Change Agent - Issue 37

It started as a typical vacation. My wife, an overworked corporate lawyer, and I, a neurotic and overworked entrepreneur, had both managed to protect a week in our schedules (the same week!) and were ready to head to Cape Cod for some much-needed rest and relaxation.

And, for the first time, Lucy the Wonder Dog would be with us.

Having drawn the short straw, I was responsible for finding lodging for this intrepid threesome. (This was several years ago, mind you, before the advent of the World Wide Web, back when people needed phones and stamps to communicate.) After a grueling 45-minute search that was aided by the Wellfleet Chamber of Commerce, I found the perfect spot. Right price. Perfect location. Recently renovated. Dogs welcome.

I should have sensed trouble when the contract arrived. It was accompanied not by a photo but by a beautiful woodcut of the cottage. How charming, I thought. I shared the brochure with my wife, Helene, and with Lucy, and we all agreed that this vacation would be free of the usual disasters. (Have I told you about the time my rented BMW nearly fell off the icy deck of a Martha's Vineyard ferry and into the frigid waters below? No? Another time, then.)

So we loaded up the Saab (I told you this was an old story) with all manner of goods and provisions. My wife brought along her trusty beach chair; I managed to lug a Windsurfer, Frisbees, dog-training devices, and, if I remember correctly, a fax machine.

After an 18-hour drive (okay, it just felt that way, but it took all day, and the traffic was bumper-to-bumper), we arrived at the cottage. Except it wasn't a cottage. It was a dump.

"Dump" would actually have been a generous word. It was a dingy, dirty hovel that barely resembled the luxurious cottage that was so handsomely illustrated in the brochure. Ever the innovator, I immediately suggested that we buy some flowers -- maybe even some posters. "It'll be fine!" I said to my wife with false enthusiasm and with the feeling that I was in huge trouble.

I was right. I was in huge trouble. My wife was disappointed. Okay, she was fit to be tied. But she had a great idea: "Hey, it's Saturday afternoon. It's the middle of August, the busiest time of the year for Cape Cod. Let's go to a local realtor and see if there are any vacancies!" To her credit, she didn't burst into laughter.

Feeling mighty guilty about being suckered by the owner of the cottage, I immediately agreed. So we took Lucy, the Saab, the beach chair, the Windsurfer, the Frisbees, and the fax machine with us to downtown Provincetown, where we miraculously found a parking space and a realtor who took pity on us.

Five minutes later, we were standing on the beach in Provincetown, admiring a dune shack. No pretense here. It really was a shack. One bedroom. One sitting room. A little kitchen. But it was on the beach. It had light. It was charming. And, amazingly enough, the realtor said that the owner would be happy to take Lucy.

Excited by the prospect of saving the vacation (though a little sad about losing our deposit), we drove back to the first place, said good-bye, and drove to the shack to begin our week on the beach. The realtor was waiting for us. It was after 6 PM on a Saturday, so we viewed this as a not very positive sign. Our hunch was correct.

Crestfallen, the realtor told us that we couldn't have the dune shack after all. "Why?" I asked.

"Because the owner has a policy: No dogs."

It turned out that the guy who owned the dune shack had just this one property. He wasn't Donald Trump in the making. He was just a guy, a guy with the keys to "our" shack. And he had a policy.

"No exceptions!" the agent said. When I pressed him and offered to leave an outrageous deposit, or to pay for a cleaning service after we left, all he could do was shake his head and say, "I'm sorry. He has a policy."

A policy. He wasn't an insurance salesman, and he didn't work for the Department of State. Nonetheless, he had a policy, an all-purpose rule that eliminated all doubt and prevented unpleasant surprises from cropping up -- surprises like, say, a willing customer eager to put money in his pocket.

All of which leads me to a question: Do you have policies at work? Does your company have a knack for turning onetime decisions into long-term edicts?

Los Angeles International Airport has a policy that you're not allowed to bring a beverage through security without tasting it in front of a guard. Apparently, some knucklehead decided that the best way for a terrorist to get an evil liquid on board a plane is to put it in a paper cup and carry it through security. Apparently, no terrorist would ever be smart enough to put it in, say, her purse?

My wife and I share a credit card, and the bank that issues it has a policy: It will release certain information only to the "primary cardholder." Since we're busy accruing miles on her frequent-flier account, my wife is the primary cardholder.