Why should I question the monkey
when I can question the organ grinder?
—Aneurin Bevan
Does the squeaky wheel really get the grease? Yes—if it knows where and how to squeak.
Let’s cover a grievance that you may have against a large, seemingly impersonal bureaucracy. I recommend …
What if the preceding still doesn’t result in satisfactory action? Move up another level. Every organization is a hierarchy. Steadily go up the ladder, rung by rung, until you get satisfaction. The higher you go, the more likely you are to have your needs met.
Why? Several reasons. People who are higher up understand that general rules were never meant to cover every specific situation. They’re more aware of the Big Picture and can visualize the fall-out that might result from improper handling. Even more significant, they have greater authority and get paid to take some risks and make decisions.
At any level, try not to negotiate with a person who lacks authority, unless you enjoy wasting your time. If you’re considering interacting with someone, first ask yourself: Who is this individual? What experience have others had with him? Where is he on the organizational chart? What types of decisions can he actually make? Does he have any real clout?
When you’ve determined all this to a reasonable extent, check it out by asking the person, politely but pointblank, “Can you remedy this situation?” or, “Are you able to help me solve this problem?” or, “Do you have the authority to take the kind of action I want right now?” If the response is negative, turn to someone else.
No one has total authority, so don’t expect it. All you can expect of someone with moderate to considerable authority—especially in a bureaucracy—is that if he makes an agreement, he’ll do everything in his power to implement it. He’ll crawl out on a limb to honor his commitment. He’ll stick his neck out for you, if only because it’s a matter of his integrity and principle.
When Menachem Begin of Israel finally agreed to go along with the Mideast peace formula, he said the equivalent of this to President Carter: “I don’t have the authority to make a definite national commitment, but I will guarantee that if the Israeli Parliament doesn’t ratify the agreement, I’ll resign.” You can’t ask for more than that.
Let me give you five examples of a squeaky wheel getting the grease because it moves up to levels of greater authority. In each case, you’re the hypothetical squeaky wheel.
Here’s the first example. Because the plane you took dragged its wings in a holding pattern, thanks to a thunderstorm, you arrive at a hotel forty minutes before midnight. Your suit is damp and wrinkled, your shoes are wet, you have dyspepsia, and you’re fatigued right down to your bone marrow. Even your teeth are tired. You’re eager to hit the sack in that single room for which you have a guaranteed reservation. Thank God you have that reservation.
The check-in clerk glances at you, then mutters, in a flat, metallic voice, “Yes, your reservation is guaranteed, but we don’t have a room. We accidentally overbooked. It happens once in a while.”
What should you do? Immediately lower your suitcase to the carpet and remind yourself that the clerk is, at that moment, basically a reacting, nonthinking machine. He’s behaving like a programmed robot or computer, feeding you information his superiors in the hotel’s hierarchy fed to him. They told him there are no rooms available. Parrotlike, he’s transmitting this data to you. Since he isn’t thinking of options at the hotel’s disposal, it’s up to you to help him solve their problem.
You run the options through your head. The hotel may have a suite it can give you. It can put a bed in one of its meeting rooms. It might let you use the living room portion of a suite. It could even have a room, if you intend to leave early the next morning.
As a starter you say, “Well … how about a suite? How about the Governor’s Suite, if the others are taken? I know you have meeting rooms and conference rooms. They’re advertised in all your brochures. Could you put a bed in one of the conference rooms or meeting rooms?”
The clerk balks. “Oh, no—we can’t do anything like that. Why don’t you let me try to put you up in another hotel?”
You reply, “I don’t want to be put up in another hotel. I’m tired, and I want to go to bed, to quote an old song. And I want to go to bed right here. Let me talk to your general manager, please.” (You know the general manager won’t be on duty this late at night, but you want the clerk to know you are determined.)
The clerk makes a face, picks up a special phone, and mumbles something into its mouthpiece. The night manager suddenly appears, as you knew he would. You repeat your query about suites, meeting rooms, and other available options.
The night manager consults a room chart, frowns, and looks up. “We do happen to have a suite left. It’s being redecorated. However, it’s double the price of a single room.”
You quietly but firmly state, “It shouldn’t cost one red cent more, because I have a guaranteed reservation!”
The night manager sighs, then says, “Well … do you want it or not?”
You reply, “I’ll take it … and we’ll discuss the price tomorrow.”
Next morning, when you’re at the front counter again, ready to check out, you’re presented with your bill. Sure enough, it’s double the price you expected to pay. Now you ask to see the general manager. Are you self-confident? Yes. You know you’re in the driver’s seat, because the service has already been rendered. (Once a service has been rendered, it’s never as valuable as it was prior to being rendered.) You inform the general manager about your surprise when the hotel failed to honor its reservations policy. After listening to his explanation, you now discuss the exorbitant room charge.
Ninety-five percent of the time, the general manager will apologize for the billing error. He’ll let you pay the single-room price for the suite. He knows that, had it not been for the hotel’s carelessness, the question of the room charge would never have come up. And he’s aware that in the long run, it pays to be fair.
Let me give you a personal “for instance” involving a similar situation. Two years ago, I had a guaranteed reservation at a Manhattan hotel. As I took a taxi to my destination, late in the evening, the driver said, “We’ll have to stop at this corner. The street’s blocked. It looks like a police barricade.”
“Oh, great,” I grumbled, getting out of the cab and paying my fare. Hoisting my bags, I shouldered my way past policemen, press photographers, gawking pedestrians, TV camera crews, and newspaper personnel.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked the doorman, after trudging to the hotel’s ornate entranceway.
He pointed skyward. “Some guy on the eleventh floor’s about to jump. That’s what’s going on!”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” I said, upset at the thought of a fellow human tumbling to the sidewalk. I edged through the revolving door and approached the desk. “My name’s Cohen,” I said. “Herbert A. Cohen. I have a guaranteed reservation.”
The registration clerk murmured, “Yes, you do, Mr. Cohen … but we don’t have a room.”
I grimaced. “What do you mean, you don’t have a room?”
“Sorry,” said the clerk, “but we’re all filled up. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is!” I retorted. “You have to have a room somewhere!”
“Let me check around at other hotels,” he suggested, reaching for a desk phone.
“Hold it!” I snapped. “You do have a room! You know the guy on the eleventh floor? The one who’s causing all that commotion outside? He’s checking out!”
The wind-up? The guy didn’t jump. The police corralled him but checked him into a different facility for psychiatric examination. I got his vacant room.
Let me give you another personal experience. In the winter of 1978, I flew to Mexico City to conduct a negotiations seminar for local businessmen. I had a reservation at a magnificent hotel. Unfortunately, the hotel could not honor it. The registration clerk announced that all rooms were filled. Apparently, guests had stayed over because a snowstorm had canceled flights to the Midwestern United States.
After making no progress with the clerk, primarily because of a language problem, I asked to see the manager. I lit a cigar, rested an elbow on the marble check-in counter, and asked the manager, “What if the president of Mexico showed up? Would you have a room for him?”
“Sí señor …”
I blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Well, he’s not coming, so I’ll take his room.”
Did I get a room? You bet, but I had to promise that if the president arrived, I would vacate immediately.
Here’s the second “moving up” example. You and your daughter shop for an evening gown for her high school senior prom. She finds one that thrills her to the bottom of her feet. You purchase it and take it home, and your daughter promptly comes down with a severe case of stomach flu. With tears in her eyes, she calls her date from a bedside phone and informs him she’ll have to cancel.
“What about the evening gown?” you ask, displaying poor timing and a poor sense of priorities.
“Please take it back!” she sobs, burying her face in a pillow. “I never want to see it again. I hate it!”
You return the evening gown to the dress shop.
“I’m very sorry,” murmurs a clerk, “but we have a no-returns policy.”
“She didn’t even wear the dress!” you protest. “The price tag’s still on it!”
You glance at a wall sign. It states: NO RETURNS (the power of legitimacy).
“I want to talk to the proprietor!” you say.
“She’s out to lunch. Won’t be back for forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll wait,” you mumble, seating yourself on the nearest chair. (If you can’t get satisfaction from someone, go over that person’s head. Move up a level.)
In forty-five minutes, the proprietor returns. You closet yourself with her in her office. You explain the circumstances: Your daughter’s sick; the gown was never worn.
“How do I know the gown wasn’t worn?” the proprietor asks. “This is an old trick some parents pull. They simply reattach the price tag, then try to remove any soiled spots with a damp rag!”
You show her the purchase date on the sales slip. You offer to phone your family physician, in her presence, to verify that your daughter was home ill the night of the prom.
“Oh, all right,” concedes the proprietor. “We’ll make an exception this time. I’ll have the woman who waited on you cancel the charge for the gown.”
You see, there’s an exception to every rule. Rules are general. In most cases, they should be adhered to, or we’d live in a world of anarchy. But let me give you one simplistic example where a rule should be broken.
You’re listening to a sermon in church. The congregation is silent, hanging on the minister’s every word. There’s a rule in that church that no one speaks during a sermon. To speak would break the spell. Suddenly, you detect a flicker of flame at the base of one wall. A wire behind the plaster is malfunctioning. What should you do? If you cannot break a rule under any circumstances, you have three alternatives.
The particular circumstances govern whether or not you can justifiably break a reasonable rule. If you do not want a policy or regulation to govern your situation, be prepared to demonstrate that the framers of this rule never intended it to cover your unique facts.
Here’s the third “moving up” example. You dutifully mail in your federal tax form by midnight, April 15. You’ve answered every question like an Eagle Scout, falsifying nothing. Two months later, you receive a modified form letter from the Internal Revenue Service. The IRS wants you to visit a local office at 10:00 A.M. the following Thursday. There are discrepancies that need straightening out.
Your stomach wraps around your spine. You idiotically fantasize that you must be guilty of something.
Use your head. Stop being emotional. Let your stomach relax. No one’s going to flog you with a truncheon. In actuality, you’ll be treated with exaggerated respect. You’ll get the “kid glove treatment.”
Carrying pertinent records and canceled checks, you drop by the IRS office at 10:00 A.M., per instructions. You tell the receptionist your name, then glance over his left shoulder. Rows of desks pop into focus behind him. Seated at each desk is an individual with an electronic calculator, a pad of paper, tax-table books, and a serious, kindly face. Remember four things about these auditors:
As you wait for your name to be called, you double-check what you’re wearing to make sure you aren’t overdressed.
You should never dress like a fashion plate when entering an IRS office. Don’t look like a bum, but also don’t resemble the front cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly or Harper’s Bazaar. The person you deal with will feel comfortable with you, and friendly toward you, only if he or she can identify with you. (This is a psychological insight sharp trial lawyers cash in on so they won’t turn juries off. Some leave their hair in need of a trim; others don’t shave too closely; and still others let their shoes get scuffy.)
Your name is called. Simultaneously, a designated auditor steps forward to greet you. At this point—and throughout the transaction—your attitude is one of pure “Help me!” You personalize yourself, coming across as a reasonable, likable, friendly human being. Are you argumentative? To the contrary. Are you defensive? Absolutely not. You’re there to be cooperative. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
The auditor says, “There are four things I want to discuss with you: first, your charitable contributions; second, the figure you put down for home depreciation; third, your enhancement of your property through extensive additions; and fourth, the amount of money you claim you sent in as a quarterly tax payment.”
You clear your throat. This may be tougher than you anticipated. But need it be? No. Just play it cool.
The auditor continues, “I’d like to see verification of the $900.00 you put down on your return for charitable contributions.”
“No problem,” you reply. “I have the canceled checks right here, in this envelope.”
The auditor thumbs through the checks, concurrently depressing buttons on the desk-top calculator. “These only total $360.00. How do you account for the other $540.00?”
Your answer is as sincere as it is quick. “I faithfully go to church every Sunday. Each time, I drop ten dollars in the collection plate.”
“Fifty-two times a year?”
“Without fail. That comes to five hundred dollars.”
“What about the remaining forty dollars?”
You don’t even bother to clear your throat. “That was for Girl Scout cookies, hand-outs to kids soliciting funds for Little League Baseball, and so forth. I probably should have put down sixty bucks for all that.”
“Hmmm …” comments the auditor. “That’s hard to believe. No one’s that generous!”
You shrug. “I am.”
“I’m going to put a question mark next to that $540.00 figure,” says the auditor.
Note the situation here. The auditor can’t prove that you didn’t drop ten dollars in the plate each Sunday or dispense money to fresh-faced youngsters. That’s strictly a matter of judgment of what is reasonable. With respect to matters of judgment, the IRS doesn’t have you “dead to rights,” as the saying goes. There can always be an appeal to a higher level.
The interaction continues. The auditor claims your home-depreciation figure should reflect a twelve-year period. You politely disagree, reiterating that the figure should reflect an eight-year period. You stick to your guns, like Stonewall Jackson at the Battle of Bull Run. Nothing can budge you. Does the IRS have you dead to rights? No. This, too, is a matter of judgment. This, too, can be appealed.
Having scrawled a second question mark with a Magic Marker, the auditor, a literalist from the word “go,” proceeds. “You enhanced your property by $2,000.00 when you made the additions spelled out on page four of the typewritten sheets attached.”
“Oh, no—you have that all wrong,” you state quietly. “Those weren’t additions. They were badly needed repairs. The house was falling apart. You should have seen it! If I hadn’t done what I did, it would have resembled a tarpaper shack!”
The auditor smiles wryly, as though suffering from a gas pain. Even a literalist can have a sense of humor. This is another matter of judgment. Therefore, another question mark is scrawled. You now have a third matter that can be moved up the pyramid.
You come a cropper on the fourth point of contention. You claim, on your tax return, that you paid $1,400.00 in quarterly tax payments. The IRS has proof that you paid only $900.00. The figure you put down was a slip-up—an honest mistake on your part. You filled out the form late at night, and your mind was tired. Here the IRS does have you dead to rights. It’s not a matter of judgment. There’s no chance to appeal. You must make up the $500.00 difference.
But what if the auditor disagrees with you on those other points: your charitable contributions, home depreciation, and property enhancement?
The answer is simple. If you acted honestly and believe you are right, start moving up. Appeal. First, make an appointment with an IRS examiner. If that get-together doesn’t satisfy you, make an appointment with a member of the Office of the Regional Director of Appeals. If that get-together doesn’t satisfy you, take your case to court—either a United States tax court, a United States court of claims, or a United States district court. In short, even if only a small amount is involved, appeal, if you’re so inclined. You have Constitutional rights. Lean on them. You also have guts. Use them.
One final note about negotiating with the IRS: If various auditors and examiners demand that you produce additional verification for everything, as if you were a magician who can yank rabbits from hats, don’t rush. Get delays. Tell whomever you’re dealing with that it’s going to take a long, long time to run down the required records. Use time, and learn to live with the ambiguity, because it will save you money in the long run.
Remember, the IRS is eager to close your file. Fencing with you requires people, time, and money. The effort expended on your case produces a very poor return, and they know it. So continue to say, “Look, I’m sure I’m right. Perhaps we can work something out.” Eventually, even when it believes it’s right, the IRS is willing to negotiate matters of this type. As you move up you will find more understanding for your point of view. The higher-ups know that sound tax administration requires flexibility in dealing with questions of judgment about trivial sums.
Here’s the fourth “moving up” example. You and a friend decide to rent a rustic summer cottage for weekend use, sixty miles from the city in which you live. When you arrive, the first weekend, you discover that the cottage needs an incredible amount of repair work. The doors don’t open and close properly, the plumbing is faulty, much of the wiring demands attention, and the kitchen range is a disaster area. Fortunately, you’re clever with your hands. Unfortunately, you haven’t brought tools, parts, or very much money with you.
Leaving your companion to sweep floors and wash windows, you drive to a nearby town and enter a convenient hardware store. After an hour of searching, you find all the parts you need, plus the tools required to attach and fit them where they belong. The shopping cart you’ve been wheeling up and down the aisles is full. You push it to a check-out counter, and the clerk at the cash register rings up the total of $84.00.
“Eight-four dollars!” you exclaim. “That’s unbelievable! I’ll have to write out a check.”
“Sorry,” says the clerk. “This store doesn’t accept checks.”
Let’s freeze the frame. Why doesn’t this hardware store accept checks? At one time it did, but it was burned. Three percent of the checks it received bounced. Universalizing from that three percent, the proprietor adopted a new store policy. Frowning like Scrooge, he proclaimed to those at the cash registers, “Don’t accept checks, ever!” That’s why the clerks at the cash registers unthinkingly obey this iron-clad rule, making no exceptions.
And then you show up. “You have to accept my check,” you state. “Otherwise, I won’t be able to move into the cottage I’ve rented.”
“Sorry,” repeats the clerk. “I have my orders.”
“Who gave you those orders?” you ask.
“The owner,” he replies.
“I want to speak to him,” you say.
The proprietor appears. “What’s the story?” he asks.
“I need these tools and parts,” you answer, “and your clerk won’t accept a check.”
He stares at the shopping cart. “How much does all that come to?”
“Eighty-four dollars,” you reply.
“You don’t have the cash?” he asks.
“No, but my credit’s first-rate. I bank at the State National in Middletown.”
Let’s stop the action again. Are you in a good bargaining position, despite store policy? Yes. The best time to negotiate for acceptance of a check is after you’ve used a store’s services. The proprietor is staring at the eighty-four dollars’ worth of parts and tools in your shopping cart. He’s thinking, “Oh, my God, if this meatball says, ‘Forget it!’ and walks out the front door in a huff, I have to take all these items, one by one, and put them back on the shelves. That’ll take forever!”
Will he accept your check? Yes, if you show him proper identification, then give him your bank’s phone number, as well as the phone number of the outfit you work for. Remember: In most instances, an order-enforcing subordinate is simply a mouthpiece, acting in a robotlike manner. Sidestep robots. Negate any policy that’s detrimental to your interests by taking a step upward. The person who gives the policy can also take it away. Afford law givers a chance to amend their policy in light of your particular situation. Often, they are grateful for this opportunity.
Here’s the fifth “moving up” example. Your youngest son, who’s in seventh grade, is having a terrible time with mathematics. It isn’t that he’s not bright: He’s a crackerjack at English. But he can’t seem to grasp anything quantifiable. Why? His mathematics teacher humiliated him in front of classmates because he failed to show up for special help after school when ordered to do so. Now he has a mental block regarding numbers. That’s bad enough. What’s worse is that if this teacher doesn’t give him a begrudging nod, your son won’t advance into eighth grade. The boy’s hypersensitive. It would wipe out his psyche.
How do you negotiate your kid into eighth grade? Obviously, I am assuming that this outcome is just and beneficial to all parties concerned. It’s crucial that you confront the math teacher before he actually gives and records the flunking grade for the year.
Once a grade is on the school’s records, it’s almost set in concrete, so to speak. This presupposes that your child confides in you regarding his predicament. You must have a good relationship with your offspring—a relationship of mutual trust, based on acceptance of each other’s shortcomings.
It’s also crucial that you see the math teacher in person. Don’t negotiate with him on the phone. Saying no on the phone is easy. Being unreasonable on the phone is easy. Saying no and being unreasonable face to face is something else again.
When you huddle with the teacher, personalize like mad. Make sure he favorably perceives you, and your needs, with every one of his nerve endings. If that doesn’t work, immediately appeal to the next level in the school system’s hierarchy. Keep climbing the ladder, if need be, till you closet yourself with the superintendent of schools.
Normally, the superintendent of schools will be much more understanding of the stalemate than will the math teacher. Why? Because the superintendent is intensely political. He or she perceives you, not only as a complaining, concerned parent, but as a taxpayer—a taxpayer who can address the school board at its next meeting, along with fellow disgruntled parents, and initiate a mass movement to reduce school taxes.
That remote possibility, and the possibility of concurrent negative publicity, makes the superintendent shudder.
Will your son pass into eighth grade? Yes—if you move fast. The higher you go in any administrative pyramid, the better off you are. Those in the rarefied air of the higher altitudes are more flexible and pragmatic than those at the bottom of the pyramid. They’re more willing to flex so-called unbendable rules.
A final word about moving up. In most sizable communities, there are all sorts of people and groups you can appeal to for help, such as the Better Business Bureau, the Chamber of Commerce, consumer groups, Call for Action operations on TV or in the newspapers, and even legislators. Don’t hesitate to plug in to such facilities. To quote Hubert Humphrey on the subject of principle: “Never give up and never give in.”