Post by Wizard on Sept 5, 2005 13:39:33 GMT -5
Found among the papers of George Pullman, deceased.
We really didn't mean to create a holiday, exactly. Maybe a whole mess of them. But just one?
I mean, people get up every day, work their brains out, and then come home and sleep. Then they wake up and do it again. Every week, every month, every year.
If they're lucky, they get Labor Day off.
The problem with holidays exactly is that they're inherently regressive. The rich can afford to take them off---the poor, if they have any such grumblings bubbling in their minds in late August, quickly squash them---or get them squashed out when their employers look at them incredulously.
It's not really the fault of the employers---they've got a bottom line to keep in the black too. Like most people, they're nice, normal guys, caught in a crappy situation.
It's just the irony of it that gets me, you know? On Labor Day, the rich take to the beaches, complacently satisfied that they're taking a well-deserved rest. On the way, they get some gas, which is pumped by a "laborer." Then they realize they forgot ice for the cooler, so they stop at the grocery store to have a laborer bag it for them, and then charge them. The money goes to the stockholders, of course.
And then say they get stopped on the way, because you really shouldn't drive so fast on twisty cliff roads to the beach like that---well, the guy who writes their ticket is, you guessed it, a laborer.
This is all well and good. It's capitalism at work. Yuppie Joe and Businessman Frank (Joe and Frank used to work construction...now that's the province of Ramon and Carlos) probably worked very hard (or their parents did) to get where they are today, and doubtless society benefited from that.
But it's just not right, you understand?
But enough of my ranting. Let me tell you the story---how it really happened.
The Encyclopedia Brittanica states that it was President Grover Cleveland who formally acknowledged Labor Day as a national holiday, in hopes of reconciling himself with labor workers angry at his harsh anti-strike measures. This is mostly true.
"Listen, George, we have to face facts. The whole country's down and out. No one in California wants stuff from New York---not with the price tag we have to attach. We're not growing, you've seen the charts---there's no way we'll be using all those new cars we're constructing. Slow it down, George. Pull the plug."
"And the workers? What about them, Jordan? You want them to go to Chicago? They'll knock the girls up faster than you can say---"
"To hell with the workers! They're big boys! They can take care of themselves! What about us, George? What about our lenders? We've got another month at this rate, maybe two if we can convince Simon & Son to wait for a bit on that next payment. But that's it! You don't do something, and the company's through! All for this 'Worker's Utopia' crap!"
"Pullman, Illinois, is a model town. We're keeping them on. And that's final."
"Listen, Eugene, I don't think you understand. We are dirt. We put the cars together. We take the old ones apart. And we do it without a fuss. You complain, and they show you the door. You think these cuts are 'cause they wanted to keep people on? They just want more customers for the damn company store!"
"But George Pullman said---"
"Look. I've never met Pullman. I'm sure he's a great guy, loves his employees, whatever. But whatever he's like personally, it doesn't matter! We don't deal with Pullman! We deal with Squeeze, and Jibs, and Tako*! These are not nice guys! You gonna tell me that they have the workers at heart?"
"Well, no, but they have to take orders from George Pu---"
"Pullman doesn't exist! I mean, sure, he exists, probably living it up somewhere in a club somewhere, but not to us! You ever see him?"
"Well, no, but---"
"No buts! If he has no effect on our lives---and he doesn't---then he doesn't exist."
"But---who's that?"
And Eugene was staring over Hankie's shoulder, eyes distant.
Hankie twisted his head around---
And there was George Pullman, fully existent and present, just like in the pictures, not a hundred yards away. He was getting up on the stand thing they'd set up yesterday. Hankie'd thought it was just another observation post from which Jibs could feast his beady little eyes on honest sweat.
But the men were gathering around, and Pullman was about to speak.
"Citizens of Pullman! It is with the deepest regret I bring you this news."
The men looked at each other warily. It sounded like another wage cut
"A train in Nevada---a train we built---ran off the track a week ago. Experts have asserted that the fault was in the train construction. Central Pacific has a suit lined up against us that will probably succeed."
And here Pullman hung his head.
"And yes...it will mean another wage cut."
The men started roaring...
"What about the rent? Will that be cut too?"
"I've got two kids and one on the way? You want 'em to starve, Pullman?"
"Why weren't you on that train, huh?"
Hankie turned to Eugene.
"There! Where's your all-loving George Pullman now?"
Eugene looked down.
"Easy...easy...and go."
John Wilkins, or "Tako," as the men called him, could see Pullman walk off the stage from his vantage point in one of the cars. The three big, silent men around him---George Pullman's "bodyguards," quickly surrounded the company president and began escorting him back to his hotel.
Pullman looked quite a bit more haggard and worn than he had during his conversation with Jordan a few months ago. "How long is this to go on? When can I see my wife?"
The three big, silent men said nothing, not even averting their gazes from their constant searching of each doorway, every window.
Finally, they reached the hotel. The men hustled Pullman up the stairs, then unlocked his room and shoved him in.
A light switched on. The light was connected to a wire that was connected to a light switch, which was currently in contact with the index finger of one Jordan B. Aklin.
"Jordan! What's been going on?"
"I might ask you the same question, George. Why is this company in such dire straits? I had to take these measures for my---and that of others---own protection. And even, if you don't mind my saying, for yours."
"You mean---you mean it's you who's been behind all this? And Elaine---"
"Elaine is perfectly alright, convinced that you are on a business trip in California. She is well-protected in your flat in New York, though she is a bit disappointed in you for your recent staffing decisions."
"So these abominable wage cuts and layoffs I've been talking about have actually been happening?"
"If not, there's a good number of men looking for new jobs in Chicago that are sorely mistaken."
"Chicago? That city of whores and corrupt politicians?"
"The very same."
"But...but why, Jordan? To what end? Why end the town, everything I've built, the company..."
"Oh, don't be so naive, my friend. The company will endure just fine with this latest cut. The town...well, perhaps with some adjustments---higher rent, perhaps, and some longer hours---it might survive too. I daresay even you will end up very, very, rich, once we pay you your share. We are civilized, after all."
"Civilized? You call turning all those families out of their homes civilized?"
"Come, come, I have no aversion to letting them stay in those miserable holes they call homes as long as they like---as long as they pay for the privelege, of course."
"Wait a minute---I'm still majority stockholder in the company! I can make that rent free if I want! If we all tighten our belts a bit, maybe sell the New York place..."
"That you cannot do."
And Jordan was holding a revolver, pointed at the company president's head.
"This is an unloaded and perfectly harmless gun by itself, but what it symbolizes...well, we do happen to know Elaine's exact whereabouts, should you be uncooperative or anything like that...come, man, it's not so bad. Open that briefcase over there. You'll find ten million dollars in cash and a single document. I'm sure you can guess the contents of the document---something to the effect of 'I, George Pullman, being of sound mind, hereby transfer all my holdings of Pullman Palace Car Company to Jordan Aklin,' plus whatever garble the lawyers threw into it."
Pullman opened the briefcase, and it was as Jordan had said.
"Just sign it, take the ten million, and go live somewhere nice with Elaine. I give you my word we won't touch her without my order, and I certainly won't give such an order if you sign. Ah, there are the witnesses to the signature now..."
And indeed, there was a knock on the door. But instead of the three big, silent men, it was Eugene.
"Please, Mr. Pullman, Hankie said you wouldn't listen, but I came up anyway, and your secretary wasn't there and---is that a gun?"
Jordan had swung the revolver to cover the intruder, then swung it back to Pullman, near the bed.
Except that Pullman wasn't near the bed.
The champagne bottle hurt quite a bit for the millisecond that Aklin felt it.
(Okay, okay, so I haven't actually finished it yet. I have to go to a party now. But I'm liking this story, so expect some more.)
We really didn't mean to create a holiday, exactly. Maybe a whole mess of them. But just one?
I mean, people get up every day, work their brains out, and then come home and sleep. Then they wake up and do it again. Every week, every month, every year.
If they're lucky, they get Labor Day off.
The problem with holidays exactly is that they're inherently regressive. The rich can afford to take them off---the poor, if they have any such grumblings bubbling in their minds in late August, quickly squash them---or get them squashed out when their employers look at them incredulously.
It's not really the fault of the employers---they've got a bottom line to keep in the black too. Like most people, they're nice, normal guys, caught in a crappy situation.
It's just the irony of it that gets me, you know? On Labor Day, the rich take to the beaches, complacently satisfied that they're taking a well-deserved rest. On the way, they get some gas, which is pumped by a "laborer." Then they realize they forgot ice for the cooler, so they stop at the grocery store to have a laborer bag it for them, and then charge them. The money goes to the stockholders, of course.
And then say they get stopped on the way, because you really shouldn't drive so fast on twisty cliff roads to the beach like that---well, the guy who writes their ticket is, you guessed it, a laborer.
This is all well and good. It's capitalism at work. Yuppie Joe and Businessman Frank (Joe and Frank used to work construction...now that's the province of Ramon and Carlos) probably worked very hard (or their parents did) to get where they are today, and doubtless society benefited from that.
But it's just not right, you understand?
But enough of my ranting. Let me tell you the story---how it really happened.
Labor Day
The Encyclopedia Brittanica states that it was President Grover Cleveland who formally acknowledged Labor Day as a national holiday, in hopes of reconciling himself with labor workers angry at his harsh anti-strike measures. This is mostly true.
"Listen, George, we have to face facts. The whole country's down and out. No one in California wants stuff from New York---not with the price tag we have to attach. We're not growing, you've seen the charts---there's no way we'll be using all those new cars we're constructing. Slow it down, George. Pull the plug."
"And the workers? What about them, Jordan? You want them to go to Chicago? They'll knock the girls up faster than you can say---"
"To hell with the workers! They're big boys! They can take care of themselves! What about us, George? What about our lenders? We've got another month at this rate, maybe two if we can convince Simon & Son to wait for a bit on that next payment. But that's it! You don't do something, and the company's through! All for this 'Worker's Utopia' crap!"
"Pullman, Illinois, is a model town. We're keeping them on. And that's final."
* * *
"Listen, Eugene, I don't think you understand. We are dirt. We put the cars together. We take the old ones apart. And we do it without a fuss. You complain, and they show you the door. You think these cuts are 'cause they wanted to keep people on? They just want more customers for the damn company store!"
"But George Pullman said---"
"Look. I've never met Pullman. I'm sure he's a great guy, loves his employees, whatever. But whatever he's like personally, it doesn't matter! We don't deal with Pullman! We deal with Squeeze, and Jibs, and Tako*! These are not nice guys! You gonna tell me that they have the workers at heart?"
"Well, no, but they have to take orders from George Pu---"
"Pullman doesn't exist! I mean, sure, he exists, probably living it up somewhere in a club somewhere, but not to us! You ever see him?"
"Well, no, but---"
"No buts! If he has no effect on our lives---and he doesn't---then he doesn't exist."
"But---who's that?"
And Eugene was staring over Hankie's shoulder, eyes distant.
Hankie twisted his head around---
And there was George Pullman, fully existent and present, just like in the pictures, not a hundred yards away. He was getting up on the stand thing they'd set up yesterday. Hankie'd thought it was just another observation post from which Jibs could feast his beady little eyes on honest sweat.
But the men were gathering around, and Pullman was about to speak.
"Citizens of Pullman! It is with the deepest regret I bring you this news."
The men looked at each other warily. It sounded like another wage cut
"A train in Nevada---a train we built---ran off the track a week ago. Experts have asserted that the fault was in the train construction. Central Pacific has a suit lined up against us that will probably succeed."
And here Pullman hung his head.
"And yes...it will mean another wage cut."
The men started roaring...
"What about the rent? Will that be cut too?"
"I've got two kids and one on the way? You want 'em to starve, Pullman?"
"Why weren't you on that train, huh?"
Hankie turned to Eugene.
"There! Where's your all-loving George Pullman now?"
Eugene looked down.
* * *
"Easy...easy...and go."
John Wilkins, or "Tako," as the men called him, could see Pullman walk off the stage from his vantage point in one of the cars. The three big, silent men around him---George Pullman's "bodyguards," quickly surrounded the company president and began escorting him back to his hotel.
Pullman looked quite a bit more haggard and worn than he had during his conversation with Jordan a few months ago. "How long is this to go on? When can I see my wife?"
The three big, silent men said nothing, not even averting their gazes from their constant searching of each doorway, every window.
Finally, they reached the hotel. The men hustled Pullman up the stairs, then unlocked his room and shoved him in.
A light switched on. The light was connected to a wire that was connected to a light switch, which was currently in contact with the index finger of one Jordan B. Aklin.
"Jordan! What's been going on?"
"I might ask you the same question, George. Why is this company in such dire straits? I had to take these measures for my---and that of others---own protection. And even, if you don't mind my saying, for yours."
"You mean---you mean it's you who's been behind all this? And Elaine---"
"Elaine is perfectly alright, convinced that you are on a business trip in California. She is well-protected in your flat in New York, though she is a bit disappointed in you for your recent staffing decisions."
"So these abominable wage cuts and layoffs I've been talking about have actually been happening?"
"If not, there's a good number of men looking for new jobs in Chicago that are sorely mistaken."
"Chicago? That city of whores and corrupt politicians?"
"The very same."
"But...but why, Jordan? To what end? Why end the town, everything I've built, the company..."
"Oh, don't be so naive, my friend. The company will endure just fine with this latest cut. The town...well, perhaps with some adjustments---higher rent, perhaps, and some longer hours---it might survive too. I daresay even you will end up very, very, rich, once we pay you your share. We are civilized, after all."
"Civilized? You call turning all those families out of their homes civilized?"
"Come, come, I have no aversion to letting them stay in those miserable holes they call homes as long as they like---as long as they pay for the privelege, of course."
"Wait a minute---I'm still majority stockholder in the company! I can make that rent free if I want! If we all tighten our belts a bit, maybe sell the New York place..."
"That you cannot do."
And Jordan was holding a revolver, pointed at the company president's head.
"This is an unloaded and perfectly harmless gun by itself, but what it symbolizes...well, we do happen to know Elaine's exact whereabouts, should you be uncooperative or anything like that...come, man, it's not so bad. Open that briefcase over there. You'll find ten million dollars in cash and a single document. I'm sure you can guess the contents of the document---something to the effect of 'I, George Pullman, being of sound mind, hereby transfer all my holdings of Pullman Palace Car Company to Jordan Aklin,' plus whatever garble the lawyers threw into it."
Pullman opened the briefcase, and it was as Jordan had said.
"Just sign it, take the ten million, and go live somewhere nice with Elaine. I give you my word we won't touch her without my order, and I certainly won't give such an order if you sign. Ah, there are the witnesses to the signature now..."
And indeed, there was a knock on the door. But instead of the three big, silent men, it was Eugene.
"Please, Mr. Pullman, Hankie said you wouldn't listen, but I came up anyway, and your secretary wasn't there and---is that a gun?"
Jordan had swung the revolver to cover the intruder, then swung it back to Pullman, near the bed.
Except that Pullman wasn't near the bed.
The champagne bottle hurt quite a bit for the millisecond that Aklin felt it.
* * *
(Okay, okay, so I haven't actually finished it yet. I have to go to a party now. But I'm liking this story, so expect some more.)