by Kornbluh, Joyce L. , Rosemont, Franklin, Thompson, Fred, Gross, Daniel
As it is with fried eggs and fuel, so is it with whatever we go after on a large scale, whether as a matter of social policy or as widespread custom. To prepare the way for considering this larger question is our excuse for meditating on fried eggs and kitchen ranges.
How History Works
In this H-bomb age, we should keep the foregoing relation in mind as we recall that two generations have forged arms to defend democracy against militarism and given their lives to that end. Further they have won. Yet the result is obviously the expansion of the means used, and that only. Democracy has not grown sturdier, nor has militarism abated. One finds it instructive in that connection to trace the history of conscription back to its “democratic” start during the French Revolution to withstand the kings of Europe. It proved such a military asset (remember Napoleon?) that Prussia adopted it. When Prussia went to war with other countries, they too adopted it. Early in this century when Britain and America found conscription repugnant, they called it Prussianism, and later adopted it to defeat Germany—twice. Now we have it even in peacetime. This is but one phase of one of the more horrendous growths of selected means in our lifetime. The purpose has not shaped the outcome. The means have.
Or, to take another example: Generations have fought crime with bigger and actually better penitentiaries, with parole and probation systems, with special courts for this type and that type of offender. The result has been: the expansion of the means, and that only.
Generations have likewise observed that somehow the machinery of democracy did not yield them government responsive to their wishes. They have elaborated this machinery with direct primaries, referendum and recall, and sundry other devices. The result has been: the expansion of the means—and that only.
We could draw illustrations from almost any phase of our social lives: advertising, the prohibition experiment, the use of autos and the resultant bottlenecks, the growth of this industry and the decline of that, the growth of that imperial power and the decline of another, trust-busting, or what have you. Nor is the experience confined to our Western or capitalist culture. Back in 1917 the Bolsheviki over in Russia established a dictatorship to achieve the blessings of peace and bread and the withering away of the state. To date there has been no observable withering of the state, but only an expansion of the means they have used.
The General Case
To multiply illustrations however does not prove the proposition. The general case may be argued thus:
1. The entire social apparatus may be viewed in many ways. One valid way is to look at it as a series of means for doing things: companies formed to produce goods and make profits, unions to haggle over the pay, languages with which to attempt communication, schools to check the originality or aboriginality of the young, families to provide them with TV-sets, food and latch-keys, etc., etc.
2. The selection of any such social means for doing an additional job, results in more of the energy available to society flowing through that means, and thus in its expansion and elaboration. (You may have noticed that in regard to governments and taxes lately.)
3. If the additional energy flowing through the selected means comes from a new source, the role of that means is absolutely increased. If, as usual, the energy to flow through it must be diverted from other means, then the relative increase in role is even greater.
4. The more the selected means has grown, the more readily available it becomes for selection for further ends, including the solution of the problems that have been created by its growth. The chance of alternative means becoming selected or seeming suitable, steadily grows less. The officeholders attached to the expanded means will drive also for the perpetuation and expansion of their social role.
Limits to Process
That is the general case. The obvious objection is that “it proves too much.” It would require that all social trends set up in the past should have expanded indefinitely, and this plainly has not been so. It is again a case that “the trees do not grow into the sky.”
In physics there is a generalization, usually named after the physicists Braun and Chatelier, that when any force alters an equilibrium, the reactions it sets up are of the nature and direction to minimize the change the new disturbance tends to make. While this generalization was drawn up to describe strictly physical processes, social parallels are obvious. It appears to be a general statement true of experience as a whole. It summarizes at any rate what would otherwise be the very lengthy, though intriguing story of why there are eventual limits to the expansion of selected means.
Practical Conclusions
The practical conclusions are the issue at point. If you give government the job of solving your problems, the assured result is not the solution of your problems but the growth of government—and of its take, and of its bite into your paycheck. If you look to government to remake the social order, the outcome is a social order in which you work and exist for the government.
If you look to labor leadership to solve your problems, the outcome is large union office buildings, with larger desks and larger swivel chairs, presumably with ever larger and larger labor leaders occupying them.
If you look to the joint action of yourself and your fellow workers to cope with your problems, you move forward with time into situations where steadily you and they cut a larger role in life, where the decisions about your work are steadily more and more made by you fellows, where the product of your labor steadily redounds more and more to your benefit, where the world more and more becomes as you wish it.
We think it makes a powerful lot of difference, what means you select, not only for here and now, but for the generations to follow. If you agree, don’t go fry an egg, but help us build Industrial Democracy.
20
“Chazzdor” is the pen name of Charles Doehrer, a young I.W.W. member in Chicago who for a time edited the Industrial Worker and contributed a number of science fiction stories to the I.W.W. press. This satire was published in the Industrial Worker (July 29, 1957).
PARABLE OF THE WATER PUMP
By CHAZZDOR
Man, there was this crazy land called Uzay—off in a void it must have been, because they tell me the folks there did nothing all day but lug water from this here well they’d dug when they was sore in need of water.
The story doesn’t say what for they need this water—most folks I know can take it or leave it alone—but the tale is real clear about what made them sore.
It seems that just after they tapped this subterranean keg of cloud juice, what happens but along comes this legal eagle and slaps ’em with a writ of habeas aquas sworn out by a fat cat—a real dog—named Daddio Warbucks.
One of the folks slipped his monocle on and read from the top of the writ. “Lo,” it said, “whereas you folks been poachin’ water on the private property of one Daddio Warbucks, duly granted to him by the Secretary of the Give-A way under terms of the Land Grab Act, you gotta cease and desist poachin’, pronto!”
The folks of Uzay didn’t bother to read the fine print, but they knew the writ was water-tight because down there at the bottom it was signed by General D. D. Eisenmotors, chief caddy of all Uzay. So, the folks conga’d over to visit Daddio Warbucks and beseeched him thusly:
“Keep your pepsi, and keep your coke,
But give us water, lest we choke.”
Then, while his charming daughter, Blank Eyed Annie, beat out rhythm with a wire brush, Daddio turned to the people and spake:
“I’ll sell you water, don’t you weep,
Two bucks a quart, and that’s dirt cheap.
So, bring your buckets and bring your mugs,
Bring your large, economy sized jugs.
Ooby dooby, ooby dooby, ooby dooby do.”
“Woe!” shouted the folks, “two bucks a quart! Pop, that’s outrageous; has been for ages. Next you’ll be tellin’ us to go out and work for wages.”
“Sic ’em, Daddio!” said Blank Eyed Annie, pokin’ her wire brush into th
e face of one of the folks.
Daddio clipped the brat and spake soothingly unto the people. “Folks,” he said, “you’ve hit on a mad, mad scheme. Work for wages, that’s the ticket. In fact, I’ll even hire you to lug water from my well you dug. Wild, huh?”
“Whoa,” shouted the folks, “we’re on to that cool game. According to the classical script you’re gonna offer to pay us one buck for each two-buck quart of water we lug, so that we can only buy back half the water. No deal, Daddio, we’ll thirst first!”
“Pure, unadulterated Hooverism,” chided Daddio. “I got a new script, written by the Grime, Dice and Chicago Tribune school of modern economics. You see, friends, I am an enlightened Capitalist.”
“Oh,” said the folks.
“Sic ’em, Daddio!” said Blank Eyed Annie.
“Yes, friends, I am a modern capitalist and I will pay you two bucks for each two-buck quart of water which you lug …”
“Wow!” said the folks.
“Yes, two bucks for each quart, minus a few reasonable deductions, such as six per cent as a reasonable profit, six per cent as reasonable rent upon the land, six per cent to pay off the bank for the loan I used to acquire the land, six per cent for taxes, six per cent for research and six per cent for capital expansiori so that we may dig more wells. Six per cent of two bucks,” muttered Daddio, counting on his fingers, “is twelve cents; six twelves is 75. Seventy-five from two bucks leaves … a dollar twenty in round figures. So, reasonably, your wage will be a full $1.15 for each quart of water which you lug.”
“Ouch!” said the folks. “We will not stand for this. We will form a union, for in union there is strength.”
“Arf!” said Blank Eyed Annie.
“Sic’em, Annie … oops, I mean, fine’n dandy. Enlightened capitalists are hep to unions, friends. Who is your piecard … oops, I mean, your leader, so I may deal with him collectively?”
Industrial Worker, October 5, 1951.
The people muttered among themselves, and a handful of them wearing knives, pistols, clubs and deputy sheriffs’ badges, went among the others, electioneering.
At length, one of the people spake, saying, “Thir, we hath elected Dave Bulk ath our thpokesman. Inthidentally, thir, can you thuggest an inexpensive dentist? I theem to have bumped my thilly head againtht the fitht of one of Mr. Bulk’s friendth.”
Later, when Dave Bulk returned from his chitchat with Daddio, the folks gathered about to hear the results. “Yea,” spake Bulk, “there’s good news today. It was a tough fight but, thanks to my dauntless leadership, Daddio agreed to increase your wage by thirty-five cents a quart …”
“Nifty,” said the folks.
“… minus a few deductions he forgot before; namely, six percent for Azure Crutch protection, six percent for Social Security—you should live so long—and six percent union dues to me.”
“Yeah,” spake the folks, “we might have got fringe benefits, too.”
And so, like it was told to me, the folks began to work for wages, lugging water from Daddio’s well they had dug. Everything went along peachykeen until this here water tank began to fill up with more water than the folks were able to buy back. They complained about high prices, some of them were laid off, and some was getting a little thirsty. It was a crisis, and Daddio called in his advisors to seek a solution.
First came the hucksters. “What’s the trouble, boys?” Daddio inquired of the chief huckster, the A.E., or Account Executive. “Why aren’t we merchandising enough water to keep inventory/ production ratio in balance?”
“We haven’t finalized our thinking yet,” saith the A.E., “but to get right down to where the rubber meets the road, Sir, we’ve got a great campaign we’d like to skim on the pond to see if it reaches the other side before the cookie crumbles.”
“Will it sell water?” shouts Daddio. “What’s your idea? Speak, man, speak. Don’t stand there flippin’ your food flap idly.”
“Well,” saith the A.E., “Cigarettes, everything’s gotta have a filter to sell, these days.”
“Most!” said Daddio. “We’ll filter the water.”
“Utmost!” spake the A.E. “Fine idea you just had, Daddio.”
“Rather,” said Daddio. “Now tell me what other bright ideas I’ve got.”
“Well, Sir, it’s the trend to change the package … strengthen the brand identification … big red letters on the label … make it distinctive, wholesome sounding, like . . . DADDIO’S OLD FASHIONED PURE WATER … yes, sir, that’s it … and, umm, handy six-can pack to make ’em buy in larger quantities … ummm …”
“You’re gone, man; keep it up,” shouts Daddio.
“Umm … just speaking off the top of my head,” continued the A.E., “we might try improving the flavor and appearance. But we’ll have to cross-pollinate with Research on that.”
“Hip! Remind me to deduct fifteen per cent from their wages for your agency fee,” said Daddio as he summoned his research men.
“Ok, eggheads,” spake Daddio to the bunsen burner mob, “what good use have you been makin’ of these here research grants I been donating to science and progress?”
“Sir,” said the PH.D. Burner, proudly, “we’ve discovered a cheap substitute for margarine … namely, surplus butter … which we have chopped, molded and mixed with vitamins and, when we’ve worked out one small problem—specifically, that it tastes like rubber cement—it will be ready for market. It’s merely a matter of unlinking the third proton in the middle from the molecular …”
“Man,” spake Daddio, “you atomize me, but what have you been doing about water? How can we produce cheaper water?”
“It’s still in the research stage, sir, but we’re working on a process to water the water. It’s just a matter of molec …”
“You’re levitating,” says Daddio. “Now, how about this problem of improving the flavor and appearance? How about that?”
“Umm … we might sweeten it … addCO2 to give it sparkle … food coloring … a little cola flavor, perhaps … and some preservative so it will stay fresh longer.”
“Out of this world, man, but it sounds gooey. Can they bathe in it? That’s half the market.”
“Umm … we can add a little detergent, too.”
“Next,” shouts Daddio. “Where are my economists?”
“Here,” spake the economists, looking up from the latest issue of Dice Magazine, “and we’ve just worked out a new margin theory. See, it’s printed right here in the margin of the editorial page.”
“Readin’ Dice Magazine is my favorite intellectual pursuit,” said Daddio. “Read me out from it. What’s it say there in the margin?”
Industrial Worker, January 16, 1953.
“It says the government should buy some of the surplus water to pour into the Suez area to widen the canal from Syria to Algeria and solve the whole Middle Eastern crisis. Yes, and right after that it says we should start priming the pump, like in the old days, and that the people should learn to be more thrifty so they can enjoy the fruits of our high standard of living.”
“Hmmm …” reflects Daddio. “Pump-priming, you say. Gad, that Dice Magazine never fails to come through with a sound, modern, enlightened pitch. Summon my engineers.”
“Get me a pump for the well,” spake Daddio to the engineers.
“Jolly,” spake the engineers. “We will automate your well with a pump, sir, increasing the efficiency to double the output with half the manpower.”
Then, from the rear of the throng of advisors, spake loudly and defiantly the voice of Dave Bulk. “Take it slow, pop. You can’t get away with that automation stuff. As head of the union, I protest, you wizened, old plutocrat. If you put a pump on the well, there will be even more unemployment among my dues payers. We will strike, STRIKE, do you hear me? You’ll have the longest, strongest strike on your hands you ever had. We might even make it a general …”
“Finest, man. Greatest idea I’ve heard today. Nothing like a nice long st
rike to cut the payroll. Lunch, Bulk?”
“Lunch, Daddio. Country Club again?”
“Check, Bulk. Then, well bang out eighteen while we consult with D.D.”
* * *
“Iron, sir?” said D. D. Eisenmotors, the chief caddy, as Daddio and Dave Bulk walked along the fairway.
“Check, D. D.,” spake Daddio. “Oh, and by the way, D. D., I’m having a little trouble with my water … too much of it … folks claim the price is too high. What’s the answer, D. D.?”
“Threat from the East,” answered D. D. promptly. “We must arm the people.”
“Bring it down to earth, D. D.,” saith Daddio, glumly. “How’ll that get rid of my surplus water?”
“Water pistols, Man, water pistols … latest weapon,” spake D. D.
“The sheerest!” gurgled Daddio. “We can take another six per cent for cost of defense.”
“Sixty denier!” burbled Bulk. “Defense contracts will put the people back to work, fillin’ water pistols. We can call off the strike … take the no-strike pledge.”
“Check,” squeals Daddio. “Call off the strike. By the way, Bulk, how’d you like to marry my charming daughter, Blank Eyed Annie?”
“Yeah, and by the way, Bulk,” grinned D. D. infectiously, “how’d you like to run on the ticket with Dickie in ‘60? I’m thinkin’ of retirin’ to devote full time to the links.”
“Labor Party?” asks Bulk, bargaining slyly.
“Umm,” pondered D. D. “Why not? Might unify the folks for the big effort … the cause!”
“Aw, fellas,” spake Bulk, “you’re too good to me.”