Concessions

Rami drops by.

“I’m on foot today,” he says, “this is the furthest I’ve walked in weeks.”

He only lives up the road. 

“You need to walk more,” I tell him.

“I put my back out.”

“Fair enough, that’s a good excuse.”

“I’ve got a funeral to go to this week. A family friend.” Rami says that he might deliver a eulogy, he’s not sure. He’s more pre-occupied with the pricing structure for the one-day channeling workshop he’s booked to host here in the summer. “I was thinking of what you said – “

“About expensive workshops not doing well here?”

“Yeah. So I’m setting the price at £60 for the day, £45 concessions.”

“OK. But £45 is still a lot of money, if you’re on benefits. That’s a whole week’s money. It’s either go to your workshop, or eat and pay the bills.”

“In London a day’s workshop will cost £150. Or more.”

“I appreciate that. But for this city, this venue, for the people who come here…I just know from experience that workshops over £60 don’t have much success.” 

“What do you mean by success?”

“The number of people who book.” 

“I don’t measure success that way. Four or five people. That’s my ideal. £45 keeps out the riff-raff.”

Did he really just say that? Yeah, he did.

“But you’re equating money with desire. There might be people who really want to go to your workshop, who simply can’t afford what you’re charging.” 

Rami shrugs. 

I’m just playing devil’s advocate. In my head I’m thinking about a fool and their money being easily parted. I’m thinking that anyone willing to pay the asking price for one of Rami’s workshops will either learn a hard lesson or have the most wonderful time of their life. Or both. It could go any way. Which makes me wonder what would happen if new-age workshop leaders started having to deal with Yelp reviews. ‘We were promised biscuits and enlightenment but received neither. One Star.’ In Rami’s case, I feel sure he would just dismiss the negative reviews as simply coming from people who weren’t yet ready to receive his message. I can’t imagine anything that anyone could say that would make him question the message itself.

No matter how dense it might be. He shows me a draft of a flyer for the forthcoming workshop. I say flyer, it’s like a new-age Decleration of Independence; a double sided A4 Epic of Gilgamesh about where he’s planning to go, cosmically, and what participants can expect, spiritually.

All the while reading it, I’m willing him to ask me “Too much?”

“Yes,” I will tell him. “WAY too much. But it’s brilliant. Don’t change a thing.”

“What if I said ‘concessions available upon enquiry’?” he asks. 

“Sure,” I say, “try that. Who will be eligible?” 

“The unemployed,” he says, “or if they’ve been to one of my workshops before – or if they want to come again. I’ll give them £5 off the next time they book.” 

“I don’t think that’s really in the spirit of what offering a concession means,” I tell him. 

He shrugs again. 

“What do people want?” he asks, rhetorically.