THE FIFTIES VERSION OF | This post isn’t about knowing when to be the noisiest person who gets all the attention. It's not about being a “squeaky wheel.” It’s about a toy I borrowed when I was a little kid. It was a plastic dashboard that rested in your lap, presumably while you were riding in a car that was being driven by a grownup. It was bright yellow, and had a red steering wheel made of hard plastic, and in the center of the steering wheel was a red button, made of soft plastic, that squeaked when you pushed it: the fifties version of a car horn on a toy. No batteries needed. Years later, I would find myself at a film event in New York City. I had originally been asked to be part of a panel with some other production designers. At the last minute, the organizer asked if I would moderate the panel instead. He didn’t know that I’d just instituted a policy to say “yes” whenever I was asked to do something scary. So I said “yes.” Now that the day had arrived and I was there, shaking hands with the other production designers (all of whom were older and more experienced than I was), I was overcome with a bad case of nerves. It didn't hit me until I saw how nervous the other production designers were. Why were they so nervous? They could just sit there passively and wait until someone asked them a question -- I was the one who had to facilitate the discussion. There was no place to go, really, so I drifted away from them until I thought they were looking elsewhere, and I stood behind a large column. Hiding, as they say, in plain sight. And I closed my eyes and started to talk, under my breath. I don’t think I would have called what I was doing "praying," at this point in my life. I might have called it Consulting the Universe. Of course, anyone in his or her right mind would have taken one look at me and thought, “That dude’s praying.” Anyway, it came to me that this event was a transaction, an information transaction. A bunch of people were showing up who had bought tickets because they wanted some information. The people on the panel most likely possessed some or all of that information. I just needed to facilitate that transaction, and the only thing that could get in the way of a successful transaction was me being nervous. The other production designers were nervous enough for all of us, so my nervousness would just be gilding the lily, as they say. Like bringing coals to Newcastle. I returned from my hiding spot behind the column and was delighted to see that the production designers were still so nervous that they hadn’t noticed that I had stepped away from them only to hide behind a column less than thirty feet away. So far so good. The audience began to enter and fill the hall, and while making small talk with the other production designers, I noticed the strangest thing. The audience members were surprisingly nervous. Perhaps they were nervous that they’d signed up for the wrong event. Or nervous that someone would find out that they knew a lot less about production design than they’d suggested at dinner last night. Or nervous that they’d left the stove on at home. All I knew was that I was significantly less nervous than the people in the audience. The event was a success, and I was told I’d done a good job. I actually couldn’t remember anything I’d done or said, but I could remember the topics that got covered, the fact that the other production designers seemed to relax and enjoy it, and that the audience seemed enthusiastic. What I remembered most clearly, however, was the idea that my own nervousness came from a misunderstanding. I had arrived thinking the event was about me and my lack of experience at moderating, and my Consultation with the Universe (or prayer) had revealed that it wasn’t about me at all, but simply about some information that needed to get transferred. And as I thought about my misunderstanding, I pictured sitting in the front seat of the Beast, our enormous family station wagon, with the plastic yellow dashboard in my lap. As a kid I was thrilled when I turned the little steering wheel to the right and the car actually turned right, and grinned when I turned it to the left and we happened to turn left. I loved it because it supported my treasured illusion that I was driving, the red plastic steering wheel clutched tightly in my little hands. I found a toy dashboard at a yard sale some years ago, very much like the one I’d played with in my youth. I bought it, and I keep it within glancing distance of my workstation. I've done that ever since I found it, in quite a number of office setups. I guess I'm happiest when I am reminded that the most control I will ever have in this life, no matter what I do, is pretty much the same as clutching a red plastic steering wheel that isn’t connected to anything at all. But hey -- at least it has a squeaky button in the center, just in case I need it. |