, but they only look that way because they've practiced it a dozen times before.

5. Whoever controls the agenda controls the meeting.

When you prepare the agenda, you're in control of 80 percent of the meeting, because everything you discuss will be in reaction to your ideas. A good agenda includes what your objective is and all the items you need to discuss in order to achieve it.

"/ have no doubt Ms. Corcoran's tips on home buying will help you ..."

It was my first public speech and I had worked on it for three weeks, editing every word and rehearsing its delivery over and over again in my mind. With the Quick and Easy Way to Effective Speaking as my guide, I had typed the first line of each of mv paragraphs in caps on separate index cards. I was ready!

". . . So please join me in welcoming the president of The Corcoran Group, Barbara Corcoran!"

The audience broke into applause. I stood up, raised mv chin to create just the right look of confidence, and made my way behind the two other chairs to center stage. You are a PRO-fessional speaker! a happy little voice in my head whispered, you're a Natural, a real natural! I stepped behind the podium and gracefullv placed my left hand on the edge. I took one serious look down at my notes, looked up at the audience, flashed my best smile, and with a quick wave of my right hand chirped, "Hello, there!"

I had decided to open Cosby-style with a well-rehearsed joke. "Did you hear the one about the banker who was a great lover? 1 began. I leaned into the podium, just as planned, and waited for the audiences reply. Sixteen hundred eyes stared back at me, but not one offered a response. The little voice inside mv head encouraged. Go on, go on, you 're doing fine! But something in my heart made me wonder.

When I realized that the audience was waiting for the punch line, I decided Yd better give them the answer. Oh, my God, my mind shrieked. What is the punch line? I quickly looked down at index card #1. It read, "DID YOU HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE BANKER WHO'S A GREAT LOVER?" That's all. I shuffled the card to the back of my deck and sneaked a peek at card #2. And it read. W IIAT S YOl R BUDGET?" That's all.

I began to panic and the little voice inside my head began to scream. Why didn't you write the answer, stupid! Jus! think! Say

something! Say ANYTHING! No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't remember the punch line. I smoothed down the front of my new red suit, took a big breath, and decided to move on.

When I looked back down at my "WHAT'S YOUR BUDGET?" card, the words had turned blurry. But I knew the rest of this point anyway and started to speak, but nothing came out. I tried to cough and couldn't. I tried again to speak, make a sound, any sound, but I couldn't. I realized that my voice wasn't going to come out, not tonight, not any night, not ever again.

I glanced over to the moderator, and he looked as scared as I felt. So I turned to the audience and opened my mouth as wide as I could. Pointing to the mute hole, I slowly shook my head no. I turned and took what seemed to be a very long walk back to my seat.

The moderator jumped up and rushed to the microphone. "Okay . . . he said, looking bewildered. "Thank you, Barbara! And we'll be hearing more from her later. Next, I'd like to introduce Citibank's leading mortgage specialist . . ."

I spent the rest of the seminar sitting in my chair and numbly staring at the Citibank logo.

I was still burning from public humiliation as I got home and sank into a hot bath. The night's calamity played again and again in my mind; with each rerun I grew smaller and smaller.

Winter. The kitchen table.

We had been sent home that Friday afternoon with our midyear report cards with the Sisters usual instructions to bring them back Monday morning along with our parents signature. We all anxiously waited at the kitchen table as Dad looked over and signed our cards one bv one.

"That's excellent work, Ellen." He beamed, looking down her column of A's and signing "Rock Hudson" at the bottom. Everyone laughed and Ellen leaned over his shoulder to have a better look. "And you did a nice job there, Tommy, but let's turn that B in gym into an A next time." Tommy danced off through the living room with Elliott Ness's signature. Awaiting Mr. Corcoran's signatures had become a quarterly event for the St. Joseph's Sisters at the Holy Rosary School. They always looked forward to the Mondays we brought our signed report cards back.

"Eddie," Dad continued, shifting his voice into low gear, "four F's are two too many! Another three months' garbage duty for you! Now for you, Barbara Ann," Dad said, as he took my report card in his hand and I took a quiet step back toward the refrigerator, "well, at least you're consistent. Straight D's from top to bottom!" All the kids laughed as Dad handed me the report card signed by Pat Boone.

I ran to my room, jumped on my bed, and buried my face in the pillow, feeling ashamed to be so stupid.

"Barbara," Mom said as she sat on the edge of my bed, "don't be so hard on yourself, straight D's aren't that bad. And, besides, Sister Joseph Marie always tells me you're the nicest girl in the whole rlass." I turned my head to look at my mother. "Now," she said, "get yourself up and go stand next to Nana and see how big you are."

Nana was almost four feet eight inches tall, but picked up another two inches as she trotted around the house in her everyday pumps. She was standing next to the sofa and folding towels on the coffee table. Nana's big white pocketbook, the constant companion that scraped the ground as she walked, was looped around her left arm.

"Hi, Nana," I said, "Mom sent me to see how big I am." Nana smiled as she took off her shoes and turned her back against mine.

'Oli, look!" she exclaimed over her shoulder, "you're even bigger than last time!" I gave Nana a hug, she put on her shoes, and I ran out the screen door to go play with my friends.

The morning after my Citibank debacle, I picked up the New York University Continuing Education circular from my desk and called the phone number listed on the back. "I'd like to teach a course," I told the nice woman at the school.

"Oh. on what subject?" she asked sweetly.

"A course on what every real estate salesperson should know," I said, quickly adding, "And I'm more than qualified to teach. I've hired and trained more than fifty salespeople, I have great material, and I'm also an excellent speaker!"

"Well, then, why don't you submit a course outline, and send it to the program office care of Mr. Neil Boffey," she suggested. "If he likes it, he 11 pass it along to the program committee, who may approve it for the summer program."

I smiled and put down the phone.

June 1986. New York University.

My seven students appeared to be a contingent sent over from the United Nations. Just like the rest of New York, they were a smorgasbord of different nationalities and they were all serious about being there. Since most of the seats were empty, I decided there must have been a mix-up in the room number given to the students, and delayed starting the class. I hoped that another dozen or so students would be arriving late to fill the desks.

"Well begin class in about five minutes." I announced, "to give the other students a chance to arrive. But while we wait, why don't we go around the room and introduce ourselves to one another? Please speak up, give us your name first, and then, if you'd like, id I me what you hope to get out of the class over the next ten weeks. I listened and smiled as the students introduced themselves.