The Need for More Placebo Buttons
Road rage comes from a need to control other drivers.
Sure, there are some underlying issues that take it from "Jesus. Just turn already!" to getting out of the car and screaming while bashing the hood with your fists, but the reason we lose our shit on the road is the same reason we hulk out when someone is taking too long to make our McMuffin or blocking what we see as essential legislation through an adherence to the filibuster in a faux call for bipartisanship.
We desperately want to be in control of other people.
The illusion of control provides a respite in this malevolence: if we believe that we can control others or obstacles, then we can navigate our daily life more smoothly.
There was a study in which volunteers sat in booths to test their acoustic sensitivity to pain. The presence of no control over the experiment demonstrated a lower threshold of pain than when presented with a shiny red PANIC button. Give them a button that indicates they have influence and the threshold for pain increased exponentially.
The button was non-functioning. It was a visual and physical placebo. Volunteers had the illusion that they were in control and this illusion allowed them to experience a greater degree of acoustic noise.
You know those buttons you press to indicate you need to walk across a busy intersection? They do not affect the "walk" sign in any way whatsoever. They are placebo buttons that gives us the illusion that the stoplights are somehow under our control.
The "open/close" buttons on elevators? Same thing. Meaningless in terms of actual control of the door speed but it gives us that feeling that we matter in that moment.
The purpose is to mollify our overwhelming need for control of the world and give us pause while we wait. The traffic lights are going to change; the elevator doors are going to close. They are on timers. Our impatience gets in the way.
“Sir, do you need me to put you in the Hot Room? Your tone indicates you may need an attitude adjustment and I’m thinking a few minutes in the Hot Room is exactly what is required.”
He sputters to a halt. I make eye contact with Mom and she sees the smirk. She gets it. And before Dad can relaunch his tirade, she squeezes his hand and says “Fine. Where is this Hot Room? My husband might need a few minutes in there.”
Dad looks confused and still furious but I move fast and look at the Kid. “You stay right here,” and start moving down the hallway hoping the parents follow.
They follow.
At the end of the long hallway, I stop in front of the room in question (as described earlier) and look back at the Kid. He is standing in my office doorway looking a little freaked out, unsure of how his meticulously laid plan had gone awry. I open the door to the Hot Room and bark so the Kid can hear me “Hopefully next time you won’t come in here with such a poor attitude" and usher the parents in the room. I shut the door. The windows are wall sized and Dad and I are looking at each other. I wink.
A beat. Dad slowly understands. It isn’t hot at all. The windows to the outside are open. The radiator is not broken. And a smile starts to come over his face and he begins to laugh. I immediately look at him as if to say “Don’t Blow My Story.” And, again, Dad gets it. Mom is smiling from ear to ear at this point.
I open the door and say (loud enough for the Kid to hear) “You had enough? Hot enough for you?” and I look at Dad and wink. He gets it and stumbles out of the room, breathing heavily. Mom plays along, too.
The Kid stares from down the hall with despair and shock.
As we walk back to my office, Dad whispers, “You’re a genius!”
“Don’t tell anybody,” I whisper back.
The world needs a lot more of these placebo buttons.
