MBA Admissions Essays - The Art of Business :: MBA College Admissions Essays

MBA Admissions Essays - The Art of line of credit   We stroll through a marketplace in Beer-Sheva, inhaling a totality of smells and sounds that feel as though they are part of a distinguishable century. My father and I enter a sm all in all stand. A light woman sits in the corner scanning her livelihood like a hawk monitoring her nest. She promotes her wares not for a quarterly report just now to feed and clothe her family. My father picks up a small woody camel and calls out in our native tongue, How much? Fifty Shekel, she responds. Her reply is automatic. This is what she does all day, every day.   My father eyes her directly. He doesnt flinch. Ill give you ten. He remembers the crippled as if hed been playing it daily since he left his homeland. She opens high and he counters low, each one hoping the other will give in first. I observe, taking mental notes.   She replies with conviction, Its handmade, I cant go lower than forty. We all fare the camel was mad e in a local factory, but he doesnt diverge her. To call her credibility into question at this stage could ruin the transaction.   I only have twenty, fires my dad, as if he had rehearsed his line. I glance at his back pocket bulging with Israeli currency but dont allow on, for shes searching my face for a sign of weakness. Im beginning to see what the feeble is all about.   I cannot sell for less than forty, she retorts. My father squeezes my hand subtly and I latch on to his paw. We slowly start to leave the stall.   So be it, he voices over his shoulder with an air of studied ease. We stretch out out of the cool shadows toward the fascinating frenzy of the exotic streets.   Just as our sandaled feet touch the dirt road and we are about to fall the crowd, we hear a shriek. Wait Give me thirty. My father winks at me, turns nonchalantly, and swaggers toward the woman. I quickly pull thirty Shekel out of my pocket and thrust them into his hand, so the woman wont discover the treasures buried in his pocket. I smile at my quick thinking. My father plays it straight, as if I were supposed to hand him the money.   He works his thick fingers around a five-shekel piece and with a magicians sleight-of-hand, swiftly transfers the coin to his other palm.