Who Hath The Power?

I lived near Washington DC at the time, and my boss in France. We were headed to an important meeting on the West Coast. We decided that my boss, Jean-Louis, and I would meet at Dulles International Airport in Washington DC and that we would continue together to San Francisco from there. Jean-Louis’s flight had been a nightmare. The plane had departed late. The business class seat had a broken audio system and, to top things off, a loud, screaming toddler had rattled the seat back for the entire eight-hour flight. My boss’s stress level was already in the red zone. Not a good way to start a negotiation.

We met up and proceeded to the ticket counter for a well-known but unnamed carrier. Jean-Louis abhorred this airline because he found the service horrible, the personnel rude, and the equipment old. But there we were. Jean-Louis casually flipped his gold status frequent-flyer card on the counter with our passports. The agent behind the counter did not react. He was on his cell phone, obviously discussing something important with his girlfriend. We waited. We waited some more. I could tell that Jean-Louis was getting aggravated. His fingers drummed on the counter. Finally, he leaned over it.

“Excuse me!” he exclaimed. The service representative flipped his cell phone closed (yes, it was that long ago), but his look told me that he did not appreciate the interruption. He checked us in. We had booked first class tickets. Jean-Louis looked at the attendant when he saw his seat assignment.

“I specifically requested a first-row seat!”

“I am sorry, Sir, that is already booked.” The service representative looked annoyed.

“Do you know, how much I fly?” Jean-Louis gasped, his face turning into an explosive, deep red. I intervened.

“Just sit down over there.” I grabbed him by the elbow. “I got this.”

I went back to the counter. I tried for a disarming smile and a dismissive gesture, and started my campaign to get Jean-Louis the seat he wanted. I apologized for my boss. I explained that he had had a horrible flight and that he was really exhausted. I also mentioned how much I liked this airline and that it once even carried my dog on a seat in business class for free. Great service, I added. This was actually a true story. One minute later, I had scored Seat 1A for him.

That done, we went on to the security check. A TSA security officer checked our boarding passes. He motioned to Jean-Louis. “You! Come with me,” he said.

Jean-Luis went through an enhanced security check, something that anywhere else in the world is called a strip search. It took twenty minutes of undressing, having all the hand luggage emptied, the laptop scrutinized, and his shoes scanned for bomb-making material residue several times before he emerged on the other side. He was fuming. What had happened? The kid behind the counter had printed “SSSS” on Jean-Louis’s boarding pass, a sign for the TSA agents to consider my boss a high security risk. Nice! Who, in this case had the power? The guy with the gold level frequent-flyer card and the first-class ticket, or the customer service agent with access to a keyboard? You guessed right! Never underestimate where the power lies.

Who are the best negotiators?

Who are the best negotiators around, you may ask? No, neither you nor me. Children are the best negotiators. Observe them when you have the opportunity. Children have pronounced body language, unspoiled from the pressures of grown-up life. Children also have not yet developed effective defensive strategies, such as hiding dishonesty or putting a facade over their personality preferences. I can confidently say that my sons have taught me a lot over the years. Here is a little story to illustrate:

One winter evening, around 8:00 at night, I was sitting in the living room of our house in rural Virginia. My wife tended to our baby in the kid’s room upstairs. My four-year-old son sat on my lap while I was reading him a story. It was one of Grimm’s fairy tales, and he was mesmerized. “Then the witch died,” I concluded, “and the moral of the story…” My wife called down from the upstairs bedroom.

“It’s eight o’clock,” she shouted. “Fabian has to go to bed.” Before I could make the first move to get up, Fabian grabbed my cheeks with his little hands.

“Papi,” he said, “you are the best Papi in the whole wide world!” He gave me a kiss. “I love you!” My heart was melting. He continued: “Papi, will you read me one more story?” Pressure or partnership? It was a diabolical combination of both. Was my brain fully connected? No. Was this communication from the Free Child? Absolutely! Needless to say, of course I read another story… perhaps two.