A Bullish Deal

"That’s why I truly believe our way of growing crops is cheaper and more efficient than the standard practice that most large companies - including yourself - follow. We’re able to yield more harvest while using less water and- um..."

The young, clean-cut man, fresh out of business school, is distracted by the husky, rugged man in a suit, who has not yet even given him a glance in his direction, finicking with a small, golden figurine of a bull. With his chubby fingers, he turns the bull in various angles before finally picking it up. Kicking his feet up on the desk, he reclines back in his leather chair as it squeaks under his tremendous weight. His eyes are fixed on the bull figure that he flips from front to back.

The young man clears his throat.

"Go on, I'm listening," the older man, with no inclination to look at his guest, says in a bored and burly voice.

"Well, uh," the young man stutters, now perspiring from above his brow. He wipes it off and finds a more confident tone to continue his spiel. "We’re able to yield more harvest - bigger sizes - while using less water. We can reduce your energy bill significantly, saving you money on your overhead while increasing your profit ten fold."

The business mogul looks up at him with just his eyes, his porky chin still tucked into his chest.

“Ten fold, you say?” He asks with intrigue and a raise of his eyebrow.

"Indeed, Mr. Ingram," says the spry, young man.

"Gregory, right?" he asks impatiently - his quick shift in tone runs a chill down the boy’s well-postured spine.

“Yes, sir, but I prefer Greg-”

“Give me the number again, Gregory.”

“Ten million dollars,” Greg says, forcing an assertive voice as he spits out the words through his dry mouth.

Mr. Ingram, dumbfounded and insulted, clarifies. “For twenty-five percent equity?”

“Correct, sir,” he holds his hands together to the front of him, covering the silver buckle of his reversible belt, standing firm in his offer despite his wobbly knees.

“Give me the time frame for the project.”

“In five months, we’ll have our renovations done and you’ll be back in operation, Mr. Ingram.”

Mr. Ingram ponders this for a moment - he turns the bull horizontal in both hands, rolling it around with the tips of his fingers as if it were attached to the gears running in his brain.

"Do you know what this is?" Mr. Ingram asks, holding the golden piece up between them. The bull’s eyes now locked onto Greg - unlike Ingram’s.

"It's - uh - it's a figure?"

"Well, yeah,” Ingram says, his tone now more condescending than ever. “But more importantly, it's a bull."

"Right," Greg blushes.

Mr. Ingram turns the figure around, still holding it up in the same spot. He wiggles it a bit.

"Do you know what this is?"

"It's a bull's behind," Greg replies coyly. His shoulders droop, releasing his good posture.

"Exactly. And do you know what comes out of a bull's behind?" Now looking him directly in the eyes.

"Uh, feces, sir."

"Well, feces comes out of all of our behinds. Yours, mines, your mother's, your dog's,” he waves the bull around with every word he lists. “What specifically comes out of a bull's behind?" Ingram removes his feet from the desk and leans in, holding himself up with his elbows.

Greg gulps, his sweat now dripping profusely down his forehead. "Um. Bullshit?"

"Bullshit!" Ingram exclaims, slapping his hand on the mahogany counter. "That's what I think: Bullshit."

"I'm sorry?" Greg asks, his shaky voice twinges in a high pitch.

Ingram lifts himself out of his chair with an exaggerated grunt. He buttons up only the top button of his blazer before motioning to Greg to meet him at the window. Greg obliges, approaching Ingram who is now peering, with an endearing look, out the window with his hands behind his back. The two men stand at the window which overlooks a large, neighboring farm - a few tractors are scattered about, working tirelessly to plow and lay new soil for the field.

"What does that look like to you?" Mr. Ingram asks, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"That’s your farm!" Greg says excitedly, hoping this would be the chance to lay out the schematics for his project. He looks at the papers sitting on the tycoon’s desk, restraining himself from lunging at them and jumping back into his rehearsed pitch.

"Indeed,” he gives a short laugh. As if delighted by Greg’s tone, he flashes a small, humble smile accompanied by a long, modest blink. “That’s my farm. And do you know what they're putting on my farm?"

"It... looks like soil, sir?"

Mr. Ingram, with his eyes closed in disapproval, shakes his head. He unlatches the window and cracks it open, letting in a cool breeze and a foul smell. Unfazed, Ingram looks over his shoulder to Greg scrunching his face.

"Any other guesses?"

Greg plugs his nose and in a nasally voice responds, "It's manure, sir."

Ingram takes a long, deep breath in through his furry nostrils. "You're damn right it is. A booming business. Do you know where manure comes from?"

"Cows, sir.’

"And what's the male version of a cow, Gregory?"

"A bull," Greg sighs, aware of the turn this is taking.

Mr. Ingram gives a quick nod, gesturing out the window again. "You see what those tractors are dumping on my field?”

"Yes, sir," Greg loosens his tie a bit and stretches out his shirt collar.

"What does that look like to you?"

"Um. Common agricultural practice?" He responds, trying not to fall for the bait.

"Maybe to you," Ingram says in his lowest octave, stepping closer to the window with his unrelenting gaze at the farm. "But it looks like a lot of bullshit to me."

​​Greg rolls his eyes. Embarrassed, he quickly grabs his folders from the desk and starts to shove them haphazardly in his briefcase with shaky hands. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ingram," he says with flared nostrils. Just as he is about to bolt out the door, he's stopped by Ingram.

"Gregory," Ingram barks. "A bit of advice."

Greg stops, takes a deep breath, and turns around. Still sweating and red in the face he asks through gritted teeth, "Yes, Mr. Ingram?"

"Never give up on the deal until it’s a hard ‘no.’"

“With all due respect, sir, you don’t seem to be interested in my company’s plan.”

“Well, you haven’t shown me any blueprints! Pull ‘em out, let’s take a look,” Ingram says, calling him back with repetitive waves of his hand.

Greg relents, dragging himself back into the center of the office where Ingram stood. He removes a crumpled up sheet of blue paper from his bag, riddled with drawings and notes written in white ink. After ironing out the wrinkles with his hands, he holds it out between the two of them. They lean in simultaneously.

“This is where the reservoir for rainwater would go,” Greg points to a crude circular marking on the paper.

“Twenty-thousand square-feet, huh?”

“That’s correct - it’ll be connected to your drip irrigation system, giving you your own source of natural water. You will, however, need to purchase two more acres of land.”

After some hemming and hawing, Ingram takes the paper out of Greg’s hands and examines it some more. He paces around, back and forth in a short line, stroking his beard with one hand and holding up the blueprint with the other. This continues for another five minutes as Greg feels a mixture of excitement and dread, eager to know what the seasoned businessman is thinking.

Mr. Ingram, done deliberating, stops in front of Greg and hands the plan back to him.

“Brilliant,” he tells the awestruck Greg. “Just brilliant. You should’ve opened with this.”

Greg, relieved and yet still nervous, gives a dry laugh.

“Look at that door over there, Gregory.” Mr. Ingram continues, pointing to a wooden double-door at the wall parallel to them. “That’s where I keep my favorite ideas - ones that really stuck with me. I call it the ‘Hall of Fame.’ That’s where this one belongs.”

Greg, his mouth agape, is taken aback by Mr. Ingram’s sudden change of heart.

“Come! Follow me,” Ingram wraps his arm around the speechless Greg’s shoulder and guides him across the office to the doors - both of them wearing a look of pride on their faces.

Once they reach the doors, the two men stop and Ingram turns Greg to him, holding both of his shoulders and giving him a quick massage. "This is your big day, kid. Open it," he says with a smile.

Greg, hesitant at first, looks from Ingram to the closet before grasping the door handles. He swings both doors open to reveal an almost empty, small white room, aside from the washer and dryer at the far end of it. With a light touch of his back, Ingram escorts Greg to the machines.

Confused, Greg squints his eyes at Mr. Ingram.

"Do you know what that is?" He asks Greg.

"Your laundry room?"

"Nonsense," Ingram laughs, gently nudging Greg's shoulder. "Look inside."

Greg lifts the lid of the washer to see various pieces of crumpled up documents. Blueprints, financial statements, reports, and even a torn up picture of Mr. Ingram with an unidentified woman, all mixed together along with dozens of the golden bull figurines and a considerable amount of manure. He kneels down to open the dryer to reveal the same. Still perplexed, he looks up to see Mr. Ingram hovering over him - wide-eyed and grinning from ear to ear.

"That's a load of bullshit!" he exclaims.

With a grunt, Greg storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Mr. Ingram calmly closes the washer and dryer and shuts the closet door behind him. He waddles over to his chair and presses a little red button on the intercom on his desk. It buzzes.

"Yes, Mr. Ingram?" His secretary asks.

Ingram replaces the golden bull figurine on his desk in its original position.

"Send in the next one."