The Napkin and the Envelope — by Dan Lynn

By Dan Lynn

In the late 1990s, ADP was recruiting me away from AT&T. The courtship started with a dinner with Brad Smith — yes, that Brad Smith, who would go on to become the CEO of Intuit. It took me about ten minutes to see what the rest of the business world would eventually figure out: Brad was the most dynamic business person I had ever met. And at the end of the dinner, he did something I'll never forget. He took a napkin, wrote a few things on it, folded it, and slid it across the table. Very dramatic.

I opened it. There was a title and a salary.

It was a good title and a good salary — nothing incredible. But the whole package was incredible: the offer, plus this remarkable guy I'd be working for, plus the job was in ADP's small business division. And I wanted to be around small businesses, because someday I wanted to have one of my own.

So I went back to AT&T — where I'd had ten great years — and told my boss I was considering leaving. At a follow-up meeting, she reached into a folder, slid an envelope across the table, and said, "You're going to want to see this before you decide."

I picked up the envelope. And then, slowly, I slid it back to her — unopened — and said: "Thank you so much for the offer. But sometimes pursuing your dreams is more important than anything else."

I still can't believe I did that. It makes me laugh now — how corny and idealistic I was. Who slides back an unopened envelope? Who says that? At least open the damn envelope, right?

But here's the thing I understood, even if I couldn't have articulated it then: I didn't return the envelope because I knew the number was too low. I returned it because the number was beside the point. The napkin wasn't winning on salary — it was winning on direction. It pointed toward the life I wanted. And if I had opened that envelope, I would have turned a decision about my dreams into a negotiation about my price.

Some decisions should never become auctions.

Nearly thirty years later, I still don't know what was in that envelope — and I've never once wished I did.