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Whether it's a free upgrade on a hotel room or skipping ahead in the check-in line, many businesses give preferential treatment to some customers, hoping to make them more loyal. The practice often works — but a new study suggests that when we get perks we didn't earn, negative feelings can result. And they can make a surprise deal a little less sweet.

That's the gist of a study to be published later this year in the Journal of Consumer Research, with the forthright title "Consumer Reaction to Unearned Preferential Treatment."

"The current research demonstrates that, although receiving unearned preferential treatment does generate positive reactions, it is not always an entirely pleasurable experience," write the study's authors, Lan Jiang, Joandrea Hoegg, and Darren W. Dahl.

The displeasing aspects of a treat tend to peak, they write, when the perks are given in public, in front of other customers who are no different than the recipient of the business's generosity.

"We propose that receiving something that others have just as much right to receive can activate concerns about negative evaluations, reducing the satisfaction with the preferential treatment," write the researchers, who teach marketing at business schools at the University of Oregon and the University of British Columbia, Vancouver.

The study's authors found that "satisfaction with receiving preferential treatment can be restored if the observer who does not receive such treatment reacts positively to the recipient's good fortune or if the observer is of a higher status than the recipient."

That's right. The test subjects enjoyed "the positive experience of 'beating' a superior'" so much, the authors say, that it brought "increased overall satisfaction."

It also helps if nobody's looking. To test that theory, the researchers conducted experiments to test "feelings of social discomfort" and try to determine where they come from. They found that even in the most seemingly fair context — a random drawing — the winner felt best about it if they were alone.

All of the tests placed participants in situations in which one person received a surprise bonus. In one case, a booth that was dispensing free product samples suddenly gave one subject more than the others. That was welcomed — especially if no one else was around.

"It's like they wanted to get out of there," co-author JoAndrea Hoegg tells The Globe and Mail. "It's the fear of negative evaluation. If you're getting something you don't deserve, you're thrilled – as long as no one is watching you."

All of this isn't meant to imply that businesses should stop giving people free perks, the researchers say. The trick is to be sure all customers know the deal — and why they're not getting it. Other options include using scratch-off game tabs and loyalty emails, which can be kept private, to connect with customers.

Such steps, they say, "would minimize the potential for negative emotions."

John Hammergren, the chairman, president, and CEO of drug distributor and health care services company McKesson, may have the largest pension for an individual on record, at a reported $159 million. The Wall Street Journal reported on Hammergren's pension Tuesday, citing company filings made last week.

From The Journal:

"Compensation consultants say it's by far the largest pension on file for a current executive of a public company, and almost certainly the largest ever in corporate America. It's also more than double the value of the 54-year-old Mr. Hammergren's pension six years ago."

The newspaper adds that Hammergren was named a co-CEO in 1999. He is one of the highest-paid chief executives in the U.S. business world, making an average of more than $50 million each year. The recent accounting of his pension tabulated what he would be owed in a lump-sum payment if he had voluntarily left McKesson on March 31.

McKesson currently ranks No. 14 on the Fortune 500 list, in part because of "a key contract with the Department of Veteran Affairs," according to CNN Money.

In March, Hammergren's name was connected to another pension fund: that of New York City. The city's comptroller, John C. Liu, led calls to remove Hammergren and another member of Hewlett-Packard's board of directors, blaming them for the company's disastrous $11 billion acquisition of Autonomy. Despite being re-elected by shareholders, the two board members stepped down from their posts in April.

The Journal notes that Hammergren's tenure has seen McKesson's stock triple, with the company reporting net income of $1.34 billion for the most recent financial year. But its analysis also found that the CEO's pension has been inflated by "several unusual factors," including crediting him "for extra years of service and for pay that he didn't receive."

Citing executive pay tracking firm GMI Ratings, the AP reports that "54 percent of CEOs of companies in the Standard & Poor's 500 index have accumulated pension benefits. The average value of their pensions is just over $7 million, down from $11.5 million a year ago."

The next-highest pension, the AP says, belongs to News Corp. CEO and chairman Rupert Murdoch, who would get $74 million. The AP also says compensation analysts call Hammergren's pension the largest on record.

Hammergren is expected to speak at McKesson's Investor Day event Wednesday, which begins at 9 a.m. ET, according to a company release.

In chaotic situations, certain people rise to the top, and that is certainly the case for Mohammed al-Hariri, a former air conditioning repairman who commands enormous deference on the windblown streets of Zaatari refugee camp.

In less than a year, the Zaatari camp in Jordan has grown into an instant city, with 120,000 residents who have fled the war in Syria, sheltered in trailers and tents. Officially, aid workers manage the camp. But Hariri is the de facto boss, a mafia don to Syrian refugees who seek his help.

At 48, he keeps his gray beard trimmed, and his steely hair, which stands high on his head, appears blow-dried. His shoes are clean and polished, remarkable on the dusty streets. He is deceptively small, almost delicate, but there is nothing gentle about the way he has built an empire in the camp, living in relative luxury.

"This is the kitchen," he says, as he gives a tour of his living compound. "It's a humble kitchen as you can see."

The well-stocked pantry is hardly humble by refugee standards. Hariri has a private water tank and bathroom. Artificial turf in his courtyard gives relief from the sand and rocks. His children watch cartoons in a separate air-conditioned trailer. Another trailer is a storage room filled with blankets and food. Three small refrigerators hum in the storeroom.

Hariri freely admits tapping into electricity from an Italian hospital nearby and helps others get free power, too.

"Look, everyone does it," he says, jabbing a cigarette in the air as his temper rises. "But know this," he continues, "we are in the 21st century, even animals in a barn have electricity."

Hariri can deliver more than electricity to upgrade the refugee trailers that line the dirty streets. He offers a tour of his section of the camp: His workmen have created decorative fountains out of concrete and stone in shaded courtyards behind corrugated metal front gates. The clear pools and bubbling water cools the desert air.

"A cup of coffee by the fountain in the evening, it's an extraordinary thing," he says, juggling calls from two Nokia cells phones, "and you enjoy the wonderful weather of Zaatari."

Friction With Aid Workers

Hariri makes no apologies for running what aid officials consider a criminal racket. He insists he serves his people. He gets them what they want. He rages against the aid worker he considers stingy and heartless.

"They are thieves and robbers and they are corrupt," he says, though he offers no specifics.

Before he became the boss here, he says he taught air-conditioner repair in a technical school in the Syrian town of Dera'a. When the protests started against President Bashar Assad, he immediately joined a rebel brigade and became commander of a special unit in the Falcons of the Tribe of Mohammed. Hariri says he specialized in mines.

In August of last year, he fled to Jordan and saw how he could be another kind of leader. His first lesson came on the day he arrived, the 60th refugee in Zaatari. He asked for extra blankets. An aid worker told him he would need a special coupon. His response: "Give me the stuff now or I will separate your head from your body."

He got the blankets, and then began building his empire. Ask how he does it, and he won't give a straight answer. There are rumors in Zaarati that he can have people killed. "I could, if I wanted to," he says, dismissively, "but I would never let it get to that point."

He claims he can solve problems in the camp, stop the riots that have resulted in injuries to Jordanian security police.

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"Why don't you take the train out there? That way you guys can drink, and hang out, and not have to worry about anything."

And we slip into Greek tragedy.

Fruitvale Station isn't really a surprising film, except insofar as it's rare to see such a warmly emotional big-screen portrait of black family life. The director, who grew up just north of Oakland and is about the age Oscar would be today, has said that for him there was a jarring that-could-have-been-me aspect to the story.

He's given it an immediacy and resonance on screen that reflects that — with help from a striking performance by Jordan, who's mostly had supporting roles before this on TV's Parenthood and Friday Night Lights. Together, star and director get you to look at, and think about, a flawed young man you might not give a second thought if you saw him on the street.

And also to look at, and think about, that reaction — and other knee-jerk reactions, and the consequences they can have. Fruitvale Station doesn't have anything shattering to say about the case, or the man, really. But it may well leave you shattered by his story. (Recommended)