Chapter 23
I have a finely tuned bathroom radar. I can sense a bathroom within 360 degrees of my location a hundred yards out. This skill has evolved over many years of finding myself in bodily function emergency situations. These scenarios are typically self‐induced, mostly driven by my obsession with spicy food and love of street meats. The sweat beading on my forehead and a general feeling in my entire body of the sudden need to evacuate whatever has been recently put inside it is a common experience. I live in a constant state of low‐level dysentery.
Speaking of low‐level dysentery, I found myself in Washington, DC. I was here for a meeting with an NGO followed by an invitation to the Irish Embassy for an event in the evening. In 20 years in the entertainment, comedy, and improv training world, I have been pitched all kinds of strange concepts. A Russian billionaire wanted my company to supply actors dressed as bunnies playing improv games at their wedding (I passed on that one, and in hindsight, I definitely should have taken this gig. The stories would have lasted for years). I have done improv with Special Forces soldiers, conducted role plays where we acted as douchebag managers at Harvard Business School, and have written bad jokes for robots. I've done some weird stuff. When I was contacted by an international NGO and asked if I would be interested in meeting to discuss how our improv techniques might be employed in negotiations with African warlords, I mean, how could I possibly say no?
The skill set of improvisation, at its core, is the ability to listen to other people and build off of their ideas with the goal of getting to a place or idea that both parties have agreed to and feel ownership of. Apparently negotiating with warlords requires much of the same skill set, namely, trying to move the conversation in a positive direction and working toward a resolve that all parties can agree with. One major difference is that if the conversation doesn't go well you may be killed.
Dying on stage is an occupational hazard, albeit a metaphorical one. And while it most certainly does not feel good, you still have the ability to go to the bar afterward and commiserate with your cast mates. That opportunity does not typically exist on the Warlord Circuit.
The meeting itself was fantastic and it really was fascinating to discuss the similarities that exist in the techniques that high‐level negotiators use and the skill set that professional improv comedians employ to manage stressful situations. The ability to focus on another person and read the room is a skill used by both improv comedians and high‐level negotiators. Moving through a conversation without a script requires a deft touch where one places their own wants in the background, for at least a little while, as they ride the flow of information to wherever it may take them.
Our hosts had invited us to an event at the Irish Embassy later that evening. I was very excited to have the opportunity to hob elbows and rub nobs with the movers and shakers of the international do‐gooder set. It's always fun to respond to the question of “And what is it you do?” posed by someone who has recently rebuilt a village or brought healthy water to a region or peace to an ancient tribal conflict, by saying “I make shit up for a living.”
With dreams of Bond/Bourne/Ripley dancing in my head, our team made our way to the Embassy. Nearing the end of our Uber ride was the moment when that old familiar feeling started to spread through my body. The beads of sweat, the glassy‐eyed stare, the suddenly becoming quiet as I focused my mind on controlling the internal workings of my systems. I was now what I refer to as being “on the clock” and so my bathroom radar powered itself up and was working in overdrive.
We pulled up to the stately Irish Embassy where all the lovely people in tasteful suits and dresses were making their way into the facility. Upon entering the building a reception line snaked up the sweeping staircase where an elegant woman was laughing and greeting the guests. Scanning the immediate vicinity, my radar told me that what I needed was upstairs, past this woman who was holding up the damn line with her charm and good humor.
Using my best mental mojo and the well‐honed technique of not squeezing too tightly or too loosely, I moved up the spiral staircase one agonizing step at a time. While all around me was the buzz and excitement of well‐intentioned people about to get free meat on a stick and complementary booze, I heard nothing but the swooshing of my stomach. As I finally reached the top of the stair I came face‐to‐face with the hostess. She extended her elegant hand and said “Thank you so much for coming. What is your name?” I offered my clammy palm, and looking over her shoulder, trying to identify which of the doorways was the one that I needed, replied, “Norm Laviolette, and you would be?”
There was a moment of slight confusion in her face, then she replied, “I would be the Ambassador.” My instinct in these kinds of situations has always been to double down on the faux pas, if for no other reason than the fact that humor has more often than not gotten me out of whatever predicament I have gotten myself into. With a smile and a firm handshake I declared, “Then you must know where the bathrooms are.” She pointed down the hall and to the left, at which point I excused myself and nearly ran to my final destination.
The rest of the evening was a heady mix of international glamour and high‐level conversations on how to make the world a safer and better place. I focused on the scallops wrapped in bacon and getting drinks from the different bars so as to not look like a complete drunk by getting too many from the same bartender.
I never was asked to make the trip to Africa and sit with warlords, which is unfortunate. I was very much looking forward to the opportunity to see if my wits and charm, which to this point has allowed me not only to stay alive but to thrive, could be employed to end some conflict or another.
I have the scenario perfectly pictured in my head. I enter, along with our small team of negotiators into the home of some powerful warlord. The tension is thick and the silence is heavy. Their side eyes us with suspicion as we try to hide the anxiety and fear we are feeling. When it seems that the tension can't climb any higher, I clear my throat and look the warlord right in the eyes and say, “Hey, you must know where the bathroom is around this joint, right?”