Remembering—and Learning From—’the One That Got Away’

Whenever fund raisers gather around the bar, they resemble fishermen. The conversation will soon turn to “the one that got away.”

My most-frustrating near miss was caused by a callous donor who for more than two weeks made me feel certain that he would make a big gift.

He planned to donate a 1977 Mercedes-Benz two-seater, painted glowing eggplant purple, with black leather seats, a tan canvas top, wire wheels, and an engine peppy enough to have launched a 747.

It was the sort of car that declines in value for its first five years of life, like most, but then reverses the process and keeps on reversing it. On the day I first saw it, the Mercedes was 28 years old. It hadn’t been driven in five years. It was covered with dust and pockmarked with rust. It probably needed all kinds of work under the hood.

Yet it was still worth about $25,000, possibly more.

The owner called me on a cold December night. He had been steered my way by the doctor who had just saved his life. I was the chief development officer at a major urban hospital at the time. The caller said he wanted to make a gift in honor of his successful heart surgery. It was the sort of windfall that fund raisers treasure — and which we get all too seldom.

I congratulated the man on his good medical fortune (he said he was doing excellently). He thanked me and said a big gift was the least he could do. He told me about the car. I served up many, many adjectives about how generous he was. We arranged for me to visit him the next day.

The man certainly didn’t strike me as a four-flusher. He was a retired college professor, and he looked the part. Checked woolen sports shirt. Khakis. Thick black glasses. Slow, measured way of speaking. I remember thinking, after sitting in his living room for three minutes, that this one was in the bag.

His wife poured us tea. We laughed about how the Mercedes didn’t fit his image. The man smiled and said it had been his midlife-crisis present to himself. He wasn’t a rich man, he said over and over, but the car was worth a lot, he was sure. Could I arrange to have it appraised?

I could and I did. The appraiser’s name was Herbie. He was the friend of a friend of a friend. Herbie and I never met, but on the phone, I could tell that Herbie was a professional who knew exactly what vintage cars were worth and was very impressed by the Mercedes.

“Twenty-five, easy,” said Herbie. “I’d put it right at 25 large. Maybe a little more if he got some of the rust off the hubcaps.”

“That’s OK, Herbie,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “We’d be glad to take $25,000 for it.”

Glad? We’d be ecstatic. Not only was the dollar amount hefty, but the donor wanted the money to go to any purpose we deemed most deserving. At hospitals, those are the toughest dollars to raise. As we neared the end of a so-so fund-raising year, that was especially important.

Herbie assured me that he’d be glad to be the middleman on the sale and would waive his commission in light of the charitable destination of the proceeds.

Isn’t the world great sometimes? I thanked him profusely. He said don’t mention it. I went back to the man’s house to tell him the news personally. He seemed as excited as I was.

Three days later, I was back again, with forms for the man to sign. More tea, more sincerity about wanting to make the gift. I conveyed Herbie’s message about the need to de-rust the hubcaps. The donor said he’d take care of it promptly.

Time to pull the drawstrings tighter. On Monday I asked when I could pick up the car and collect the signed title.

“Wednesday,” said the man.

On Tuesday morning, the man called. He had been thinking. By investing just a few hundred dollars in the car, it could again be the wind-in-the-hair-youth-affirming experience he had always wanted it to be.

Sorry, Mr. Levey, but he wouldn’t be donating the car after all. He’d be keeping it.

I reviewed the bidding. This man had used me to get the car appraised. He had used me to discover what the car needed in the way of touch-ups and repairs. He had not bailed out early in the process, but at nearly the last minute.

Perhaps worst of all, he didn’t utter a peep about making a cash donation to cover all or part of the $25,000 he had just taken off the table. He just said he was sorry.

I thanked him, wished him a Merry Christmas, and hung up carefully. Then I picked up my Nerf basketball and flung it against the far wall as hard as I could.

I took a deep breath and thought more about it.

Was it all a ruse? I don’t think the man was cynical enough to have thought that up. He could always have arranged an appraisal himself. He could have made up his mind to keep the car without potentially embarrassing the doctor who had saved his life. I think he simply changed his mind.

Yet fund raisers all have to face this kind of struggle. We act as friendly and as trusting as possible because we know that a Mercedes might be just the first of many gifts. But in the process of being friendly, we leave the donors plenty of wiggle room. Some take advantage.

I’d be lying if I didn’t report that the Nerf ball got flung several times over the next few days.

When I told the man’s surgeon the story, he thought it was funny. When I told the president of the hospital the story, he didn’t.

Couldn’t I prod the man into making a cash gift out of guilt, the president wondered? I agreed to try.

It was a very short phone call. “As I told you, Mr. Levey, I’m not a rich man,” said Mr. Mercedes. “Thank you very much for calling.”

Thank you, too, sir, for opening my eyes.

Bob Levey teaches journalism at the University of Memphis. He spent 36 years as a columnist and reporter at The Washington Post. He has also been a senior development executive and a longtime volunteer fund raiser for colleges, arts groups, and health-care institutions.