The Price Elasticity of Your Word

The first play I wrote that anyone bothered to attend was about a down-and-out high schooler whose false sense of popularity he had wrongly derived from the bullying he suffered at the hands of the A-List. After a fragile to-be-or-not reckoning near the end of his senior year, "sold to nobody for nothing" at what was supposed to be an innocent prom fund-raiser, the boy dropped out of life altogether.

Written about a neighborhood kid who stopped taking his insulin long enough to halt his heart, the story, presented to the entire school, took aim at those same A-Listers whose indifference, cruelty, and fake remorse led the boy—his name was Ben—to a place his mother later told me people might care more about him. As Arthur Miller had done in my then favorite Death of Salesman, my play was not about Willie Loman's Uncle (also named Ben), a visionary character who had "gone off to Alaska," but the next suicide on the train that was high school.

"No matter what you do," my theatre teacher Ray Jones cautioned when first reading the script, "you must not typecast the show. Whoever plays your 'Willie Loman' character must be the epitome of the A-List. Typecast him, and you'll have another Oberamagau on your hands."

(Once each decade in an out-of-the-way Bavarian village, townspeople re-enact a Passion Play in fulfillment of an ancient covenant their ancestors made on deliverance from the Plague.

"You know the villager who plays Judas in that show often takes his life afterward," Mr. Jones once told us.)

Duly cautioned, I not only drew my pre-suicide from among the popular but most of my main characters as well. Days before the premiere, as we rehearsed the play's climax for the first time, I realized I had gone too far in selecting my headliners. All but a happy few of my friends walked off the set.

"I had no idea when I signed up that this show was about suicide," complained the first to bolt. "All my friends expect me to be up here in a comedy like we always do. But here I am driving some poor sod to his death and not a laugh in the script? Not happening, man."

One by one, my all-star cast reneged on their signed contract, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves with less than a week until showtime. (An object lesson for another day: one young cast member who stayed true to her word remains, fifty years on, the love of my life.)

In economics, the price of elasticity of demand, on top of its subtle alliteration, is one of the coolest concepts I learned in business school. Consider the following scenario:

You're running a lemonade stand on a hot June day in Holly Springs, North Carolina. the oldest of you is ten. It might have been earlier this week. As your inventory dwindles, you toy with the idea of doubling your price but worry your customers might balk or grumble at your capitalistic profiteering (nay, 'price gouging') on account of the weather. But it's still hot, and they're still thirsty. What's a few more quarters for my grandkids, re-enacting the Lemonade Stand case under the tutelage of their entrepreneurial mom? The price spikes, but the money keeps on coming.

Price elasticity of demand: Measuring the economic impact of a change in price on the subsequent demand for your product or service.

• If the Price goes up and Demand goes down, the Price is said to be inelastic.
• Price goes down and Demand goes up: also inelastic.
• Price goes up, Demand stays the same, diminishes less than expected, or when selling to certain elements of the A-List never to be caught dead buying on the cheap, goes up: Price elastic.

My dad once told me about a character who, like the citizens of Twain's town of hypocrites before the fall, prided himself on the tensile strength of his integrity.

In the park, one day, Dad began, our character is approached by a stranger who, like Twain's tempter in Haddleyburg, offers him a million dollars to break his word.

"What would I have to lie about about?" asks the victim of what he felt sure was entrapment. "Not something illegal I hope."

"Legal. Illegal. Don't get me started. It's simple really. See that woman over there?" The stranger is pointing to a pretty lady sitting on a rococo bench beneath a Japanese Quince. "What would you say to a million dollars cash right now to walk over there, sit down next to her and introduce yourself as an unmarried man.”

“But I am married.”

”That would make it a lie, then, wouldn’t it? So, what’s your answer?"

"You’re telling me you’ve got a million dollars in that bag right there?" asks the man, pointing at the stranger's feet.

"I only deal in very large numbers," is all the stranger will admit.

"Well," said the Haddleyburger, "seeing as it would only be a ver small lie, to a stranger, I mean..." his voice trails off in thought. "It’s not like I’d be asking her out on a date or anything."

"You're asking the wrong man, Brother. But in any event, do we have a bargain?”.

“We do!” agrees the man. We certainly do! A million dollars for, you know, pretending I’m somebody I’m… well, anyway. Like you said."

"Speaking of bargains," the stranger does not say," have you heard about this highfalutin thing called the price elasticity of demand?"

Instead, a proposition very unlike his original temptation begins to form on and around his lips, may dad went on.

"Tell you what. What if I offered you FIVE million dollars to—how did you put it just then?—'Pretend to be someone you’re not.'?"

“Come again?”asks the man. “Isn’t that what I just—?”

"Suppose you asked her to marry you? Would that be worth five million dollars to you?”

Silence falls. And a cloud passes over the already married man's brow.

"Oh," the man mumbles. "Are you sure about this?"

"Do I look like the sort of fella who would break his word to another fella?", smiles the stranger.

"Well, OK, then. Five million it is. (Gee Willikers!) But it's gotta be cash up front. The whole bag, I imagine. I'm sure my wife would understand—if she ever found out, of course; I mean, she wouldn't need to— since, it would, you know, be a major 'investment' in our marriage, that is..." He has run out of words.

"Of course she would understand," reassures the stranger as he rummages not through the bag but his pants pockets, from which he eventually pulls a wadded-up five-dollar bill.

"What? WHAT? You said a million—FIVE million you said. Right there in that bag! Not five DOLLARS! What is this? What in heaven's name do you take me for, mister?"

"Oh, we've already established that," says the Devil. "We're just quibbling over the particulars."

Scott Knell is a social innovator, indirectionist, and changesayer, fascinated by individuals and institutions in transition. For his take on the nuances of personal and professional transformation, visit Indirections.com.