By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

I LIKE WEARING RED JOCKEY SHORTS. Not all the time, mind you, but on special occasions when I need that extra boost. It’s psychological; when facing the board of directors, it’s nice to know I’m sporting something . . . well, aggressive. I call them my power shorts. Now generally red jockey shorts are not a problem. I mean, who’s going to know my cockiness emanates from the color of my linen? It wasn’t long ago that the world knew. I was at the airport, checking in to fly to Chicago on business. I was feeling red-hot confident when suddenly I sensed a cool breeze just below the belt. I looked down and to my amazement found my zipper gaping, looking like a big mouth bass surfacing for air, its red gills bellowing in the noonday sun. The crimson was particularly set off by the cast of my off-white, tropical slacks. I immediately pressed against the ticket counter and tried to zip up. I could not; the zipper was broken and freewheeling. For a moment I felt like a provocative dancer on MTV.

I got my boarding pass and rushed to the men’s bathroom trying to look natural, which is hard to do with your hands clasped in front. Have you noticed that people don’t walk with their hands clasped in front? I popped into one of the stalls and tried to set the zipper on track. It was useless. I still had a few minutes until boarding so I decided to go to the gift shop and ask for a safety pin. “No, I have paperclips,” she said, “but no safety pins.” As she spoke, I noticed that her eyes dropped three feet-crouch level. I think the behavior is activated from a little-understood, feminine gene. When a guy asks a gal for a safety pin, her eyes drop three feet; it’s the law.

“A paperclip wont work,” I said with a crooked grin. We’re talking power shorts here, I thought to myself. “Perhaps you could try the restaurant,” the woman with the downcast eyes suggested.

I took the woman’s advice and crossed the hall to the airport cafe.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I whispered discreetly to the waitress, a short, plump woman with sweat trickling from her forehead. “Would you have a safety pin?”

Her eyes dropped three feet. “A WHAT?” she bellowed.

“A safety pin.” Then I added, hoping for some hint of understanding, “My zipper is broken.” “Ohhh, gotcha,” she whispered, poking me in the ribs with her sweaty elbow. “HEY, MADGE,” she barked, “WE GOT A SAFETY PIN IN THE KITCHEN? THIS GUY’S BUSTED HIS ZIPPER.” Now the eyes of every woman in the restaurant dropped three feet. She was beginning to draw a crowd. I stood there like a kid on his first big date, trying to figure out where to put my hands. There was a ripple of laughter from the one o’clock diners. I decided to slink out of the restaurant, my big mouth bass still gasping for air. Next I tried the lady at Hertz-Rent-A-Car.

“Sorry, I’ve got plenty of paperclips.”

“I can’t use paperclips.”

“Sorry.”

Avis was the same. So was Budget. I was running out of options. The first boarding call was announced. I could not imagine flying to Chicago wearing slit style Tudor’s pants. I quickly edged my way down the line of ticket agents, all serviced by bouncy 20-year-olds, the kind with glossy lips and hair precisely unkempt.

I maintained direct eye contact at all times. When their eyes began to droop, I bent my knees to keep on the same visual plane. It’s surprising how far a desperate middle-aged man can squat when he has to. I was about to give up when a Delta representative called me back to her booth.

“Sir, will this do?” she asked, holding a shiny, three-inch diameter promotional button. Yes, there was a safety pin attached to the back, but the button went with the safety pin. I read the slogan: WE LOVE TO FLY AND IT SHOWS.

“No,” I said to myself, “I think I’d rather stick with the big mouth bass.”

So that was it. I flew 2000 miles, planed and deplaned six times, and had a business dinner with three new clients-my red jockey shorts blazing in the sun.

On that day I would have given my kingdom for a safety pin. Who would have thought that a one-cent twist of wire could have so much value in my time of need? Never again will I take for granted the power of the instrument that can pull together the tugs of opposing forces and finally unite that which was resolutely divided.

We all know the value of a finely tuned zipper-an ingenious device for drawing fabric together (first introduced as the “clasp-locker” at the 1893 Chicago’s World Fair). But there is an even greater invention: the human capacity to draw together opposing positions. That is real magic: to be able to hear and understand the differences and somehow find a common ground for agreement. And for that, counselors, mediators, peacemakers, problem solvers-safety pins of the world-I salute you.