by Howard Fast
“How? First I ask this: what in hell is so great about tall? Tall, tall, tall—that’s all you hear. Why? Was Adolf Hitler tall? Was Napoleon tall? Was Onassis tall? Was Willie Shoemaker tall? And do you know how much prize money he took? Over thirty million, that’s all. How about art—was Toulouse-Lautrec tall? You know how tall they believe Shakespeare was? Five feet four inches. Tall is for basketball players.”
“But people think tall, Milty.”
“Then we change their thinking. They think tall because everywhere the propaganda says that tall is good. We change that. We show them that tall is for clods. The men who make the world go round are small. The men women prefer are small. The men who become top dog are small. It’s a small man’s world. That’s what we show the world—that it’s a small man’s world, and the smaller the better.”
“But, Milty,” the oldest member of the board said patiently, “suppose we demonstrate all that. We still can’t make men smaller.”
“No?” Milty smiled. Years later, remembering that smile, some of the younger board members spoke about a “Gioconda” quality, but that was in retrospect and after Milty had gone to whatever rewards the next world provides for such genius. At the moment, then in 1982, Milty’s smile was a smile of sheer superior knowledge.
“No—no, we can’t make men smaller, but they can, can’t they?”
“How, Milty?”
“By wanting it. Men have increased their height by over a foot in the past two hundred years. Suppose they start to decrease it—”
A month later, in the same board room, facing the representatives of the twelve largest advertising agencies in the world and the seventeen largest public relations firms, Milty Boil put his plan on its proper level.
“We are here, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “to serve mankind. In the name of mankind, its purpose and its survival, I call this meeting to order. Our goal, my friends, is to double the size of the earth.”
Then, to the silent—silent, that is, until he had finished—admiration of those assembled there, Milty presented his plan; and then even those hard-bitten, cynical representatives of the one business that makes the earth turn broke into cheers and applause. Milty rose and nodded modestly; he was not egotistical, but neither was he one to hide his light under a bushel.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “And now the floor is open for ideas and questions.”
No stodgy board of directors were these twenty-nine representatives of advertising and public relations. Their minds were as hard and bright as quartz. The first to rise was Jack Aberdeen, the young wonder boy of Carrol, Carrol, Carrol and Quince. Even as he snapped his fingers, Milty could see his mind crackle and snap.
“Got it, Mr. Boil. Round number one. You know the way the Kellogg Company pushes its cornflakes as the food that makes kids tall. Union Mills is our account. I see a new competitive product. Tinies. I got the slogan—‘Small and tight.’ Every company will have to fall in line. ‘Are you afraid of the big bully? Tinies will reduce your muscles to knots of steel. Tiny knots of steel. Small and tight.’ I got a tune for it—‘Small and tight, small and tight, who the hell needs height, if only I am small and tight?’ Of course we got to find something like an anti-vitamin, but we represent Associated Labs, and I’ll get them to work on it.”
Milty could have hugged the kid, but already Steve Johnson of Kelly, Cohen and Clark was on his feet and speaking. He represented some of the biggest airlines on earth.
“Milty,” he said, “may we call you Milty?”
“Call me Milty, Steve. By all means.”
“Two things. Milty, you have just kicked off the biggest change in the history of airlines. That’s number one. I got the slogan—‘Weigh less, pay less.’ Why not? The small man weighs less, he pays less. Put a premium on small.”
Johnson, Milty noted, was no taller than he himself.
“Second thing—flights to the moon and Mars. All the airlines have been discussing the prospect of putting these flights on a tourist basis. But the cost is terrifying. We make it a bonus thing: ‘Do you want to see the moon? You can’t—you’re too tall. But your kids can. Keep them small. Feed them anti-vitamins. So that they may have what you never dreamed of having—a flight to the moon or Mars—a step into tomorrow, a glimpse of man’s glorious future. No tourist who is taller than five feet can get into outer space.’ How about that—is it not beautiful?”
Cathey Brodie, public relations for Jones and Keppleman, the largest ethical drug house in the world, leaped to her feet now and cried out:
“Moon pills—does that ever send me! It means the lab boys have to really dig for something to control height, but they’ve found everything else. Why not? Moon pills.”
“Moon pills,” Milty repeated, smiling.
Tab Henderson, who managed promotion for over eight hundred large hospitals, not to mention three of the leading insurance companies, jumped right into the gap Cathey Brodie had opened.
“We could just overlook the biggest little inducement in this whole splendid project. I mean health. Long life. Added years. We have statistical charts to show that over six feet three inches, life expectancy begins to decrease. We look at it the other way. Be small and stay healthy.”
There were a few sour faces, a few spoil-sports, but most of the team assembled threw their hats into the ring, and the plans came thick and fast.
“Tall, dark, and handsome—that must go. Small for tall—‘Small, dark, and handsome.’”
“Beautiful.”
“Get the sex angle. ‘Sex is better with a small man or a small woman.’”
“‘Try it with both—make your own decision.’ That gives it a do-it-yourself feeling.”
“How about this—‘Close the generation gap!’ For the past three or four generations the kids have all been bigger than their parents. No wonder a father can’t lay down the law. Now we reverse it, each generation smaller than the one that preceded it. We reestablish the authority of the father. The home once again becomes the sanctuary it was in olden times.”
One after another the ideas sparked forth, until the beginnings of an entire world program began to take shape there in the board room of Boil Enterprises. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was the pattern of world psychology that reduced practically all of the human race to half of its size; but there the foundation was laid—and there Milty Boil became Milty Boil, benefactor, underwriting that first, initial effort with a cool twenty million dollars of his own money.
For the rest of his life Milty had a goal—a reason and a meaning for the tremendous effort that produced one of the great fortunes of our time. Cynical people say that the first five years of the program created a condition where Milty Boil could begin to build his gigantic structures—one hundred floors with ceilings only four feet and six inches high—without opposition. Others—so-called reformers—held that it was an indignity for man to spend his life in a place where he could never hope to stand up straight, but Milty answered that charge with his ringing Declaration of Purpose, a document which takes its place in American history alongside the Declaration of Independence and the Gettysburg Address. I quote only the first paragraph of Milty’s Declaration, for I am sure that most of my readers know it by heart.
“Life without purpose,” wrote Milty (or some unknown ghost writer who took his inspiration from the dynamic leadership of Milton Boil), “is neither life nor death but a dull and wretched existence unworthy of man. Man must have a goal, a purpose, a destination, a shining goal for which he struggles. We saw in the hapless youth of the sixties and seventies what it meant to be without a purpose in life; but never again shall the world face that quandary. People—shameless people—have accused me of building for profit; they charge that I reduce man with my low ceilings, that I take away his dignity. But the reverse is true. Through my splendid houses, man has found both dignity and purpose—the purpose to be small and to raise small children, so that the world may increase in size, and the
dignity of men who must always fight their environment, who cannot stand in decadent comfort, who must struggle and grow through struggle.”
In the year 2010, when Milty was seventy years old, he achieved his ultimate goal. Through his ever expanding influence, he persuaded the New York City Council to pass a law cutting Central Park in half, granting all that part of it north of Eighty-second Street and south of Ninety-eighth Street to Milton Boil, so that he might fulfill his lifelong dream and build an apartment house two hundred stories tall with ceilings three feet and six inches high. Over a hundred people were killed in the riots that followed this action of the City Council, but progress is never achieved without paying a price, and Milty saw to it that no widow or child of those who had perished went hungry. Also, he guaranteed living space in his new building to all those made fatherless by the riots—at one-half the rent paid by the regular tenants.
After that, only fanatics and hippies would deny that Milty was the gentlest and kindest of landlords in all the history of landlordism. Indeed, after his death, the Pope instituted proceedings that would result in Milty’s eventually becoming the patron saint of all landlords; but this is still in the future—with many thorns strewn on the path to sainthood, not to mention certain confusion about Milty’s religion, that is, considering that he had any.
Milty died in his eighty-seventh year, and we can be pleased that he lived long enough to see his dream begin to come to fruition. His coffin was carried by eight young men, no one of them more than four feet eight inches in height, and here and there in the audience that packed the chapel were grown men and women no taller than four feet. Of course, these were the exceptions, and it was not until almost half a century later that the first generation of adults who were less than three feet tall reached their maturity.
But we must not abandon this small tribute without noting that when Milty’s will was read, it disposed of no more than a few thousand dollars and a handful of things that were beloved of him. Such was the nature of the man who earned millions only to give them away. Naturally, there are those who claim that since reading a book in his very early youth, titled How to Avoid Probate, Milty was never subsequently without it—that is, without this precious volume—and that eventually he memorized all of its contents and could quote chapter and verse at will.
But where is there a great man who has not suffered the barbs of envy and hatred? Slander is the burden the great must carry, and Milton Boil carried it as silently and patiently as any man.
On the modest headstone that graces his final resting place, an epitaph written by Milty himself is carved:
“He found them tall and left them small.”
To which our generation, standing erect and proud under our three-foot ceilings, can only add a grateful amen.
THE MOHAWK
WHEN Clyde Lightfeather walked up the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, he was wearing an old raincoat of sorts; and then he took it off and sat down cross-legged in front of the great doors. Underneath he was dressed just like the bang-bang man in an old Indian medicine show—that is, he wore soft doeskin leggings, woods moccasins, and nothing at all from the waist up. His hair was cut in the traditional central brush style of the scalp lock, with one white feather through the little braid at the back of his neck. He was altogether a very well-built and prepossessing young full-blooded Mohawk Indian.
A crowd gathered because it doesn’t take anything very much to gather a crowd in New York, and Father Michael O’Conner came out of the cathedral and Officer Patrick Muldoon came up from the street, and the gentle June sun shone down upon everyone.
“Now just what the hell are you up to?” Officer Muldoon asked Clyde Lightfeather. There was a querulous note in Officer Muldoon’s voice, for he was sick and tired of freaks, hard-core hippies, acid-heads, pot-heads, love children and flower children, black power folk, SDS, sit-ins and demonstrations-out; and while he was fond of saying that he had seen everything, he had never before seen a Mohawk Indian sitting cross-legged in front of St. Patrick’s.
“God and God’s grace, I suppose,” Clyde Light-feather answered.
“Now don’t you know,” said Muldoon, his voice taking that tired, descending path of patience and veiled threat, “that this is private property and that you cannot put a feather in your hair and just sit yourself down and attract a crowd and make difficulties for honest worshipers?”
“Why not? This isn’t private property. This is God’s property, and since you don’t work for God, why don’t you take your big, fat blue ass out of here and leave me alone?”
Officer Muldoon began to make the proper response to such talk, Mohawk Indian or not—with the crowd grinning and half disposed toward the Indian—when Father O’Conner intervened and pointed out to Officer Muldoon that the Indian was absolutely right. This was not private property but God’s property.
“The devil you say!” Officer Muldoon exclaimed. “You’re going to let that heathen sit there?”
Up until that moment Father O’Conner had been of a mind to say a few reasonable words that would be persuasive enough to move the Indian away. Now he abruptly changed his position.
“Maybe I will,” he declared.
“Thank you,” Lightfeather said.
“Providing you give me one good reason why I should.”
“Because I am here to meditate.”
“And you consider this a proper place for meditation, Mr.—?”
“Lightfeather.”
“Mr. Lightfeather.”
“The best. Do you deny that?” he demanded pugnaciously.
“What is meditation to you, Mr. Lightfeather?”
“Prayer—God—being.”
“Then how can I deny it?” the priest asked.
“And you’re going to let him stay there?” Muldoon demanded.
“I think so.”
“Now look,” Muldoon said, “I was raised a Catholic, and maybe I don’t know much, but I know one thing—a cathedral is made for worship on the inside, not on the outside!”
Nevertheless, the Indian remained there, and within a few hours the television cameras and the newspapermen were there and Father O’Conner was facing no less exalted a person than the Cardinal himself. The research facilities at the various networks were concentrated upon the letter m—m for meditation as well as Mohawk. Chet Huntley informed millions, not only that meditation was a significant, inwardly directed spiritual exercise, an inner concentration upon some thought of deep religious significance, but that the Mohawk Indians had been great in their time, the organizing force of the mighty Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy. The peace of the forests was the Mohawk peace, even as the law was the Mohawk law, codified in ancient times by that gentle and wise man, Hiawatha. From the St. Lawrence River in the north to the Hudson River in the south, the Mohawk peace and the Mohawk law prevailed before the white man’s coming.
Less historically oriented, the CBS commentators wondered whether this was not simply another bit of hooliganism inflicted by college youth upon a patient public. They had researched Lightfeather himself, learning that, after Harvard, he took his Ph.D. at Columbia—his doctoral paper being a study of the use of various hallucinogenic plants in American Indian religions. “It is discouraging,” said Walter Cronkite, “to find a young American Indian of such brilliance engaging in such tiresome antics.”
His Eminence, the Cardinal, took another tack entirely. It was not his to unravel a Mohawk Indian. Instead, he coldly asked Father O’Conner just what he proposed.,
“Well, sir, Your Eminence, I mean he’s not doing any harm, is he?”
“Really carried away by the notion that God owns the property—am I right, Father?”
“Well—he put it so naturally and directly, Your Eminence.”
“Did it ever occur to you that God’s property rights extend even farther than St. Patrick’s? You know He owns Wall Street and the White House and Protestant churches and quite a few synagogu
es and the Soviet Union and even Red China, not to mention a galaxy or two out there. So if I were you, Father O’Conner, I would suggest some more suitable place than the porch of St. Patrick’s for meditation. I would say that you should persuade him to leave by morning.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Peacefully.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“We have still not had a sit-down in St. Patrick’s.”
“I understand perfectly, Your Eminence.”
But Father O’Conner’s plan of action was a little less than perfect. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon now, and the streets were filled with people hurrying home. As little as it takes to make a crowd in New York, it takes less to dispel it; and by now the Indian was wholly taken for granted. Father O’Conner stood next to Lightfeather for a while, brooding as creatively as he could, and then asked politely whether the Indian heard him.
“Why not? Meditation is a condition of alertness, not of sleep.”
“You were very still.”
“Inside, Father, I am still.”
“Why did you come here?” Father O’Conner asked.
“I told you why. To meditate.”
“Why here?”
“Because the vibes are good here.”
“Vibes?”
“Vibrations.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a question of belief. This place is filled with belief. That’s why I picked it. I need belief.”
“For what?” Father O’Conner asked curiously.
“So I can believe.”
“What do you want to believe?”
“That God is sane.”
“I assure you—He is,” Father O’Conner said with conviction.
“How the hell do you know?”
“It’s a matter of my own belief.”
“Not if you were a Mohawk Indian.”
“I don’t know. I have never been a Mohawk Indian.”
“I have.”
Father O’Conner thought about it for a moment or two, and in all fairness he could not deny that a Mohawk Indian might have quite a different point of view.