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Adam lived back east, in a city full of high-rise apartment buildings, each one chock-full of potential customers.
“I figured I could collect my rejections more efficiently if all the doors I had to knock on were in the same place,” he said. “But all the nice buildings had ‘No Solicitation’ signs. You couldn’t get through the entrances without a resident buzzing you in.”
Adam had a trick up his sleeve. He’d dial up a unit on the top floor, and when they answered, he’d say, “Amazon!”
The door would buzz, the latch would click, and he’d let himself in. Adam would make his way up to that first lucky contestant, who was racking their brain, trying to remember what it was they had ordered.
When the resident’s door opened, without missing a beat, he’d dive straight into his sales pitch. Knives, I believe.
A few moments in, the resident would wave Adam off. “Wait,” they’d say. “I thought you were from Amazon.”
“Amazon? Oh, my goodness. No, I said my name’s Adam Zahn!”
Adam would collect that rejection and make his way through the rest of the building.
Gritty, resilient, clever?
Sneaky, underhanded, dishonest?
Yes.
Adam went in those buildings to collect his rejections, but surprisingly, he never left empty-handed. Every time, he’d close a deal or two.
Customers looked past the initial deceit and made a deal.
I’ve met Adam Zahn. You probably have too. He shows up in sales and advertising, dating and politics. Sometimes he’s charming. Sometimes he’s infuriating. But he’s always there.
Dating Deception
The deception of social media is one thing, but dating apps take it to another level. I’m grateful to have found my wife before apps became the default, but I still hear the stories.
And everyone who’s used a dating app has a story.
The excitement, the butterflies, leading up to the first date. You’re meeting her at a local coffee shop—a hipster spot, not exactly your style, but for this girl, you’re willing to give it a shot.
You enter, absorb an appraising look from the beanie-wearing barista, and scan the cafe for your date. But you can’t find her. You check your watch and double-check the address.
Yep, this is the place.
You open the app and check her picture again but can’t find a match amongst the regulars.
The next thing you know, a shorter, plumper, older version of that profile pic approaches and introduces herself.
You are filled with dread.
“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you… it’s just—you look different than your picture.”
“Oh, do I? I guess that’s an old pic. I changed my hair.”
You sure did.
Adam Zahn strikes again—showing up different than advertised, hoping once he’s through the door, he’s got a chance.
This particular version of Adam Zahn thinks, somewhere deep in the recesses of their mind, that they can appear completely different than advertised and still close the deal. That somehow their charm and personality will override the fundamental breach of trust.
And sometimes they’re right.
Have It Your Way
Adam Zahn sells dinner, too.
My kids love watching TV. But there is a particular part of the TV watching experience that has some novelty for this Netflix generation. It’s something called a commercial.
You see, in a world of commercial-free streaming bliss we’ve afforded them, they want to walk the dark, dank, grimy streets of the advertising business.
Seriously, ask them about a commercial for Skyrizi, Dublin Law Group, and Burger King—they know the commercial, my daughter will sing the jingle, and my son might even have a coupon code.
The boy in particular has a future on Madison Avenue; I have no doubt.
One day he was watching some tube on an empty stomach and asked, “Dad, why do they make food on TV look soooo good?”
“Because if they didn’t,” I proclaim, “nobody would ever try it. Do you remember what those burgers look like at the actual restaurant?”
“A mess.”
“Yep. A mess. And they taste worse.”
“Tipsy Cow is soooo good though. Why don’t they have commercials?”
“Because they’re soooo good. They don’t need them. Why did we decide to go there?”
“Somebody told us it was good, I guess. Plus, they always had a line out the door. And it was across the street from Molly Moon’s Ice Cream.”
“Exactly.”
For some reason, these burger joints think: Let me show America a real humdinger of a burger, and when they come in, we’ll give ‘em a pouch full of slop. They’ll be sure to come back.
False advertising.
Puffery is what we called it in business school. You can claim to be the Best Hamburger In The Galaxy with impunity.
But there’s a penalty, right? Everyone knows you’re full of shit.
David Ogilvy once said of advertisers, “You wouldn’t tell lies to your own wife. Don’t tell them to mine.”
I’d add to that, don’t lie to my kids. But you know what? Adam Zahn does, and strangely enough, we often forgive him.
Badges? We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Badges
Yeah, Adam Zahn is a slippery devil. He’ll jump the turnstile and sneak through the lobby, too. We even advocate for his antics on occasion.
During my time in consulting, every salesperson wanted to be badged. Close enough deals and you’ll be onsite with clients all the time—meeting with stakeholders and making sure projects are running on time.
When you’re there enough, eventually your sponsor gets tired of walking down to the lobby to escort you through security. So they get you a badge. You sign a blood oath that you’ll only use that badge and your trusted access to the building for business purposes.
But I’ll be damned if these salespeople didn’t hear business and think business development.
They head through security on a Friday morning to drop off doughnuts and swag—a cheap excuse to enter the building for business. Of course, their client isn’t in the doughnut-eating business, and neither are they.
Entering under false premises. Sounds like Adam Zahn to me.
But it gets worse. These salespeople walk the halls of Amazon or Starbucks and think I’ve been trying to get in front of Mrs. VP for years. And here’s her office. Why not just knock-knock-knock and introduce myself?
Can you imagine? A Wharton grad with a pile of stock options trading their time for your Krispy Kream?
If the client is particularly trusting, they’ll grant network access, email access, org chart access, along with that badge.
And despite the blood oath, the expectation back at the consulting firm is that you’ll Adam Zahn the shit out of that earned trust, and mine that treasure trove of leads forevermore.
They’ll feel a little bit guilty, but just a little bit. All the firms are doing it, right? It’s just part of the business.
And they’re not wrong. Every firm has their version of Adam Zahn. Some will actively clone him.
Mirror, Mirror
Just trying to close some deals, just trying to get a date, just trying to sell some burgers. No harm, no foul. Somehow, we forgive ourselves, so we expect others to forgive us as well.
Stephen Covey said, “We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their behavior.”
But are those little lies harmless? Exaggerations, embellishments—they must add up to something, right?
Even Adam Zahn would admit, he does it to get his way.
“The Oracle sales force certainly was feared,” Larry Ellison once said, “mainly by me!” He knew that the aggressive “old cowboys” were a liability. No doubt he employed a few Adam Zahns. Over time, he worked to move his salesforce to a consultative, knowledgeable, service-oriented group. “The kind of people you’d want your son or daughter to marry.”
And yet, Adam Zahn keeps showing up.
In real estate, they’ll say it’s “cozy,” but what they mean is it’s tiny. They’ll say the neighborhood is “up and coming,” but they mean it’s sketchy as hell.
We’ve all Adam Zahn’ed our resume. That summer internship becomes extensive experience. Basic PowerPoint skills morph into advanced presentation design, and the unfortunate layoff becomes an introspective sabbatical.
We call it putting our best foot forward. It feels safer that way. Wiggle in, they’ll learn to love the real you…later.
You already know Adam Zahn. You’ve dated him, bought from him, maybe even been him.
The question isn’t whether Adam Zahn exists or how much of him you’ll let in the building—it’s how much of him you can admit lives in you.
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