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Outside Magazine March 2002

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The Respect of the Men
Straight from the gut, an expedition leader reveals his management secrets

By Jack Handey

As leader of the expedition, I have come to realize that there is one thing more important than any other—and that is the respect of the men. It is more valuable than your gun, or your knife, or the blue terry-cloth slippers that keep your feet so toasty around the campfire at night.

In fact, the respect of the men can be even more important than the success of the mission itself. So if you're not exactly sure what the mission is, you may not want to ask the men, because you might lose their respect.

You don't get the respect of the men right away. You can try, by getting down in the dirt and begging them for it, or by kissing their boots, or by doing your funny cowboy dance for them. But trust me, these are not going to work.

No, respect is something that has to be earned. And earned slowly, like a fine, respectful wine. You can't try to earn it all at once, maybe by doing something like yelling out "Hey, watch this!" and then rolling all the way down the side of a hill. Even if you explain to the men that there could have been snakes and bees where you rolled, but you didn't care, it won't impress them. Rather, respect is earned by little things. Let's say you are leading the expedition through the bush, and you announce "I can't go on any farther!" But you do, for about five more hours, until you fall exhausted in the sand. Then you get up and make the men a nice dinner. Things like that.

Or later that night, around the campfire, you are toasting one of your marshmallows, using a stick that you broke off a tree with your bare hands. The marshmallow catches fire, and you wave it around to put it out. Even though it is out, the marshmallow is still smoky-hot, and sparky. But you just pop it straight into your mouth.

Or let's say you are riding your horse over some sharp rocks, so you get off to walk your horse, even though the rocks are really rough on your terry-cloth slippers. The men notice things like that. "You're gonna tear up those house shoes," one of the men might say to you. "I know," you mumble, because your mouth is still sore from the burning marshmallow.

That night you might check outside your tent to see if there is a present from the men, which, if you opened it, would be a new pair of slippers. But there isn't. And you smile to yourself, because you realize that the respect of the men is not the same as the love of the men.

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Saturday Night Live writer Jack Handey's latest book is The Lost Deep Thoughts