I'm a simple man. I like simple things. My dream in life is simple: save the world or die in the attempt. My daily activities are simple too: follow orders, do what it takes. I like my life to be as simple as that. Why is it so complicated to keep my life simple, while it's so simple to complicate my life?
The most complicated complications are as simple as one word: Chelsea…
Chelsea isn't my problem. She's my mission. The real problem is her father. The situation became complicated when #1, The Boss, and #3, The Diplomat, suggested working out a Plan B, just in case the negotiations with Mister P.H. Johnsson didn't have the desired effect. We might need Chelsea's sympathy to solve our problem with her father. But what they didn't tell me is how to get that sympathy. They suggested giving her the best-day-ever, but they didn't tell me how to give her such a glorious feeling. So, instead of solving the first problem, the Higher Powers of Luxembourg's Intelligence created a second one. They are intelligent enough to give that problem to somebody else. Me. That's what they call Plan B.
The tool to solve every problem is TECK, the combination of Time, Energy, Creativity and Knowledge. My time will be used up when the clock strikes 12 and Cinderella returns to her castle. My energy will probably be used up long before that. My creativity has taken a sabbatical, but I do have knowledge. I've spent 150 hours of research on this job. All my life, I've trained to make a success of my first real mission. I have knowledge: I know Chelsea, and I know her father.
"Your father must be a happy man, having a daughter like you."
"You don't know my father."
Chelsea is an expert in killing a conversation. This time, she's right: would it matter if I did know her father? Would it be important? Her father doesn't care about me. Her father wouldn't do anything for me. That has nothing to do with Mister P.H. Johnsson being a good man or an evil man. It has nothing to do with his work either, or his responsibility, or his professionalism, or his education, or his race, or his religion, or his nationality. It's a simple matter of motivation. You can't change other people. We do what we do because we're motivated to do it. If #3, The Diplomat can't motivate Mister Johnsson to change his mind, perhaps Chelsea can, the daughter he loves dearly. That's not a problem. That's an opportunity.
I apply artificial respiration to the dying conversation: "Perhaps I know your father well enough. Do you know your father? Do you know what he wants most in the world? Or aren't you interested? If you want something, you'll have to do something to get it."
"Duh! I do everything I can. Sometimes I have to whine for weeks, but I don't give up until I get what I want."
Silence again.
Chelsea is an expert in killing a conversation.
I curse myself.
I'm the one to blame.
Stupidity is an incurable disease.
I know her.
She can't take criticism. What do I do? I tell her she doesn't know her father, that she doesn't even want to know him. Rostov! I better think three times before I say one word. Complicating simple things is so easy: all you need is one wrong word. What's the right word?
It's simple.
It's: "Yes, I do."
For Mister P.H. Johnsson, life's not a career; it's a mission. Mister Johnsson only has one goal: he wants his daughter to be happy. His little girl will soon be a grown-up woman, and her future husband will take over Daddy's mission to protect her. Despite all his political power, Mister Johnsson can't influence who will volunteer for the project. One day, he'll be ordered to escort his daughter to the altar-procedure, to exchange duties of responsibility with the next commander, after which his mission as a father will end when his little girl says three simple words: "Yes, I do."
All Mister Johnsson can do is hope. It's not in his jurisdiction to nominate his successor. Like every parent, his major responsibility was to teach Chelsea how she could be responsible for herself, her choices, and her acts. Those training days are over. What's left is the final exam. According to LSD intel, Mister Johnsson is not completely convinced that Chelsea's favourite candidate will give her the kind of happiness her father hopes for. I might not know Mister Johnsson, I might not agree with how he does his job, but I completely agree with him on this subject.
When I took her photo at the car park, Chelsea bitched at me: "I already have a boyfriend." She referred to Justin LeBon. I did a lot of research on Justin LeBon. I understand why Mister Johnsson has his doubts about him, being the prime candidate to take over the responsibility of someone Mister Johnsson loves with all his heart. It's not about his looks. Justin is good-looking, well-dressed and popular. It's not about his background or his future. The LeBon family has an outstanding reputation and can afford to send Justin, like Chelsea, to Harvard next year. It's not about what he does. Justin is amongst the best students in his class, stars in the college baseball team, and organises student marches against Global Warming. If this were a Cinderella story, Justin would easily fit the profile of the Prince. Mister Johnsson and I don't like what Justin says. When a candidate for the presidency of your only daughter writes on his Facebook page «All that women want is to be grabbed by the pussy», a father like Mister Johnsson might be confident and think «no majority will waste time on someone like that», but when the majority of the girls at your daughter's school «like» Justin officially on their social media, and when the 100% majority of your own offspring runs behind Justin like a bitch on heat, a father wonders what went wrong.
I don't wonder what's wrong. It's not my problem. I don't care if Chelsea and her Prince will live happily ever after, or if their story ends with a divorce on the cover of the Sunday papers. I'm not responsible for Chelsea's future. When Chelsea wants to act like Scarlett O'Hara and chase cute Ashley Wilkes who's not right for her, I should quote Rhett Butler and say: "My dear, I don't give a damn."
I can't.
Chelsea is not my favourite person. She's horrible, but… I pity her. If nobody helps her, her future will be worse than the example her parents gave her.
There are three ways to live. The best way is by avoiding mistakes; that's the highway to happiness. Second best is to make mistakes and learn from them; that's a D-tour, but in the end, it leads to happiness too. The third way is to make mistakes, learn nothing, and keep making the same mistakes again and again; that's the highway to hell.
Drugs are mistakes you don't want to learn from through experience. A broken marriage belongs in the same category. Both are temptations, and both are examples of making a free choice, but if you choose without having experience and refuse to learn from experienced others, you might easily make the wrong choice… You don't have a second life. If you screw up, you can't just pull out the plug and start over again. You should do it right the first time. Mister Johnsson knows this: his failed marriage is his biggest frustration. He wants to protect Chelsea from making the same mistake. He wants that more than anything. But he can't. She fell in love with a Wild Boy, reckless and hungered on the razor's edge she trails. That's a problem.
I don't see a problem; I see a solution. Imagine I can convince Chelsea to ditch Justin LeBon. Imagine she tells her father: "Oh, Daddy, I'm so happy I followed the advice of that friendly man from the LSD. Yesterday, I told Justin to go and have sexual intercourse with himself…" Mister Johnsson might reconsider that other advice, from that other friendly man from the LSD…
That's Plan B.
The idea is brilliant.
When I can make Chelsea change her mind, her father might change his mind.
But how do you make other people change their minds?
We have the carrot, and we have the stick.
The Stick of Punishment is a tool of Power, a tool of «Show, Don't Tell», 'to make hor feel'. Imagine we try to teach Mister Johnsson a lesson, showing him what will happen if he doesn't listen to us. It won't work… We don't have power over one of the most powerful men on Earth. Should we spank him? Should Luxembourg start a war and drop bombs on his head?
Imagine we'd wield the stick of Truth and bury him under our criticism. We can discuss matters in a private meeting, or we can debate in public, in the media, attacking him with words instead of bullets, in the hope he'll feel guilty and change his mind. Words won't work with Mister Johnsson; he's convinced that everything he does is for the best of everyone. My words didn't work today with his daughter Chelsea either; all I got in return for my criticism was a negative, defensive attitude and attempts to justify her unreasonable behaviour. We should forget about the stick.
We might use the Carrot of Promised Reward, a tool of «Tell, Don't Show». We can tell Mister Johnsson how bright the future will be when he just follows our advice, holding in front of his nose the carrot of becoming the next POTUS after bringing peace in the Middle East. It will not work. Nobody can predict the future. Our best option is to study the past and assume history will repeat itself. Eisenhower won a war and was elected President. George Bush Sr. lost a war, so he trained his son to win the replay with a higher body-count, and George W. was re-elected President. Mister Johnsson learnt from history: his present, aggressive politics is the only guarantee for a better future. The trick with the carrot won't work either.
We're running out of options. Show doesn't work and Tell doesn't work either. You can't change people with The Stick, and you can't change people with The Carrot. Left-wing politics are bad for our country, and Right-wing politics are also bad for our country. The male style leads to disaster, but the female style leads to another disaster. The light is either on or off, it's black or white, night or day, left or right, it's my way or the highway, we're moving up or we're going down, and standing still is going down… It's science…
We're running out of options, mainly because of a lack of knowledge. "Standing still is going down"? "We throw bombs to defend ourselves"? "White is the new Black"? "Only BrandiX washing powder removes the invisible stains from your favourite clothes"? What kind of science is that?
That's how you convince people: with nonsense and lies, and it works because you repeat them every day. Slogans, one-liners, America First! When we hear something, anything, more than 200 times, we stop thinking because we're convinced it's true.
Mr Johnsson drops bombs to solve a foreign conflict because his voters believe in violent solutions because their history, their movies and their TVs show nothing but violence. Should we start a campaign and bomb them with information that dropping bombs is bad? A mediaeval media war campaign costs shiploads of money and centuries of time. We have one meeting. We have one day. We don't have the time or the energy or the creativity to solve this problem.
But we have knowledge.
I've read books.
Yes, it's true; I've read every single book by Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, John le Carré, Daniel Silva, Len Deighton and Alistair MacLean. I've even read «Coq Rouge» by Jan Guillou. Who can say that? I'm a professional spy and I learn from the best. But I read a lot of Help Yourself books too; in the real world, non-fiction might work better than fiction.
The light is on or the light is off? How about «there's no light»? What if there are two lights, one on and one off? How about it being a flashlight? And how about those dimmers that turn a shiny laser show into a romantic flame or a creepy twilight? As soon as you stop believing and start thinking, you can find lots of new options. Why do we have to choose between Left and Right when all we want is going forward? Why do we have to choose between the male option and the female option if our desired state is to live in harmony and matrimony together? Can't we just «Show AND Tell»?
Right now, Chelsea is the best company I can imagine, giving me 'the silent treatment'. It's just me, my thoughts and the road ahead. I don't need more. I have time to think until we reach Ronda, and this snaky mountain road doesn't allow a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO to go over 30 km/hr.
The problem isn't that we need to motivate Mister P.H. Johnsson to do the right thing. Mister P.H. Johnsson is more than motivated to do the right thing. The difficulty isn't about what «the right thing» is either; it's peace in the Middle East. The problem is the difference of opinion between Mister Johnsson and us, about how to reach our mutual goal. To bomb or not to bomb, that's the question.
Like this car on this road, I'm wasting time on things I can't change. I should concentrate on my responsibilities. Chelsea. Justin. Making the right choice.
Chelsea wants Justin. Her father wants Justin out. Since I've read what Justin writes on his Facebook profile, I agree with Mister Johnsson: "I'm a nice guy. I like to give. I like to give girls what they want. All they want, and what they all want, is me. They even tag me: #metoo. So I give it to them, as much as they want, as often as they want it, and they are never satisfied. I don't make them come; they come back by themselves. They want more. All of them. I'm really a good boy, giving so much to all these girls."
But Chelsea doesn't read between the lines. Chelsea doesn't read at all. Chelsea wants Justin. It's about feelings. I'm male. Logic is my game. Handling emotions is a female talent. A woman like Rupi Kaur dominates words, poetry and feelings. For her, it's simple. She'd tell Chelsea:
«he only whispers that he loves you
when he slips his hands
below the waistband
of your panties
this is where you have to
understand the difference
between i want and i need
perhaps you want that boy
but certainly
you don't need him»
Were Chelsea a poet herself, she would answer:
«Wild boys never lost it
Wild boys never choose this way
Wild boys never close their eyes
Wild boys only shine»
But Chelsea doesn't read. Chelsea only looks at his photo, those bright eyes, that cute smile, and she can't resist the temptation. Wild boys always shine. Justin is a Wild Boy. Justin is the clucking cock with the flashy feathers that attracts all the horny hens. He is only interested in spreading legs and having sex, and they come back, although he can't make them come, and he can't satisfy them either; he's so proud of it, he even writes it on his profile!
What if I confront Chelsea with Justin's behaviour? I imagine what will happen when I say something like: "You care about Justin. Justin only cares about himself. Who will care about you?"
Wrong. Chelsea identifies with Justin. Just like Justin, Chelsea only thinks about herself. Chelsea thinks that Justin only thinks about her. It would be just as useless as to convince Justin with these same words. After watching the same fictional role model 2.000 times, people believe reality is like fiction. Media, films, and cheap fiction romance novels teach us to stereotype. Every story shows us noble, good-looking heroes with excellent human qualities. We don't realise it's just a story, made up by some millionaires from the entertainment industry. Like copycats, we identify with our heroes and try to be like them, spending all our time and money on our outside. In our innocence, we conclude that beautiful people always have a beautiful character.
They don't.
Handsome boys like Justin want sex. They are not mature enough to dominate their rushing hormones and do what they can to get as much sex as possible. They lie and cheat and charm and praise, they are popular and successful, and because it's so easy to get any girl they like, they move from one to another, like a postman who goes from slit to slit until his bag is empty.
This little mental exercise brings back my confidence. Before I say anything to Chelsea, I should consider the consequences. Don't act on instinct. Prepare. Visualise the scene. Find the right words.
I visualise Mister Johnsson in his role of severe father, having 'a conversation' with his daughter: "Justin is no good. What qualities does he have except The Looks he was born with? He's arrogant. He humiliates you in front of others… Do you want to be like Hillary? She had Wild Bill, the coolest Wild Boy since the Kennedys. It cost Hillary her career and the best years of her life. She could have been the first female President of the USA, but Wild Boys always shine, and for Hillary remained a place in Bill's shadow… I will not let that happen to you. I forbid you to see Justin again…"
Wrong. Forbidding Chelsea to see Justin will motivate her to do the opposite. Sneaky. Since Adam and Eve, forbidden fruits are irresistible. The Stick of Power doesn't work.
Let's visualise Mister Johnsson in the role of a loving mother: "Chelsea, my dear. I love you more than anything, and I hope you love me too, and if you do, I hope you give Justin a second thought. He's no good. And I'll tell you why: he's too handsome and… well… I'll tell you what happened when your mother was your age. She was the Queen of the Prom. All the boys from our school were licking her heels. She could have everyone she wanted. Even half the male teachers were willing to give her better notes when she smiled and whispered in their ears: «I really need that A…».
» Pretty people are, by definition, not better than others. On the contrary: they use their beauty to get what they want. Justin wants sex. After he had it with you, he'll go somewhere else. There will always be a silly goose who thinks she can change him, make him stay, make him love her, make him believe she's special, make him give up all those other girls, just for her. Testosterone doesn't work like that. If you fall in love with a Wild Boy and think that you can tame him, you make two mistakes: if you can't, he will chase all the other girls and leave you behind in misery, but if you succeed… he wouldn't be the man you fell in love with anymore…
» Wild Boys like Justin think they are the Lion King of the Jungle; thanks to their looks, they get what they want, without effort. No Wild Boy will ever change, nor will he have a reason to change. Only a silly girl thinks she can make him change. You're too intelligent for that. People don't change. All you can do is change yourself. I hope you'll change your opinion about Justin because I love you so much, and I want you to be happy, my dear. Falling in love with a Wild Boy like Justin LeBon will give you one lucky night and a horrible rest of your life. There are so many decent boys in the world, boys who are faithful, who work hard, boys who protect you and take care of you. Why don't you pick one of them instead of Justin?"
Hm… Chelsea isn't the type to digest such a sermon and draw conclusions. She's the type who defends herself. She would say something like this: "Yeah. Duh. Whatever. My mother was like Justin. She could have all the fun she wanted when she was young, and what did she do? She picked a decent man like you. Wow! How happy she is now. She's drunk of happiness, every day."
No, we can't have that. Chelsea will never see the carrot of a happy future as a reward. She wants short-time satisfaction and never bothers about any consequences. She's a product of her time: her entire education was about short-time satisfaction without consequences. In all her seventeen years, Chelsea never needed to learn to work for anything she wanted; all she had to do was ask. She never suffered any real problems; the social and economic stability of her family kept her away from problems or bought the solution whenever needed. Her mother is a perfect example of what can happen if you have everything: you'll run from one high to another without getting any satisfaction. One needs strong shoulders to avoid crossing the line, falling into an addiction. The high society doesn't recognise real-life dangers and become alcoholics, shopaholics, workaholics, phoneaholics, attentionaholics… Without sex 'n' drugs 'n' rock 'n' roll, they bore themselves to death.
I'm not very productive. Instead of wasting time on taking the wrong road, I should look for alternatives and solve the problem. Knowledge. Science. Hm. That might be an idea. Let's visualise Mister Johnsson in a role as a teacher: "I understand how you feel, Chelsea. Justin is a handsome example of the male species. Mother Nature gave you the animal instincts to react to his calls. Charles Darwin explained to us that in nature, the strongest always wins: the alpha dog will pick the most handsome bitch to produce the survival of the species. Those feelings you have, that's not «love»; it's «hormones», animal instincts of survival. There is nothing wrong with feeling carnal attraction for the physical outside of somebody else, but when you are honest, you also ask yourself what you will do with him for the other 23 hours and 55 minutes of every day."
And Chelsea will interrupt, of course: "Did you and Mom reproduce me in five minutes? When I'm with Justin, we have sex for hours and hours and hours…"
"Chelsea, dear… You don't have to explain it to me. Animals are like that. All they want is food, sleep and sex. It's in our DNA. But I hope you understand there are two kinds of males: hunting dogs and watchdogs. Justin is a hunting dog. He hunts for sport and pleasure. He hunts pussy. When he doesn't come home at night with prey, his day is spoilt, and he won't give up until he's caught something, which can be you or anybody else. You better find yourself a watchdog, someone faithful, who protects you and takes care of you, someone who's both pleasant company for now and a solid investment for a happily ever after."
That would be the truth. Chelsea doesn't like the truth. Chelsea prefers Justin's lies, to get her into the sack. She's not the only one. She's lonely, she doesn't have any real friends, she has all those doubts about herself, her body, her clothes, her image… Although she's THE most unique, she's exactly like everyone around her: she wants to be loved. She wants to hear she's awesome. Justin tells her that. Justin uses the simple technique of telling her what she wants to hear, so he can get what he wants. Nobody can deny it isn't effective. Short-time effort for a short-time result. When it's over, or when it doesn't work, you move to the next victim, like a genuine hunting dog.
I'm running out of time. We've left the mountains and are only minutes away from Ronda. It's time to act. I need «Show AND Tell» and I need it fast. Can I use the motivation Chelsea already has, to help her look at Justin differently? I can't change other people. All I can do is change myself, and all I can do is give Chelsea the proper knowledge, so she can convince herself why Justin, Mister Give, is a miss-take.
Quickly, I make a mental summary: no criticism, no lectures, no punishments, no negative feelings. Give her what she wants, compliments, like Justin, and show her what she needs to see. What's stronger than her feelings for Justin? It's her envy. She can't stand it when others have something and she doesn't. Her envy is the reason she wants Justin, so her rivals can't have him. Wild boys always shine. Chelsea wants to shine brighter…
After a deep breath, I feel ready.
Full count.
Bases loaded.
Game on…
"You look awesome in that dress."
"Thank you."
"As a man, I'm not good with fashion. I could really use some advice on how to dress."
"That's obvious."
"Are you Monopoly or are you Competition?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, are you one of those girls who wait in line until the cheap mega-stores open their doors for the summer sale, run inside to be the first, and fight the others to get the hottest gadget? That's Competition. Monopoly is quite the opposite: the lady sits on her throne while all the fashion houses stand in line before her door, to present their best offers, fighting for attention. You look at what's available and pick what suits you best. That's monopoly, the privilege of being unique."
"Duh! You don't know nothing, do you? It's obvious. You dress like Competition. I'm Monopoly."
My fake relief makes me feel bad. Like a lawyer, I ask questions while I already know the answers. But I have to be strong, keep up appearances and go on with the act: "Ah. Yes. That's right. I should have known. You are THE most unique, which is, of course, a synonym for Monopoly. You are not like all those cheap bitches who fight to get the hottest gadget of the season, embarrassing themselves when, two days later, something else turns out to be more popular. High Society like you looks down on those cheap offers."
"That's right. Why do you ask? You won't ever possess the class of my kind of people. You will never be able to pick the best fashion, not even when every shop in Paris presents itself in front of your bar stool."
"I was thinking about relationships, about finding the right girl. What would it take to impress a classy girl like you? Apart from my outfit, I would have to change my attitude. You would never accept a boy who treated you like you're some cheap bitch. You would never fight all the competition for one kiss from him. Quite the opposite: with so many followers, men fight for you. If, one day, I want a happy relationship, I'll need to learn how to be unique like you. Is that what you mean?"
"THE most unique. But you can't be like me. That's impossible, Arse."
"Why not?"
"Because «unique» means there can only be one. You have to stand in line for a girl like me, like all the others."
"You're right. I'm just a first-floor boyfriend and you're a fifth-floor girl, but I hope you don't mind that I see you as a mentor, and I admire you as a person, and I try to learn from you. Monopoly. Right?"
"Right."
"Right. Monopoly. No competition. I will keep that in mind. Monopoly. And why?"
"Because you're not interested in those cheap bitches who fight for a bone. You want to be like Chelsea, high above them."
"That's it. I want to make my own choices. Like Chelsea, I want the best of the best of the best…"
Chelsea nods with approval: "That's right. The best of the best of the best."
Simple words.
This is the moment.
You've trained all your life.
The entire season, you've worked hard.
You've won all the playoffs.
It's the final.
It's the ninth inning.
It's the second half.
No score.
Two men out.
Go to the plate.
Swing the bat.
Concentrate.
Wait for the throw.
There it comes…
"So… Why do you tolerate Justin LeBon inside your social circle? All those cheap bitches of your school fight for him like he's the latest gadget on summer sale. They can't wait to open their legs and draw him inside. I thought you had higher standards. Am I wrong?"
Strike!
Time bomb placed.
Detonator activated.
Mission accomplished.
And now we wait.
Is it a home run?
Just-in time?
I park the Ferrari before the studio, jump outside, open the door on Chelsea's side, help her step out of the car, and escort her inside.