ALL CHAPTERS
Chapter Seven
On the Road Again: The Traveling Consultant
“Well, my dad is kind of like a migrant worker.”
- Coby Frampton’s six year old son
This chapter begins where most consultants often begin their week—pondering how much time they’re going to spend on the road before they can return home. There’s a lot to ponder, too. One consultant tells us he figures over the course of his career he’s slept a total of 12 years in hotels. Another has accumulated enough miles to circle the globe a few times over, or fly to the moon and back a couple of times. That’s the world of the modern consultant, a never-ending story of life on the road.
Here we offer you a glimpse into that life. It’s about days that begin at airports and end in strange cities in different time zones and unfamiliar hotel rooms. It’s about the quirkiness of small towns and locals who like to put cream on every pie in their municipality. Or airline flights where pilot, baggage handler, security guard, and flight attendant are one and the same person. It’s about surviving earthquakes and cabdrivers who don’t know if Delaware is on the way to Philadelphia and— being a consultant used to solving problems—thinking you can drive through the worst snowstorm in recent history.
In this chapter we learn about the tedium and the tension and the moments when you get a little past sanity on your way to somewhere. But we also learn about the exhilaration and the great variety of experiences and people you can encounter along the way. Mostly, perhaps, we come to appreciate the consultant’s motto to at all cost, “just keep moving.”
As our mostly veteran contributors reveal making it all work and staying sane requires discipline. Here we discover the variety of rules, tips, and practices consultants develop to help them survive life on the road. Consultants often become masters of the perks and upgrades and hotel deals and frequent flyer miles and every possible advantage they can finagle to make life on the road more pleasant. That may be no small matter, either, in these days increasing flight delays, more seats and shorter leg room on planes, and heightened security measures. Not to mention just the sheer increase in numbers of air travelers.
If travel is the bane of our existence, it is also the source of much of the flavor and allure of our business. Yes, it’s a bizarre life. But it’s also an interesting life.
I’m Sorry Sir, But He’s Out of Town This Week (And Next)
Close To 10 Million Miles
I don't know for sure how many miles I’ve flown. It must be over three million miles on American, two million on United, and I've got gold cards on five or six other airlines. I can tell you our vacations have all been on free mileage. I have six kids and the five oldest all flew back and forth to college at least a couple times a semester for free. In fact, not only do my kids come to me for free tickets, but they’ll ask me if I’ve got tickets for their friends, too. I imagine I’ve probably had hundreds of free tickets, and accumulated close to 10 million miles over the last 15 years.
“12 Years in a Hotel”
I was in the consulting business from 1969 through 1998, some 29 years. I worked in nearly 30 different states and probably 10 foreign countries. I figure I made at least one round trip per week or 50 per year. Over 29 years, this adds up to at least 1,500 or more round trips out of and back into O’Hare Airport. In total, I’ve flown over three million actual air miles.
Think about it this way. I spent an average of three nights per week away from home. Over 29 years, this works out to 4,500 nights, or over 12 complete years sleeping in a hotel. If you divide the three million miles by an average air speed of 500 mph, I spent some 6,000 hours in the air. This is the equivalent of 250 complete 24 hour days or three years of the average person’s work week. This doesn’t even include the time spent going to and from the airport, standing in ticket and security lines, and waiting in a cue for take off which would easily double the totals.
And you know what? I wouldn’t have missed any of it.
The ‘Migrant Worker’
When my son was six-years-old, his teacher kept him in from recess one day because she thought he was having problems. It seemed that every time the teacher discussed something in class that dealt with any kind of manufacturing industry or product, my son would say, “My dad does that.” If the teacher later brought up another industry or product, my son would say, “My dad does that, too.”
Well, finally the teacher had had enough of this. She kept him after recess for a little talk. “Now, Brandon, I know you’re proud of what your father does,” she said. But you can’t keep telling these stories. He can’t possibly be doing all these things I talk about in class. Now, tell me, what does he really do?”
You have to picture this six-year-old sitting there. He thought for a minute and then he said, “Well, he’s kind of like a migrant worker.” Actually, that’s what I would tell him, I was like a migrant worker. And that’s really how it looked to him. I was always traveling, working at one place or another, bringing souvenirs home. In fact, if I was expected home, it became kind of a ritual in our family for the kids to stay up to see what I’d manage to bring back. Of course, they’d be disappointed with certain clients, like the one who made surgical instruments. Then it would be, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
And Bring Your Seat to the Upright Position
As I was completing an 18-month project that required commuting weekly from Chicago to Houston, my wife and I went to a movie. Upon sitting down in the theater, with its cushioned seat and the blank screen up front, I instinctively reached for the seat belt.
Not surprisingly, at the end of that same 18-month project in Houston, the airline and hotel staff all knew me by name. But I was definitely surprised when, as my wife and I were en route to a client party at the project’s conclusion, the Avis shuttle driver called to me by my first name as I got on the bus.
Surviving the First Months
The first three months are probably the worst. There is definitely a lot of adjustment. But very few of our consultants have quit because of the travel. We find it takes about 18 months before they either can’t stand the travel or they’re fine with it and they’re going to stay. If they can get past those first 18 months, they’ll usually stay with it for a very long time, maybe until they retire. Last year two people left because of the travel. They’d been on the road roughly two years.
The Occasional Close Call
Neither Sleet Nor Rain Nor Dead Geese Shall Keep You From Your Appointed Rounds
My plane hit a goose taking off from LaGuardia going to Dulles. We had to get to the airport during rush hour so we had left a little early. Well, we got there in plenty of time and ended up taking an early flight. Then the plane hits the goose, we go off the runway, and they abort the flight. Fortunately, we had not been wheels up or we probably would be dead. In the end we ended up on the flight we were originally scheduled on.
When the Pilot Has a Hot Date
I recall flying in from an interview in Cleveland to Newark one night and visibility was very bad. I remember it so clearly because unfortunately that was the night a plane went down on Long Island and crashed. It was in a holding pattern and ran out of fuel. That same night I was on a plane in a holding pattern. It was a scary experience because we were circling for quite some time. In fact, the lady next to me was white as a ghost. I really thought she was going to get sick. I remember using any kind of humor I could to keep her mind off of things. If you think I was being kind, I also didn’t want her to throw up on me, so there was something in it for me.
Actually, there was so much turbulence I was terrified. It was like being stuck on an amusement park ride for an hour. You just felt like there was no floor. As the plane was coming down for its final descent, the engines slowed down, and then all of a sudden just cranked up and we shot straight shot up. I don’t know how the pilot could see anything. There was just no visibility. The pilot then came on informing us that we had just run out of runway. We had shot too far over. The tower was now reporting visibility below the legal limit. We were going to be on an indefinite hold until we either got reassigned or got another crack at landing. Or maybe ran out of fuel.
I had the uneasy feeling that maybe the pilot had a hot date in Newark that night. I mean, how could it be clear to land one minute and not the next? I’m sure the visibility was not at the level where it should have been on the first approach. Obviously, he couldn’t see the runway. This was not a good feeling.
Eventually we ended up being diverted to Syracuse. After landing I overheard the pilot remark to one of the flight attendants about “the close call we had back there.” I think we had the option later that night to try to fly back, but I decided to stay overnight. The last thing my wife had heard was that I was going into Newark from Cleveland. Then she heard that a flight went down but she didn’t know where. So she was pretty uptight until I called her and told her where I was.
And where I intended to stay until things improved.
Trains, Planes, and Earthquakes
Remember the Steve Martin and John Candy film, “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles?” I think we’ve all been there. You’re trying to get home to see the family for the weekend and its one calamity after another. All of us have to get very adept at sleeping in airports, enduring canceled flights, snowstorms and being stuck at O’Hare when the electricity goes out because of a thunderstorm. There’s no way around it. Travel is the bane of our existence.
Most of my experience has not been too exciting. But I did go through an earthquake while working on a project in Los Angeles. This was back in the ‘70s. It was the middle of the night and I was sound asleep. I remember waking up, feeling very disoriented. I could hear splashing water in the toilet and said to myself, why is the water sloshing back and forth? I wasn’t sure what was going on. All of a sudden it felt like someone just lifted the building up and dropped it. You can bet that woke me up! My mind was suddenly very clear, and there was one word on it—Earthquake! I thought, what am I supposed to do? Okay, I know, I’ll go stand in the doorway. So I ran over and stood in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom. But then I thought, wait a second, I’m on the 35th floor. If the building collapses, standing in this doorway is going to do me absolutely no good whatsoever. So, instead, I just went back to bed as the aftershocks rolled through. Somehow I survived.
Always Prepared
Less than a year after going through an earthquake in Mexico, I found myself in Los Angeles in a hotel. I had just finished with some nice room service and was sitting down having that last cup of coffee before my meeting when all of a sudden I looked out the window and the water was coming out of the hotel swimming pool. Then my coffee cup started shaking and the toilet fell off the wall. It was one of those toilets that was hung on the wall, rather than on the floor.
Later that year I was in Washington D.C., to pitch a client the next day. I was there the evening before and was planning to get some sleep before the meeting the next morning. The client had brought in some people from out of town, who were also staying at the same hotel. It must have been about one o'clock in the morning when there was this terrible knocking on my door. Someone was yelling, the hotel's on fire, you’ve got to get out. Being a heavy sleeper I started debating with the guy about whether I had to leave or not. He convinced me I should leave. I got downstairs where I found the rest of my team. We ended up having the meeting we were going to have right in the lobby. In the end, I think it helped us win the job. You could say we had two chances at orals, so to speak.
Of course, now I always keep at least one change of clothes right there ready to jump into. That way if I have to evacuate, at least I can do so looking crisp.
Consultant’s Motto---Always Keep Moving
Stupid is as Stupid Does
My favorite story concerns the giant snowfall in 1967. Three of us were returning from a project with the Tennessee Valley Authority. Our plane had just landed in Indianapolis where we learned we couldn’t go any further because O’Hare was snowed in. I was with two other consultants, Ev and Jack, and I remember saying to them, “Look, a lot of wimpy people are going to stay here in Indianapolis. But if you really want to get to Chicago, believe me, I’ll show you how to get there. We’re not stupid. We can do it. There’s no such thing as a snowstorm you can’t drive through.”
My plan was to avoid driving up Highway 41 through Indiana. Instead, we would drive straight west from Indianapolis out to Route 66, which was then the main highway going southwest. Then we’d come in from the southwest and dodge all the snow. I managed to convince my partners that this would work, and we walked over to the Hertz counter. Ev was going to rent the car.
“We’re going to Chicago and I want to rent a car,” Ev told the Hertz agent. “Sorry sir,” the agent told him, “we can’t rent any autos to Chicago. There’s too much snow.” “Wait a minute,” Ev said, “You don’t know who I am. I’m a Vice President of Cresap McCormick & Paget. I rent cars every week. I demand a car!” The agent held her ground. “Sorry, sir, but my orders are not to give out any cars to anybody.”
Ev demanded to speak to her supervisor, to and he read him the riot act. Finally, they gave us a car, a map, and we were on our way. Now, this was a Thursday, about 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening. The snow was still piling up in Chicago, eventually some 28 inches. I remember Jack kept saying, “Why do we have to do this? Can’t we just stay in a hotel here in Indianapolis and wait until the snow stops?” And I kept telling him, “Jack, listen, there’s no such thing as a snow you can’t drive through. We’ll just go out to Route 66 and up into Chicago. Don’t worry.”
So we started driving west. It was pitch black and snowing like crazy. You can’t imagine how much it was snowing. The road was like glass; it was so icy. We were only about two miles out of Indianapolis when we came to a bridge over a river. There was a truck on the bridge that had gone through the guardrail It was just hanging over the side. This got Jack going again. “Can’t we just turn around? Why do we have to do this?” “Jack, just shut up,” I said, “We know what we’re doing.”
We finally got on a two-lane state road going west where we found ourselves behind a big truck. Ev was driving so I told him to stay behind the truck. We could keep our distance and just let the truck plow us through. By then the snow was really starting to get deep. We were already talking a foot on the highway. Shortly after we crossed into Illinois, the truck suddenly stopped, right on the road. So we stopped, too. We were maybe 20 feet behind the truck. It was about 8:00 in the evening and the snow was just coming down harder and harder. We could barely see a thing. I was thinking this truck driver was obviously a wimp. I was also wondering how we’re going to get around him. Of course, we didn’t really know what was going on. For all we knew, the truck was stuck behind someone, too.
I was designated to go out and see what was happening. I opened the door and the darned wind almost pulled the door off the car. I couldn’t see a thing! No houses, no farms, nothing except this truck with its taillights. I climbed through snow that must have been two feet deep, wearing only a suit and topcoat, no muffler, no hat, no gloves. I got up to the truck and pounded on the window. This guy was just sitting there, staring out the window. He rolled the window down.
“What’s up?” I asked him. “I can’t go any further,” he said. “It’s just too deep.” “You know, we’re stuck behind you in our car.” “Well, you can come on up here,” he said. “I’ve got diesel fuel. I’ve got a lot of fuel—100 gallons. Hop in. I’ll just lie in the back on the shelf. By the way,” he added as if I needed reassuring, “don’t worry, you can’t get carbon monoxide poisoning from a diesel truck.”
So I went back to the car and pounded on our window. “Okay, it’s to the truck, boys. Let’s go” and the three of us piled into the truck. The driver had a flare wedged between the dashboard and the gas pedal to keep it going a little more than idle. He climbed on the back shelf while Ev took the driver’s seat. I was in the passenger seat and Jack was sitting on the floor in front of me. It was about 9:00 p.m. by then.
And there we sat, all night. All I did was stare out the window. You couldn’t see a damn thing. It was nothing but blinding, blinding snow. Ev was the only one who seemed to sleep. The snow just kept coming down, blowing across these farm fields, never slowing down. Eventually it piled up to the cab roof. All this time there was nothing to eat; nothing to drink. The truck driver said he was going to Colorado and had a truck full of beer, but he couldn’t touch it because it was all sealed and chained. Meanwhile, he was snacking back there on whatever he was going to eat in the first place. I guess we could have gone out and got some snow to munch on or some icicles. But we just stayed inside.
We stayed in that truck until about noon the next day. Of course, what was on everybody’s mind through all this was my by now famous line: “There’s no such thing as snowstrom you can’t drive through.” I had become highly quotable. It was Friday around noon before it finally began to clear up and the sun came out. Only then could we see where we were. There was a farmhouse just 300 or 400 feet off the road. And shortly after, this farmer came out with his giant tractor. It was one of these tractors with wheels about five feet high. He drove over and offered to take us into town.
Apparently, the farmer had known all along we were out there. He’d been keeping us under surveillance, he said, waiting for the snow to stop. By now the snow was probably up to our waists. The car was absolutely buried in snow. Luckily, it wasn’t an ice storm so the car wasn’t welded to the ground. The farmer put a chain on the front bumper of this brand new car and just dragged us around sideways like we were a sled. He pulled us all the way into this town called Leroy. It was near Rantoul somewhere. Mostly, it was just nowhere. There was a narrow path down the middle of Main Street and that’s where he dropped us off. We thanked him and offered him some money, but he said no.
So there we were in Leroy. There was a saloon nearby so that’s where we went. Obviously, we were very hungry. I ordered a double shot of scotch and a dried beef jerky thing hanging from the bar. Then it was back to the car and on our way to Route 66. Somehow we made it to Route 66. It was just a mess. Cars were in the ditches. The road was thick ice. We had to drive about five or ten miles an hour. When we got near Pontiac or Chenoa or one of those towns, we heard a report on the local radio that if your electricity was still off, you could go to this school; they were offering food there, chili and hot dogs.
We had just made a turn in that direction and were driving through this town when we happened to notice this fellow coming out of the driveway of a motel. Instead, we made a quick turn into the motel. The guy had just checked out and we grabbed the room. The three of us entered that room and all just collapsed on this one double bed. We were lying sideways on the bed and immediately we all fell asleep. We stayed like that until the next morning.
The next day we got back on the road and made it to downtown Chicago. When we got near the Rock Island Station I dropped off Ev and Jack and then returned the car to Hertz. Of course, the car was all banged up. The Hertz guy was looking at the car, and I figured I’d better start talking, so I started going on about how those people in Indianapolis should have told us there was snow up here in Chicago. How I couldn’t imagine why they had rented us this car. Why anyone would even think of letting us take this car out in this kind of weather! How of course we got stuck and had to get towed.
The Hertz representative listened to all this. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “We’re awfully sorry, blah, blah.” And that was that. I turned in the car, jumped on the train and got home about noon. My wife was out shoveling snow. Everybody was out shoveling snow, all the kids and neighbors. Naturally, throughout all this we couldn’t call home. All the lines had been down. So for a couple of days no one knew where the heck I was.
Obviously, it was sheer stupidity that we got caught in this, even though we said we’re not stupid. But stupid is as stupid does.
Anything To Get Out Of Toledo
All consultants will identify with this. You’re in a small town where there are very few flights out. If you miss the last plane, you either stay over or start driving to the next big town. We had a large client in Toledo we were visiting on one occasion. As usual the meetings ran late and we were speeding out I-90 to the airport for the last plane. We ran right by the exit for the airport and were headed west toward Fort Wayne. So I said to my partner who was staying behind at the client site, “Do a U turn across the median and go back to the eastbound exit.”
It was a toll road and he said, “I can’t, I have a ticket showing me heading west.”
I said, “Throw the damn ticket away. We’ll tell them we inadvertently left it in a road side restaurant on the way over here.”
“Gosh, that will cost us seven dollars.” he said. He was always tight with money.
I had to agree to pay the seven dollars and the cost of a ticket if the police caught us doing the U turn. Well, we finally we made it to the airport, and on time for the plane home.
Is Delaware on the Way to Philadelphia?
I was flying out of O'Hare in the winter of ’95 with a colleague who lived in the Philadelphia area. We thought let's just get to the east coast. Part of the travel game is that you just try and get as close to your destination as possible.
So, we had to catch a 6:00 p.m. flight to Philadelphia. But, the 6:00 p.m. flight became a 7:00 p.m. flight, then a 9:00 p.m. flight, and then I think we ended up leaving around midnight, on a flight to Newark, which was as close as we could get. We figured we could rent a car or catch a taxi from Newark, which is about an hour and a half from Philadelphia.
By the time we got to Newark, there were no rental cars and no taxis to take us to Philadelphia, only a bunch of these guys who stand around saying, “Need a ride, need a ride.” We asked this one fellow how much it would cost to take us to Philadelphia. He said, 300 bucks! We negotiated him down to $220 and climbed in his car. But you have to picture this. We're in something like a '72 Ford Thunderbird. It’s an old, beat-up car and the driver has this one long front seat that’s pushed all the way back, which gave us about 12 inches of leg room in the back.
The guy wasn’t leaving Newark until we paid him, either, so we ended up driving around Newark for half an hour looking for a cash machine. Finally, we got our money and paid him and we were off. Or so we thought. Then the guy told us he didn’t know how to get to Philadelphia. You know, there is actually only one highway between Newark and Philadelphia. You can't miss it. You get on the highway and you don't stop until you get to Philadelphia. It’s not that hard. It wasn’t a good sign.
I was tired and just wanted to sleep, so I told my colleague, you deal with this guy. So the two of them chatted while I pretended to sleep. After a while I guess we both dozed off. The next thing we knew, the driver was asking us if Delaware is on the way to Philadelphia? You can be sure that woke us up! This guy had overshot Pennsylvania and we were now an hour past Philadelphia. We were on our way to Washington, D.C., two and a half hours into what should have been an hour and a half drive. And we were still an hour-and-a-half from Philadelphia! It was a long night.
You Can’t Get There From Here
The problems you can’t anticipate are the client-driven, short-term schedule changes. This story is a winter adventure. I was in Seattle trying to get to Los Angeles. It turned out I had to come back to visit a client in New York, so I flew from Seattle back to New York on a Wednesday night . I worked with the client on Thursday and attended a board meeting on Friday afternoon. I had nailed down my travel arrangements to fly out at six o’clock Friday evening back to Los Angeles. There was a major evening event on Saturday I was supposed to attend.
However, because it was the President’s weekend school break, I couldn’t get anything nonstop. I then booked a Delta flight through Salt Lake City, connecting to Los Angeles. When I got out to JFK, I could see that the weather was not good. It was warm and foggy and the inbound planes weren’t able to come in. I actually got to the airport early, which was rare for me, so I went to the Crown Room to check in. The woman at the desk said, “Hello, Mr. ____, this is going to be a gate check-in. You’ll have to get your seat at the gate.” Of course, I asked the next question, which was does this mean the flight’s oversold. She was being basically being non-communicative, and I knew what that meant. The flight was oversold.
Well, I went out to the gate and stood in line for forty-five minutes. Finally, I got up to the counter and presented my ticket. I was told I would have to wait to get my seat assignment until later. I knew I was either going to get bumped or something bad was going to happen. The plane itself hadn’t even landed yet. So back I went to the Crown Room; I wanted to see if I could find another flight going west. By then the agent was confessing that they were oversold. Typically, they oversell by about ten percent. This flight was oversold by eighteen seats. Plus, there were rugrats all over the place, being a school holiday.
Now, remember, this was kind of a day before Frequent Flyer Clubs so I wasn’t exactly in a position to pull rank or anything. So there I was, booked on a plane that was not on the ground yet, and I had to connect through Salt Lake City. They were saying it might be another hour before it was. Of course, then they would have to get the people off the plane. Well, I made a simple calculation: I was not going to make my connection. I decided to go home.
On the way home I called this super special American Express travel expert on the emergency line. I’d kind of given up but I just wanted to see if there were any other options. Nothing! Well, what did they have going to Chicago? Nothing! Okay, how about White Plains? Yes, they did have a six-fifty flight in the morning from White Plains to Chicago. But from Chicago west there was absolutely nothing, except weather problems and a lot of cancelled flights. I told them just get me to Chicago and I would take my chances.
The American Express person came up with this scenario. If I flew to Chicago, I could make an illegal connect on a Delta flight back to Cincinnati, then go from Cincinnati to Los Angeles. An illegal connect used to be any connection with 30 minutes or less between flights from different terminals. In O’Hare, if you’re changing terminals they wanted an hour between landing and departure. Maybe you can get forty-five minutes. But thirty minutes or less was definitely illegal.
I said, okay, just do it as separate legs with separate tickets. That way the airlines wouldn’t know what I was doing. You have to keep in mind that I was arranging all this while in the back of a limo going back to Connecticut. I didn’t have my own air guide out. So the next morning when I got to White Plains, lo and behold what was taking off at six-o’clock but a Delta flight to Cincinnati. That meant I could have flown straight to Cincinnati out of White Plains, instead of going to Chicago first. And that flight had empty seats, too, because I went and checked.
Instead, I had to get on the United flight to Chicago. That flight turned out to be an hour late, and I ended up missing my connection. It was by then about nine-thirty in the morning Chicago time, and I was at the end of the C Concourse, checking the departure board, looking for any flight scheduled to go anyplace on the West Coast. San Diego, Orange County, or Los Angeles, I didn’t care. It turned out there were three flights all cued up to leave. Naturally, they were all at the other end of the terminal. So I had to race all the way to the other end of O’Hare.
I decided to go for the Los Angeles flight. Forget it. It was overbooked and departing late because of problems. Then I went for the San Diego flight. Same story. I ran over to the Orange County flight. It was already ten minutes past departure but everyone was still milling around. I walked up and asked if I could get on this flight. The agent said all they had left was four first-class seats. Yes, great! I’ll take one. Well no, the agent said, I couldn’t have one because they had people who had already requested upgrades. Okay, how about if they gave me one of the seats those people were vacating? Bingo. She upgraded somebody else, gave me a seat, and in five minutes I was on the plane. I ended up landing at Orange County at twelve-thirty. I rented a car, drove to Los Angeles, and was where I wanted to be by two-thirty in the afternoon.
Occasionally It Just Gets to You
‘I’m Going To Have You Shot!’
I took some time off from consulting to work for United Airlines. While at work, I used to hear these stories of people who had worked at ticket counters or who had worked at airports, and all I could think was that these poor people behind the counter have absolutely the worst job in the world.
One of the stories I heard was from a guy who worked at the Boston terminal. They had refused boarding to a woman who was obviously drunk. Her excuse apparently was that the only way she could fly was if she was out of it. But they weren’t going to let her on because of her condition.
Now, this was a fairly good-sized woman. So she backed up to get a running start and then just barreled straight toward the entry. My friend was standing in the doorway. He was a pretty good-sized guy too. He quickly grabbed two others and they locked arms. This woman came running at them and tried to bowl them over. Fortunately, they held their ground. The woman stepped back. She looked at my friend. “My son is a Boston policeman,” she screamed. “I’m going to have him shoot you!” Then she turned around and stormed away.
I’ve heard all sorts of stories like these, they just go on and on. It’s unbelievable what people will do.
‘I’m Getting a Little Past Sanity Here!’
This is the story of the trip from hell. Our firm at the time was a small firm that did two things. We did compensation consulting, and we did bank officer salary surveys. We had 1400-1500 banks around the country participating in this survey, and we had to go out and visit all of them every two or three years to make sure the data was correct and that they felt good about the survey and how to use it. So young consultants like me would make these trips around the country, visiting all these banks.
I had a compensation consulting client, a bank in Blue Island, Illinois, that I had to meet with on a Friday. I was supposed to deliver this big report to them. There were no faxes back then, no Federal Express, and if you went through the Post Office it could take a very long time, so we personally delivered reports. Since the meeting was on a Friday, I had Monday through Thursday to visit all the banks in the area. It was four banks a day in some places—in Wisconsin, I went to three or four cities in one day, hopping around in puddle jumpers.
So I left on that Monday and I arrived at O’Hare, which I passed through about six times during this damn trip. I got to O’Hare and my bag was lost, but the airline people assured that they would deliver it to the hotel that night. But the bag didn’t show up. So now I was traveling around with my briefcase and the suit and shirt and tie I had on. The airline was so sure my bag would be there by Tuesday that I thought it would be kind of silly to go out and buy any more clothes. But by the night of the second day, I went out and bought some clothes—another shirt and a set of underwear. The baggage still didn’t show up.
Of course, the reason I was really worried about the bag was that the report I was going to deliver on Friday was in it. The only way I could have a useful meeting was to use a lot of compensation data and things that were in the report. Without the report, I would have had to have a photographic memory to make this meeting work. I needed that report. And by Wednesday it still hadn’t come.
Thursday was the worst day of this trip. Funny and different and bad things had happened Tuesday and Wednesday, but Thursday was the absolute worst. After seeing four banks in three towns, I was to get the last flight from Peoria to Chicago around 6:30 at night. Well, the flight was delayed and then canceled. They brought out the ricketiest old bus I’d ever seen and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll drive you all to O’Hare.” I didn’t want to drive in a big, stupid bus with a lot of angry people to O’Hare, so I went to Avis and asked for the best car they had to rent. I put the pedal to the metal and I went as fast as I could up to O’Hare. I drove to O’Hare right past Blue Island, Illinois, because I was assured my bags (and my report) were at O’Hare.
I got to O’Hare, parked in the public parking lot, and went to American’s luggage area. They didn’t have my bag, but they thought it might be down at Delta. I had to go from one end of the old O’Hare terminal to the other end to find that no, my bag wasn’t there either. In fact, Delta thought it was back with American, but when they called American they hadn’t been able to find it. They promised me they’d try to deliver it to my hotel if it showed up. But by now I figured it was irretrievably lost.
I realized I’d have to figure out how to deal with this client at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. It was now one in the morning. I went out to get my car, and found that some prankster or thug had slashed all four tires! They were all down to the rims. I had reached the point where you couldn’t make me angry any more, so many bad things had happened. I’d gone over the edge, and so with a big smile on my face, carrying my briefcase and a little shopping bag with my dirty laundry in it, I walked up to the Avis counter.
“You’ve got a real problem with your car out in the public parking lot,” I said, “and I need another one.” I explained what had happened, and soon I had another car. I drove back down to Blue Island, Illinois, arriving there at about two in the morning. By the time I got there, I was completely exhausted and had no idea what I was going to do the next morning.
Then I went to check in and gave the guy at the counter my confirmation number. He looked at me kind of nervously, and said they didn’t have any rooms left. I said, “Oh jeez, you know you can’t find a room this time of night. You’ve got to have a room left!”
He said no, they didn’t, so I yelled at him a little bit. And he said, “Well, actually we do have one room but I was told it was a late arrival and that I should hold it no matter how late it is.”
I said, “Well, no matter how late it is, I am here.” And I grabbed him by the collar and I said, “You won’t believe the trip I’ve had, and I’m getting a little past sanity here!” So the guy agreed to give me the room. He was a little nervous, so he just turned around and grabbed a key.
I walked down to the room and threw open the door. Guess what? The room was not empty. There was a couple there, a man and a woman on the bed with a little light on, and they were not asleep. Let’s just say they weren’t watching TV.
I realized a terrible mistake had been made here. “I’m very sorry. He gave me the wrong key,” and I closed the door. Apparently, neither of them had heart attacks, but I did hear some loud conversation going on in the room. So I walked back down the hall to the front desk, where the guy apologized and gave me the right key. I slept until about eight o’clock, got up, and got myself into as good shape as I possibly could. As I drove over to the bank, I was so tired I ended up backing right into a brick wall. It did major damage to the rear end of the car, but I could still drive it. When I finally met with the client, I told him the story and why I didn’t have the report. He didn’t laugh much and was a little unhappy, but I apologized and came back two weeks later.
Where the Hell Am I?
All consultants occasionally get the schedule where you have to be in five or six different cities in a week. Up early in the morning, quick shower and shave, coffee and donut and off to a meeting with a client; then a behind schedule, too fast taxi ride to the airport to barely catch your plane to the next city. Usually, there is a team on site and you have dinner, some wine, and stay up too late.
One week I was on the west coast. I started in Chicago on Sunday night to San Francisco, Monday to Seattle, Tuesday to Los Angeles, Wednesday to Spokane, and Thursday night back to San Francisco.
The alarm goes off at 6:00 AM, and I look around the hotel room, and I honestly can’t remember where I am. I’m totally confused. And I can’t find my glasses to read the match cover on the bedside table. Finally, I open the window shade and see heavy fog. By process of elimination, I narrow down the possibilities to either London or San Francisco. I actually called the front desk to find out where the hell I was.
I’m Part of the Solution Now!
Commuting in New York City is a travel story unto itself. I did most of my commuting in the New York tri-state area by rental car. Can I describe the thrill and the fear? It’s amazing how much more peaceful your life is when you don’t have to deal with all that. I was much calmer when I was actually flying out of town Monday through Friday.
In New York, if you assume that somebody’s going to be a jerk, nine and a half times out of ten, you’ll be right. As long as you go into it knowing that some guy is going to drive up the shoulder and pass all the people going into the Holland Tunnel, then it makes your commute a lot less stressful.
I never got that far in my attitude, however. I did things like pull out onto the shoulder and just sit there, right in front of the guy who’s trying to zoom past everyone along the shoulder. I figured, I’m part of the solution now. Who knows how many cars were sitting there, all of them totally pissed at the jerk who would zoom by every once in a while because he thought he was more important than the rest of the people? In New York, you can either sit there and fume, or you can do something about it. That was my thinking. I decided to do something about it.
In that particular case, the guy got out and pounded on my window. And spat. I just sat there and smiled.
The Rules To Survive All of This
Zen for the Road
It’s not that I would ever say that traveling is a good thing. But you sure do grow from it. Everybody changes dramatically for the better from travel. Travel is basically training for crisis handling. I was probably on the road ten years before I reached the point that no matter what happened, I calmly accepted it. What if your flight is delayed and you can’t get home? How do you deal with that? A very new consultant deals with it quite differently than a more experienced one. The more experienced one knows all the tricks. They calmly go about circumventing the regular system. While the rest of the population gets in line to wait to talk to an agent about rerouting, the experienced consultant knows to open their cell phone, call the travel agent, and get rerouted from there. They become very competent and that competence breeds confidence. That confidence can then spill over into everything they do, too.
It’s the Zen approach to travel, I guess. You learn to accept that it’s going to work out and if you don’t get home that night, that’s okay. You learn that getting upset is not going to make things work any better.
Reverse Psychology
Once I’m on the plane, I immediately have a drink or two. That’s my program. I’ve tried the other way. You know, eat the bran muffin; drink a lot of water, no alcohol on the plane. Forget it. Now it’s champagne as soon as I get on. But I do try to get to the gym beforehand. I like to work out before a long trip. I’ve got this idea it will help me sleep. For some reason, however, the only place I actually do sleep is on the shuttles to Boston and New York. It’s total reverse psychology. Usually, I have all this homework to do before the meeting that’s scheduled in an hour and a half. But it’s not going to happen because as soon as I get on the plane I’m out. I just totally pass out on the shuttles. I think it’s because I don’t want to sleep. On the flights I want to sleep, I can’t.
Damage, What Damage?
The rule about rental cars is whatever condition you return it in is the condition it was in when you took it. I mean, things happen. You left the car in the valet park. Who knows what happened? Ignorance is the absolute imperative in this deal. I had a situation once where I was sitting in a lot of traffic at a railroad crossing. It was a slow freight train and I’m 20 cars back. It looked like a 20-minute delay. It also looked like I was going to be late for my flight.
But I also knew a way around. I could make a U-turn and go back the other way. So I turned the wheel as far as I could to go left so I’d miss the car in front of me. Now, think about the two lanes coming the other way. There’s no traffic because of the train, right? You’d think all I had to worry about was the car in front of me. So as soon as I cleared the car in front, I kind of half-floored it to make my U-turn. What did I do? I pulled right out into the path of a semi coming the wrong way. He was about to turn into a warehouse terminal that was just before the railroad tracks. Of course, the truck hit me in the left front fender. The bumper was history.
Well, I jumped out. He jumped out. It didn’t look like I could drive the car. I told the guy I was late for a plane and he went back to his cab and got a crowbar and pulled the fender away from the tire. Great! Now at least I could drive. I took off and dropped the car off at the wrong return place. Three weeks later I got a letter saying the car was damaged. What could have happened? I wrote back and said, well, it didn’t drive very well and there were some strange noises, but as far as the missing bumper goes, I just had no idea. It was a mystery.
Rules for the Road—Pocket Version
For most consultants the worst stories take place when they have to travel with their spouse. A lot of things can happen. First, you lose a lot of flexibility. Even if you carry your luggage on, you’re not going to move as fast as you normally would. And if finding one seat is difficult, finding two seats is even harder. If your spouse doesn’t travel a lot, she’s also going to look at you and say things like, “How can they do that to you? Why don’t you go yell at ’em?” It doesn’t help.
Some hotels are also challenging. You have a guaranteed late arrival. You show up. It’s midnight. The plane was late and they’ve sold your room. What do you do now? In this case, you push as hard as you can because they were supposed to hold your room. You had a quote with a guaranteed late arrival. One of the things you always do is keep your reservation numbers written in your diary. What’s your confirmation number? If they’ve sold you out and recommend that you go over to the last chance motel, you basically do everything you can to force them to give you another room. They can sell somebody else out of a room. Typically, that’s the game. There’s almost never a case when a room is not available.
Basically you just can’t let anything upset you. Just observe the rules, keep on moving. Okay, that won’t work. What about this? What about that? Also, never get angry with an agent. They’re stuck with the problem. They didn’t cause it. And try not to go places that you know are trouble. Like don’t ever go to Detroit. I mean, if you can keep from going to Detroit, do it. That way you can avoid flying Northwest.
Only On Weekends
Consulting is an all consuming profession, particularly if you’re a partner and trying to build a business. I always felt that one of the keys to success in the market was being with your clients. I was there in the morning ready with the coffee when they came, and I was there at night after they left to turn out the lights and put out the cat.
But being with a client means not being home with your family. After a few years of friction over this point, my wife, my kids I came to an agreement: All birthdays and anniversaries were to be celebrated on weekends. Other special days like graduations and holidays were celebrated on schedule of course. But our kids never had a birthday on a weekday. This wasn’t a perfect solution but it worked for us.
Never Check a Bag
I did learn very early in my career never to check a bag. I was presenting to a board of directors in Muscatine, Iowa, and flew in a pair of cut-off’s and T-shirt with a pair of sandals. I had a stopover at the O’Hare Hilton before my flight the next morning. Well, my bag didn't arrive until about three in the morning. It was a close call. The CEO at this firm reminded me of the farmer in that old Grant Wood painting, kind of stern and puritan. I can imagine what he would have thought seeing me show up in shorts and a T-shirt. Actually, he was a great guy. He probably would have gotten quite a laugh out of it.
That’s Your Air, This is My Air’
I have to tell you this frequent flyer tip that I learned from my son. It does not work on all planes, obviously, but it does work on a 737, which we often fly on. The thing I hate the most when flying, and the thing that most people hate, is when the fellow in front of you leans his seat back into your lap. Normally, if you’re a frequent flyer you board earlier. So my son taught me that as soon as you get on a plane, you take all the air vents in a row, point them toward the seat in front of you, and turn them on. Then when the person arrives and sits in his seat, if he leans his seat back even five degrees he’ll have the air blowing right on his head. Immediately, he’ll turn around and say, “Your air is blowing on my head.” And you say, “Yes, that’s my air. Your air is in front of you. That little thing there will adjust your air, but this is my air. And this is where it’s going to stay.” Believe me, there’s no leaning back after that. Now, that only works on planes where you can adjust it to the correct angle. On the wide-bodies you can’t adjust the air. But it’s a good trick. Not too many people know this one.
Take a Deep Breath and Treat Yourself Well
My technique for handling travel is deep breathing. I try to close my eyes and just sort of let it happen, just breathe. Breathe very deeply. That’s about the only way I can get through the panic. Another thing I’ve also learned over the years about being on the road is to treat yourself well. I’m not talking about eating big meals or things like that. In my case, I’m an art and music lover so I’ll take some time for myself and go to a museum or a concert. Do something like that. Instead of always pushing sixteen hours a day, I push twelve and take four hours for myself. That’s what works for me. I’m much stronger then. Of course, it took me eight or nine years to learn these things.
If I’m abroad, I’ll try to make it a weekend and take Saturday and Sunday to get to know the area or do something fun, rather than just flying in there, doing business and then running out. I know other major firms are more restrictive on travel policy. But with the flexibility we have at our firm, I can do that. So I think I’ve learned to pace myself a little better. No less productively, but just making sure I spend some time for myself.
One Iron Clad Rule
I think it's very difficult to have dual careers and maintain a marriage. It’s very demanding. In terms of travel and relationships, are there any secrets? One very obvious thing my husband and I do, because we both travel a lot in our jobs right now, is to have an absolutely iron clad rule about giving each other contact and schedule information. Maybe once every two weeks we synchronize our calendars. We do this even though we don’t have children at home anymore. We try as much as possible to coordinate our travel, to schedule our trips at the same time. That way we’re away from home for the smallest chunk of time, and at the same time.
A Briefcase to do Surgery
I was traveling with a senior partner from Los Angeles to Philadelphia with my bag checked through to New York. This was in January in the middle of winter. My plan was to have some flight time with him and then pick up a shuttle to New York. So all I had with me was a light raincoat, which I had packed in my bag and checked.
Well, the flight was more than two hours late taking off. Then when we finally took off one of the hydraulic lines burst causing an engine to burst into flames. So we doubled back to Los Angeles . While waiting for the plane to be repaired, I found out there was a flight directly to JFK with another airline two gates over. They said they would transfer my bag so I took that flight. I got the last seat on the plane and arrived at JFK at four in the morning.
Unfortunately, my bag obviously hadn’t made the transfer. So there I was unshaven with no coat and at the wrong terminal. It’s four in the morning in the middle of winter and I had to get around to the other terminal for my car. I got to the car only to discover the battery was dead. I ended up banging on the door to get one of the maintenance people to let me back into the locked terminal. I called a tow truck, and while I was waiting I bought a travel kit to shave. Believe it or not, I had an interview scheduled in a couple of hours at the office with a prospective employee. I don’t think I arrived home until about 3:00 that Saturday afternoon.
I lost my bag on another occasion, too, on my first trip to Indonesia. I was bringing back all these souvenirs and the airline lost my bag; it ended up in Karachi or somewhere. I got it back to New York City; put it on a van, and had delivered it to the Exxon building. Well, a block from the Exxon building they made another delivery, and while they were stopped my suitcase was stolen from the back of the van!
The thing you keep in mind through it all is to stay calm. It isn’t going to do you any good anyway. I’ve also learned over the years to keep my briefcase with me at all times. I keep enough in there that it looks like I can do open heart surgery. I carry razors, bandages and enough essentials to survive for two days. If I can help it, I never check my bag . I also never run for planes and I carry lots of reading material, because you know you’re going to have a certain percentage of late flights.
Those are my basic rules for survival. It all comes down to staying relaxed. It helps to pack some Tylenol, too.
But Its Not All Bad
I Invented The Frequent Flyer Idea
I keep a running total of how many miles I've flown. I’m up to something like 2,400,000. My goal is to get the two and a half million, more or less for a career total. I got a million mile plaque from United way back in 1968. Then American gave me some sort of city destination plaques . But just think of all the prizes we could have gotten in those early days if they had frequent flyer programs.
Actually, I think I invented the frequent flyer idea. There was a guy named Ziegler from American Airlines who was their marketing VP. They had mailed a questionnaire to me, asking if I could think of any ideas to increase their market share. I said, why don’t you have something like Green Stamps where you can accumulate points as you fly? Then you’d be predisposed to fly with a certain airline. Next thing I knew along came a frequent flyer program, but there was no prize for old Ray. Nothing! I’m sure it was the equivalent idea. You just don’t have to lick the stamps.
You Don’t Have to Talk
In the early days when I was at home we were eating a lot of leftovers. But when you're on the road you’re sleeping on fresh, ironed sheets. Eating exactly what you want to eat. And you don't have to talk. As a consultant, you talk and listen all day. Then you go home and what do you have to do? You've got to listen and talk some more or you're not doing your job. Sometimes it can be kind of nice to just tune out and watch the Knicks.
You Must Be Mr. Smith
I had a client in Crossette, Arkansas, where I had never been. Another client of mine referred the client to me, and he decided to hire me based on the referral, without meeting me. So I scheduled a time to go at the end of a fairly busy travel week, on a Wednesday or Thursday. I got into Crosette – a nice little town – and went into the Crossette Arms Hotel, which they told me was the only place to stay in town. It was summertime, a very hot summer day in late June.
I walked into the hotel at about six p.m. with my two bags. The desk clerk looked up and said, “You must be Mr. Smith.” I said, “That’s really good, how did you do that?” “The other two have checked in already.”
I explained that I had a long trip, and asked where was the best place to eat. I wanted great Southern food. He said, “You’re in luck. It’s right here. It’s the only restaurant in town and it’s open until 6:30. So if you wash up real quick and get down there I’m sure they’ll serve you.”
So I went down to the restaurant, sat down, and asked for a double Beefeater martini. She said, “Oh, sir, this is a dry town.” I said, “Oh, of course, Arkansas, that’s right. Would you give me a beer, a glass of wine – either one would be fine.” “This is a dry town. You have to bring in your own beer.” I said, “Well, let’s see, you’re closing in 20 minutes… how far is the liquor store?” She said it was 35 miles away because this was a dry county. But that was okay. I had southern fried chicken with milk and it was really good.
Now, I didn’t happen to have a book with me on this trip, and I was in this place with nothing going on, nothing to do. I went to my room and the TV didn’t work, it’s all snow. I remembered seeing a movie theater right across the street as I drove in, so I walked out and sure enough there was a big marquee that said, “Closed for the season.” So that was out.
I didn’t want to go to sleep at 6:30 or seven in the evening, so I decided to take a little walk. As I walked, I heard some noise that sounded like cheering about three blocks away. I followed the cheering for a bit. It turns out to be a baseball field – middle America at its best. It was the Babe Ruth league finals or something like that. Crossette was playing El Dorado, its biggest rival. The stands were filled with people in this nice little park. It was the second inning, the sun was beginning to set, there were beautiful colors all around, and the lights were on in the stadium. So I watched for about an inning or so. It was great to watch these kids; I was just sitting there relaxing with my shirt sleeves rolled up and my tie down. It was something to do.
All of the sudden there was a hand on my shoulder and a voice said, “You must be Mr. Smith.” What a great town, right? I turned around and said, “I am, who are you?”
He was the fellow I was going to be working with. He said, you’re the consultant that I’ve never met that I’m going to be working with. You’re the only person I know of who would be in town tonight with a tie on.”
We ended up watching the game, going out to his houseboat for drinks afterwards, and having dinner at his home the next night. As badly as it started, it was one of the best trips I ever had. I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes traveling can be fun.
Stirred, Not Shaken
Travel is not as much fun as it used to be. I remember an occasion soon after I joined McKinsey when I had a black tie event in New York to attend. Then I had to immediately fly out to San Francisco to meet with Tom Peters. I was traveling first class on Pan Am out of Kennedy, which in those days was not so egregiously priced. It turned out I was one of only two people in first class. I was a bachelor then so there I was in my tuxedo, drinking champagne, all the way to San Francisco. I’d like to think it was an elegant sight. You know, if somebody had said, what’s your name?, I could have said “Bond, James Bond.”
Today, the planes are more like cow cars and the airport restaurants are crowded. You’re also just tired. In the old days the 747s had a bar and lounge upstairs. This wasn’t so-called business class. It used to be if I went to a meeting in Madrid, I’d stay around for a couple of extra days. We’d do our work and develop all sorts of new ideas. Everybody was having fun. Friday would roll around and nobody would want to go home. Instead, you’d rent a car and go to the Escoril or to the major museums. If you were in Stockholm on Midsummer Nights eve, as I was, you’d hit the discos, admire all the gorgeous Scandinavian women, watch the midnight sun go down and come back up again five minutes later. All the while saying to yourself, I’m getting paid for this. But all that’s history now.
Steak and an Invoice
On a project in Akron, Ohio, I once went to a local restaurant and ate a nice steak dinner. When I was done, I asked for the check and then put my American Express card down.
“Sorry, we don’t take those,” said the waitress. Okay. I reached in my wallet and got out the MasterCard and put that down. “Sir, I said we don’t take those.” “Well, this is a different credit card.” “I mean, we don’t take credit cards.”
“Well, this could be a problem. I don’t have much cash on me.”
“It’s not a problem. Just give me your business card. We’ll send you an invoice.”
Sure enough the next week the invoice came. That was their normal way of doing business. They opted just to bill people and save the credit card expense. This was a high-priced restaurant near the business center in downtown Akron. But definitely of the old school.
And the Way it Should Always Be
A former golf partner of mine had retired and moved to Hilton Head. It was springtime and I said to myself, I’ve got to get out and play some golf. So I decided to go down to Hilton Head on a Thursday evening, and my wife would follow on Friday.
On Thursday evening, I walked into O’Hare. I was using frequent flyer miles, mind you, so there was no revenue for American Airlines on this trip. I’d been flying back and forth to Houston on a consulting job for about 18 months, so at that point I was platinum executive, or whatever the highest rank is. The flight was supposed take me to Raleigh-Durham, and then on to Hilton Head with a one hour connection between flights. But there was a mechanical problem at O’Hare and a one-hour delay. When we finally pulled away from the gate, the captain came on to tell us he thought he could make up some of the time. I’m thinking, yeah, right. But somehow we did manage to land in Raleigh-Durham within a few minutes of my connecting flight’s departure.
The Raleigh-Durham airport has a real long concourse, and we pulled in at one end. The connection was an American Eagle flight, and of course, they were operating out of the other end of this long concourse. So we landed and pulled up to the gate. The gate agent came on and said, welcome to Raleigh-Durham, unfortunately all the connecting flights have to leave and we apologize, blah, blah, blah. Of course, there was a lot of grumbling. I was trying to get out and everybody was standing in the aisle. I was standing there waiting, and it took several minutes as everyone slowly moved off the airplane.
Then I heard an announcement. “Will passenger Arnold please identify himself to the gate agent?” I was thinking, “Oh, great, now they’re going to give me a hotel room.” My friend and I had an 8:00 o’clock tee time the next morning. I didn’t want a hotel room. Well, I walked out to the gate agent and identified myself. He just said, okay, let’s go. There was a cart sitting right there, and he grabbed me by the arm, plopped me in the cart and we drove the length of the concourse. I was wondering what in the world was going on?
We got to the American Eagle end of the concourse and there was absolutely nobody in sight. By then I was thinking, “You turkey, you brought me all the way down here, got my hopes up and now nothing’s going to come of it” But then he said, “See that door over there? Go out that door and you’ll see a van at the bottom of the stairs . He’ll take you to your flight.” Wow! And I hadn’t complained or bitched to anybody. What was this about?
I walked down the stairs and sure enough there was an empty van sitting there with a driver. I walked up to the van and the driver looked at me. “Are you Mr. Arnold?” “Well, yes I am.” “Okay, let’s go.” And we raced across the tarmac past all these American Eagle planes all buttoned up for the night. There was only one plane out there with the lights on. As we got closer, I could see that the stairs in the rear were still down. It was one of those small American Eagle planes where you board from the rear. We pulled up and there was a stewardess standing there.
“Mr. Arnold, we are so glad you made it,” she said, “we’ve been waiting for you.” They had delayed the flight 20 minutes just for me! Of course, I couldn’t let well enough alone. About halfway up the stairs I had the brass to ask, “Uh, by the way, is there any chance my luggage, in particular my golf clubs, can make it?” She said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t wait any longer . And by the way, there’s only one seat left and it’s up in the front compartment.”
I was thinking, “Oh man, all of these people have been sitting there, they’re going watch me walk up the aisle and just shoot daggers at me. They’re going to wonder, who is this SOB? And why am I sitting here waiting for him?” Somehow I made it up to my seat, sat down and buckled up. I was looking for something to read when all of a sudden, the attendant appeared over my shoulder and whispered very quietly, “Your golf clubs will be here in just a minute.”
Honest to God, as I sat there, I heard two thumps. There were my bag and my golf clubs being loaded on. Then they closed the luggage compartment, started up the engines, and we took off. I thought to myself, isn’t that something? The only thing I could come up with is that because of my status, they had decided to be nice and take care of me. I’ve certainly never heard another story like that.
Planes, Trains, Hotels, And Rental Cars (And Other Good Stories)
A One-Man Show
One time I was scheduled on a commuter flight from a small upstate New York town to New York City. I was flying out of a small airport in the middle of winter. I arrived at the check-in and a man came out and took the ticket. He looked it over and then gave me my boarding pass. He told me we’d go through security shortly. A few minutes later we were called over to go through the metal detector. The same guy was now supervising the walk-through. Later, I walked outside with my bag. This guy was now out there, loading the bags on the plane!
Well, you can guess where this is going. I got on the plane and this fellow was now on the speaker informing us that he would be our pilot for the flight. He announced that once we’d taken off and climbed to altitude, should we happen to need anything, to just ring the call button. He’d be glad to put the plane on autopilot and see what we needed.
To make matters worse on this one-man show, the flight to LaGuardia was very cold and bumpy. And on our approach we got stuck in a long holding pattern. Everyone had their big overcoats and gloves on, scarves and hats. At one point it got so rough I thought a little fresh air might be appropriate. I didn’t want to get airsick. I had pulled my glove off and reached up to open the air vent. Well, it was like grabbing an ice tray out of the freezer, it was so cold. My fingers just stuck to it. I felt like the little boy who on a dare stuck his tongue to a flagpole.
I thought to myself, look at the situation I’m in. My hand is stuck to the overhead vent, and I’m flying on a plane with a pilot who will gladly put the aircraft on autopilot to get us a drink or something. Travel can certainly be interesting at times.
“To Get To The Head Of The Line”
I was on a flight out of O’Hare to LaGuardia that was delayed because of weather. We just sat out there on the tarmac. It ended up being a four or four-and-a-half hour flight. The guy next to me never did anything except sit there and stare out the window. You could see by his expression that he was ticked. He just sat there for four and a half hours like that.
Toward the end of this flight as we were coming in for the approach, a woman came from the back of the airplane—I was sitting at the bulkhead— she walked all the way up to go to the lavatory in the first class cabin. The lights were on and we’re supposed to have our seat belts fastened. I can see the flight attendants trying to figure out what to do. Finally, they make an announcement, “Everybody must return to their seats, we’re now on our final approach.” Nothing happens. A flight attendant then got up and knocked on the door, asking the woman to please hurry. Again, nothing. By now we’ve banked around and we’re coming in for the landing. Now the attendant knocks on the door and tells the woman to just hold on and stay where you are.
Well, we land and guess what? The woman opens the door and walks out, the first one off the airplane. She just wanted to get to the head of the line. And all I could conclude was, well, that’s a New Yorker for you.
Here, Let Me Help
I was flying from Chicago to Saint Louis on the early morning Delta flight. It’s only an hour and they used to squeeze in breakfast. I was sitting on the aisle and next to me was a very attractive younger lady going to Saint Louis for a job interview. She was wearing a well-tailored suit with just the correct amount of attractive décolletage showing.
All airlines serve orange juice in little plastic containers with a sealed aluminum top that is very hard to get off. She was struggling with this container and I said, “There’s a trick to doing that. You break the vacuum by poking through the top with a sharp object, usually a pencil is handy.”
To demonstrate, I pull out a pencil from my shirt pocket and poke the top of her orange juice container. She must have pulled it partly off because when I hit the top of her juice, it squirted right onto her attractive décolletage. The juice ran down the inside of her well-tailored suit and she shivered.
She turned slowly, looked me right in the eye, and said, “You son of a bitch.”
We landed without further conversation.
“No, I Never Did Pay”
We had a project where we were going from public utility commission to public utility commission giving updates. We had an update scheduled with the officer in charge of a major southern utility. Characteristically, he wanted to meet with us at 8 a.m. on the Tuesday morning after Labor Day. We’re based in Chicago while he’s way below the Mason-Dixon Line, in a place without many flights. To be there by early Tuesday morning, we would have to leave Chicago on Labor Day. You can imagine how happy we were about that.
On Labor Day, we were on the plane. But there was some kind of delay and we were just waiting and waiting. Finally, we took off and it seemed like it took 45 minutes just to get over Lake Michigan. It was just taking forever to get going. Then we took a left along the lakeshore and the plane started dumping fuel over the lake. This was up toward the northern suburbs. Then the plane turned around and it was apparent that we were coming back in to land. Eventually the captain came on to report that we had a problem and had to land. As we were coming in I could see a whole line of emergency equipment on the runway waiting for us. The flight attendant ordered us to get into the tuck position. Obviously, we did as we were told.
Fortunately, everything turned out okay and we landed safely. But we still had to get to our destination and there weren’t any other non-stops. We ended up taking a flight that went from Chicago to Dallas to Shreveport, and then we drove on to our client site. We didn’t arrive until close to 2:00 in the morning. Apparently, there were only two cabs in this entire city, and there were all these people on the plane. So as soon as the door opened, I ran out and grabbed the first cab. But the first cab driver wouldn’t leave until he knew the second cab driver was on his way. So that meant waiting another 20 minutes until the second cab showed up.
Finally, we got to the hotel, which was a Radisson. It was a typical Radisson, all dark wood and faux marble floors. The only thing atypical was that there wasn’t a soul around. No signs of life, except for the Muzak, which was blaring. I pounded on the desk. Nothing! I went behind the desk looking. Still nobody! But I did find the key drawer. I opened it and took a key and I just checked myself in. I went up to the room and got a night’s sleep. And in the morning I came down, returned the key, thanked the clerk for the room, and just walked away.
No, I never did pay.
We’ve All Been There (well, maybe)
Once early in my career, I checked into a hotel in a small community. I went to my room, stuck the key in the door and entered, only to find some poor, embarrassed young couple there. Let’s just say they were having a wonderful time, and they weren’t expecting guests. Of course, I got out of there as quick as I could. The funny thing was I then found myself wondering if someone was going to walk in on me. I ended up propping up a chair in front of my door.
Be Careful Where You Sit
I have one story that I just love to tell. This was when I was consulting for Coca-Cola in the late seventies. It was one of my earliest jobs. I had just arrived in Atlanta, met with the client, and then went to the hotel in the evening. There was a young woman behind the desk who explained to me that they were right in the middle of renovating the hotel but that she had a really neat room reserved for me.
Great, I thought. So I registered and went on up to the room. I noticed when I stuck the key in the door, the door just opened. It wasn’t locked. I thought that was a little weird. But I walked in and it was a really nice room, with a balcony and a platform at one end with a sofa on it. It was a very nice room, except for the two guys standing up on the platform talking. As I walked in with my bags, they very quickly excused themselves and walked out.
Just to make sure, I looked around. Everything seemed okay so I left and went to dinner. I didn’t think any more about it. Well, I came back after dinner and sat down on the bed and the entire bed just collapsed on me, all the way to the ground. I mean, the whole thing, the headboard, footboard, mattress and box springs. Bam! All the way down.
My only thought was, Oh shit! But, you know, I was so tired, I just said to myself, I’m just going to sleep on the floor. I’ll call in the morning. No big deal. And that’s what I did. Morning came and I got up and headed straight to the shower. I was taking my shower when the soap dish fell out of the wall! It was heavy ceramic and just missed my toe. Obviously, they’d not finished gluing the thing in right. Well, so much for the shower. Then I realized there were no towels in the room. Somehow, I managed to dry myself off, dress, and get off to work.
I got back later in the day and saw the clerk at the front desk talking to this wonderful old couple who looked like they were probably on vacation. As I walked by, she asked me what I thought of the room. Without thinking, I just turned around and said, “Well, other than the fact that the bed collapsed, the soap dish fell out of the wall, and there were no towels in the room, it was quite comfortable, thank you.” I was kind of distracted and had not really noticed the old couple there. And the look on this young woman’s face was just terrible. It was only then that I really noticed the older couple. Standing there with these looks on their faces, like do we really want to stay here? If I had been paying attention, I never would have done that in front of her.
But she did take care of things, and I ended up with a fruit basket for all my trouble.
‘Now, What Exactly Are You Doing in My Car?’
I once flew to Minneapolis in the middle of wintertime to see a client. I arrived at the airport and walked over to the Hertz counter to pick up the car. The woman behind the counter said to me, “You need to know that if the car won’t start, we can’t come start it for you. But we will pick up the car if you’re stranded somewhere.” I asked her why she was telling me this. Apparently, a cold front was moving through the area. By next morning it was 26 degrees below zero!
My colleague and I walked out to the parking lot and sure enough the car wouldn’t start. Of course, we panicked. We walked back to the terminal and called the client. He said, “Listen, we know how to drive in this climate. I’ll have my secretary pick you guys up. She’ll be driving a gray Cutlass Sierra and she looks like she’s in her late forties or early fifties.” That’s how he described her. He said she would be there in five or ten minutes.
So we waited just inside the door. All of sudden this gray Cutlass Sierra pulled up, the trunk popped open and a woman got out of the car. I grabbed my bag and charged through the door, threw my bag in the trunk, and jumped in the back seat. My partner did the same thing. Now we’re sitting in the back seat of this woman’s car.
The woman opened the door. “Who are you?” she says. She didn’t look happy. “Well, uh, aren’t you from such and such a company?” No, she was not! I really thought she was kidding. She wanted to know what exactly we were doing in her car. Okay, she was not kidding. Big mistake. We apologized and got out.
Five minutes later another gray Cutlass Sierra pulled up, almost identical to the first car. Interesting. The woman in the second car even looked like the first woman.
Will the Real Richard Metzler Please Stand Up?
I flew into Albany from Chicago and went to the Hertz Rental counter where I stood in line behind another gentleman, well dressed. My turn comes and I say, “My name is Metzler, I have a reservation.”
The Hertz lady says, “Oh, yeah, and my name is Barbara Bush.”
Needless to say, I was somewhat taken aback. After several moments of confusion on both of our parts, it turns out that the gentleman in front of me was also named Richard Metzler. What do you suppose the odds are of that”?
We finally got the car contract straightened out and she paged Mr. Metzler to return to the counter. I introduced myself, he was an attorney from Rochester but we couldn’t find any connection back through the respective families. We exchanged holiday cards for several years but eventually lost contact.
Cream Pie Capital of the World
I recall an assignment in a very small Pennsylvania town. I had six young, single guys with me on that engagement. And it was a long, nine-month engagement. The local Denny’s was probably the first or second best place to eat, that’s how small this town was. We must have eaten there four nights a week. Once or twice a week the motel we stayed at had music and dancing in the dining room. I remember one night someone in our group asked a guy there, “So where's the local hot spot?” The guy just looked at him. “This is it, man.”
It’s funny when you’re on the road the things you remember. Everybody at this place was doing that dance that used to be popular where people would hit their butts together. This was also the first time I ever saw a bunch of women dancing with each other. Apparently, the local wives would hang out at this place But it’s amazing how resourceful people can be in some circumstances. Somehow these young guys managed to make a life out of it. Actually, it got to the point where I had to kind of keep them out of trouble. I guess it didn’t hurt that the only place to meet was a bar.
If there is a downside to the smaller towns, there is also from my perspective the opportunity to experience some different corners of American life. That sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. In that Pennsylvania town, the fashions were about two years behind everywhere else. Something else I noticed. They had a funny habit of putting cream on every pie they made. I don’t think I saw a pie anywhere in town that didn’t have cream on it. Apple cream. Blueberry cream. Banana cream. Chocolate cream. I mean they creamed everything! I called this place “the cream pie capital of the world.” The small towns definitely have their own uniqueness.
Have You Got A Short One?
All consultants are very aware of the various airline’s premium mileage and frequent flyer clubs and their first class upgrade benefits. A number of years ago, the upgrade certificates were paper, and you carried them around to be used when you were able to upgrade from what I call steerage to first class. The upgrades for trips up to 500 miles were called short trips and the ones for longer trips (e.g., over 1000 miles) were called long trips. In the vernacular of the airlines and the frequent travelers, they were called long ones and short one.
I was in the United Airlines terminal at Newark waiting for the desk agent to clear me for a seat in first class. She called my name in a very loud voice, “Mr. Metzler, please report to the ticket counter.” I go over and say, “I’m Mr. Metzler.” She says again in a very loud voice, “You’re cleared for first class. Do you have a short one?” Everybody in the waiting area heard this, and suddenly everybody stopped talking. In fact, most were chuckling.
Not wanting to miss an opportunity this good, I paused dramatically and say, “Yes, but I make up for it by being very rich.” The laughter increased. Not to be outdone, the ticket agent comes right back. “Well alright, you’re my kind of man,” she says. This brought the house down.
I thought that, Metz, maybe you have a future in standup comedy.
A Leisurely Morning Drive
We had a client that had its own air force. The CEO of this company was a fanatic about taking off on time. If he said lift off was at six-thirty in the morning, you’d better damn well be on that plane at six-thirty in the morning. If you show up at six-thirty, that plane’s going to be taxiing.
On one occasion four of us were planning to fly with this CEO and some of his senior people to one of their remote locations, which you couldn’t get to by commercial air. Take-off was scheduled for 6:30 the next morning. One of our consultants had a rental car and he was staying at a nearby motel. So the plan was that he would pick up the rest of us. Well, the next morning my phone rang at one minute after five. It was my colleague. Our ride was not there yet. He was supposed to be there at five. What do we do? Okay, where was he staying? We didn’t know. All we knew was that he was in some motel. So we both started called every motel in town, and my partner managed to track him down. Woke him up, actually. It was the old story. He didn’t get his wake-up call. But by then it didn’t matter. The only issue was how quickly could he get in the car and drive.
It was probably a 15-minute trip to get to the other guy’s house and then on to my place. The choice we had to make at that point was, do we forget him and take one of our cars? The late sleeper insisted he could be there in ten minutes, so we decided to wait. Well, he was wrong by ten minutes. We didn’t leave my house until nearly five-forty, for a trip that is normally a good hour. My partner was behind the wheel and doing everything he could to make time. Meanwhile, the guy who overslept was in the back seat, trying to get dressed.
At one point we came to an intersection with a gas station and just whipped through the station instead of waiting at the red light. Of course, there was a cop sitting right there. Fortunately, our driver was really cool. He jumped out of the car, went back to the policeman, and just started talking. “Look, we were thinking we were going to stop and make a phone call because we’re late for a plane. You see the guy in the back seat trying to get his clothes on? He overslept. But then we just decided to keep going.” The cop listened to all this. Okay, just drive safely, he told us, and let us go.
So now we were on this highway going as fast as the car would go. I thought we were either going to die or get arrested. We were on this wild freeway ride with all these open coffee containers in the car, and, of course, when the driver had to hit the brakes, the coffee went all over the floor. And, all over us.
Finally, we careened into the airport and roared up to the private hangar. It was now twenty-five minutes past six. At that point it was screw the rental car; we jumped out and ran to the plane. The CEO was just standing there. It turned out we couldn’t take off until seven, he said. There was some problem. It was out of our control. So there we were. Coffee all over us; looking awful. And we’ve damned near killed ourselves getting there. But, of course, the CEO would never know.
STORIES FROM READERS
Do you have a story about how you got started in consulting? We would love to hear it. Please send your best to the email address below. Top submissions may be included on this site or in future editions of Lore of Wizards. Submissions will be reviewed and contributors will be contacted prior to publication.
Immediately after 9/11 we were all in a state of shock and didn't know How much "business as usual" to conduct. Our firm, Princeton Consultants, Has offices in Manhattan and Princeton NJ (about an hour south) and were Very close to ground zero with consultants and clients in the immediately affected area. Some said that our patriotic duty was to press on with business and not give the terrorists "the win", but others said that to worry about "making money" when our country was under attack was to get All of our priorities wrong.
One of our clients, Dow Jones & Company, had to evacuate their building which was next to the Trade Centers. Their reporters valiantly moved Down to their Princeton facility and got the Wall Street Journal out on 9/12 (winning some Pulitzer's for their coverage and heroism, by the way).
So often we consultants learn from our clients, rather than the other Way around. We used Dow Jones as a role model, and became determined that we would fight our way through whatever came. In the days following we had A previously scheduled client meeting in Chicago and they said "well, I Guess we'll have to call it off," since all commercial airlines had been grounded. We refused to let them cancel or move the meeting, and drove The team out in a minivan from NJ (about 14 hours driving) switching off drivers. We had the meeting, turned around, and drove back. While in Chicago I also met for the first time with a prospect that later became A large account. I think at some level they both were impressed with our grit.
President and CEO
Princeton Consultants Inc.
2 Research Way, Princeton NJ 08540
Coby Frampton’s story “Steak and an Invoice” about an Akron restaurant that sends invoices instead of accepting credit cards sounds very familiar. Maybe, the practice is common in Ohio, but I can’t help wondering if he isn’t confusing Akron with Dayton (all those Ohio cities are confusing). I say this because the same thing happened to me at the Pine Club in Dayton. When I told my client, they laughed; I could tell I wasn’t the first out-of-towner to discover this quirk. Although the meal was terrific, I didn’t return to the Pine Club for another five years. However, I finally did make it back. When the bill arrived, I sheepishly asked if had to reapply for a new Pine Club card. The waitress smiled and assured me I was still on file!