When the circus came to our small town in Texas, I of course had to take my 10-year-old daughter, and we lined up at the ferris wheel for one of our first rides. The last time I'd been on a ferris wheel was back when our family lived in Dallas, and I got on one with my older brother. We'd gotten stuck at the top, and he started spitting on the people below. We were only stuck for about twenty minutes, but it was one of the longest twenty minutes in my life, because I imagined that if he'd hit someone, they would be waiting at the bottom when we finally came down, ready to beat us up, or with a posse to string us up or haul us off to jail.
That was in Dallas, though, and we didn't know any of those people that he was aiming for. Now, in this small town, chances were pretty good that I'd know just about everyone, or at least half, since people came in from the country. I knew this one guy back in the line about seven people; he was in a wheelchair, and he was trying to get special consideration for getting into the ferris wheel. His name was Barton, and I knew how he'd gotten in that wheelchair. He was a friend of my brother's, a little older than I was, and had goaded my brother at one point to go out racing or to do some wild and reckless things. My brother was a target for this kind of stuff so it made sense that a guy like Barton would come after him. But he got into a car wreck; killed one of their friends, killed an old grandmother out on a country road, and he himself would be in a wheelchair the rest of his days. Fortunately my brother wasn't involved; he was lucky.
It was about sunset as we loaded ourselves onto the ferris wheel and started on up to get a view of our small town. Having moved from Dallas at the age of about thirteen, I'd always been aware how painfully small this town was, and it didn't help that the music track of the ferris wheel seemed to be stuck on "It's a Small World." I could old John Wallace's auto repair shop, and another place where they still owed me $18 for cleaning out their shed. I held onto my daughter tightly, even though we were safely behind a metal bar. You don't want to go in the wrong direction in these places, I thought, or there would be no way out, that was the disadvantage of a small town. People were as friendly and as helpful as they could be. But they knew you too well, so if you wanted to reform or change direction, you couldn't, because they were too sure they already knew who you were.
Some of my brother's friends had joined the army; others had gone off to Dallas as my brother did, where there was room to constantly reinvent yourself. I looked out at the sun setting on the town though, and I was satisfied that it had worked out well for me. I'd stayed, got a job and had a family. To my daughter, this would be all there was.
This ferris wheel got stuck, too. It was after we'd come around the top, and were on our way back down. My daughter and I sat there looking at John Wallace's auto repair for almost an hour while they went and got a cherry picker to get us all down. It was a laborious task, but eventually some guy I recognized from the fire department came and lifted us into the cherry picker which then brought us gingerly down to the ground, maybe an hour after we'd gotten into the car. Meanwhile they'd sent the people in line home; the thing was broken, and they couldn't finish it. The heck of it was, that stupid song "It's a Small World" was on the whole time. It was like the sound track was connected to the ferris wheel itself, so they couldn't just turn it off or change the music. It was on the whole time.
And it was much more of an ordeal for Barton, or so I heard. For us, it was about an hour, and we got a story to tell, a free ride in a cherry picker, to make up for the time we lost to do the rest of the circus. For Barton, it was more like a six or seven-hour ordeal, because he was at the top, and a simple cherry-picker wouldn't do the trick for him, because of his special condition. He had to wait for them to get all the right equipment, and that took quite a while.
At work, someone said that would be a lawsuit for sure, seven hours at the top of a ferris wheel. I pointed out that it was mostly the sound track that was the torture, the rest of it pretty much wasn't their fault anyway. Things break; there's not much you can do sometimes. I had sympathy for those circus guys, since I myself had no clue how the thing worked either. I considered it quality family time with my daughter, who didn't seem to mind. I had no idea how Barton took it, though, I almost never saw him.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Burger, fries, and a coke
One night in late May, in the town of Zhouyuan, Shandong province, China, an American woman named Anne arrived on foot at a McDonald's to find kind of a commotion there. Outside the restaurant, a policeman was arguing with a few people near a very fancy white car. Inside, another American woman was speaking fluent Chinese to a couple of policemen; their conversation seemed to center around the woman's cell phone. The police were agreeing with her, and seeming to cooperate; they were trying to be nice. Anne averted her eyes and used her broken Chinese to order a burger, fries, and a coke. The Chinese workers hurried to bring her her order and make her happy. She was disappointed in what she received, but she'd been prepared for the disappointment. McDonald's in China could not really compare with McDonald's in the States; she'd been told that before.
Anne was a missionary in a town near Zhouyuan, and was on her way back to where she was living. She'd stopped here because, hey, she was in the city, and besides, it gave her a good memory, a connection to her home town back in Alabama. Her mission was going well, and she'd actually learned some Chinese, enough to order, for example. But she'd only been in China for a few months, and it was all pretty new to her. Here in the city, there were hundreds of bicycles, even at night. People watched her openly as it was relatively rare, apparently, to see Americans. Aware that people were watching her, she tried to mask her disappointment in the burger and especially the fries, and just enjoy the familiar surroundings - the red booths and yellow tables, the picture of Ronald McDonald on the wall, the golden arches outside the window. But as she looked around she was aware that the people in the restaurant were somewhat traumatized, even the workers. The workers talked in hushed tones to each other. One woman in the corner stared blankly, as if she'd seen her own death in the last few minutes. Something was not right.
Suddenly, the woman who had been talking to the police asked Anne if she could join her in the booth, and Anne readily agreed. She had brown hair, brown eyes and an open American expression; she was of medium height and a little overweight. She introduced herself as Corrine, and said in a casual way that she was from Oklahoma, as Anne mentioned Alabama. Corrine's hand was shaking as she sat; a cup of coffee was in one, while the cell phone was in the other. But she collected herself quickly and seemed to appreciate Anne's company. Corrine was in her thirties, while Anne was only 22, but they got along quickly and well. Anne forgot about the bad taste of the burger and instead listened to Corrine's story.
Corrine, and others in the restaurant, had apparently just witnessed a brutal murder of a young woman, outside the McDonalds. Six people, apparently members of a cult, had come into the place and requested people's phone numbers, but had gotten into an argument with one woman. A child in the group had insisted that the woman was a demon, she said, and the adult members of the cult began to beat her up, right outside the place; she had died. The police had come and arrested everyone, including the leader, who had arrived in the fancy white car.
Corrine had apparently caught the whole thing on her cell phone video camera, and had agreed to send it to the police. That's what the negotiations were about. Corrine wanted to keep her phone, but was more than willing to share the video. Corrine had reasonably fluent Chinese; she said it was from watching soap operas; it was clearly much better than Anne's, and she was able to carry on her conversation with the police pretty well, and send them the video by text. It was impressive.
Anne asked Corrine about the cult, which, according to Corrine, was called Eastern Lightning. It was Christian, but they believed that the messiah was already here, in the form of a woman, and they were known for being abusive and violent, according to Corrine, though she admitted she didn't know much. She had no sympathy for them, after what she'd seen, though. She said something of the nature that the police here weren't great, but they were better than letting these wacko Christians go about beating people to death. She herself hadn't called the police, but she had no problem with sharing her video, if that would help the police put these people to justice.
For some reason, Anne began to tell Corrine about her own circumstances: how she'd gotten in trouble in her small town in Alabama, being a rebel with her boyfriend; the boyfriend had joined the Army and gone to Afghanistan, while she, Anne, had found Jesus and come here. The white car had reminded her of the sheriff's car in that small town; she'd actually been in it once. It was the car of a pushy, arrogant, powerful jerk, she thought, and she thought of that sheriff while Corrine was describing the leader of the cult.
Anne saw the blood splattered on the McDonalds window, and thought for a moment about the murdered woman, who she could only imagine. According to Corrine, there was little anyone could do to save her life, because there were at least five attackers, and they had some kind of bludgeon or something that they'd used to beat her with. Corrine seemed to blame it all on Christians in general, as if Anne's mission was no different from this cult, and that offended Anne deeply, but she knew that people knew very little about different kinds of Christians, and realized that Corrine would know even less, living in China and all, whereas Anne had seen all kinds of things in her small town in Alabama, and knew that all kinds of things went on under the name of Christianity that would not really qualify as Christian. One had to look past the many who would abuse the name of Christianity, to truly find the heart of the religion, she felt.
Anne's impulse as a missionary was to try to convert Corrine, but she resisted it. Corrine seemed to have deep resentment against Christianity, and alienation from the US, which she'd been away from for several years, being the wife of a businessman. Something told Anne she'd already done the best she could, just by being Christian and not sympathizing with the killers. Her impulse as an American was to say that it was too bad it had happened at a McDonald's; it made the US look bad, and it made Christianity look bad as well. She sometimes wondered what Chinese said about Americans when they were out of earshot, when they were home alone but could see the Western world, with its senseless violence and bad food, encroaching in their town. She didn't want to know. She couldn't blame them for being a little suspicious.
Corrine finished her coffee just as Anne finished her coke, and they got up to go their separate ways. Corrine thanked Anne for her comfort in a time of stress, for giving her an opportunity to talk about and process what she'd seen. Murders were rare in China. They'd be talking about this one for some time, she figured. And she was right. When Anne got home, she saw it on the state-run media service, and from then on she heard repeatedly about the brutal murder. The government, which was called the "Red Dragon" by cult members, was not crazy about the increasing popularity of Eastern Lightning, or any other cult, as far as Anne could tell. A crackdown was coming, somebody said, and there was no telling how that might affect the lives of the missionaries. Being a missionary in China, they said, wasn't easy, even in the best of times.
Anne was a missionary in a town near Zhouyuan, and was on her way back to where she was living. She'd stopped here because, hey, she was in the city, and besides, it gave her a good memory, a connection to her home town back in Alabama. Her mission was going well, and she'd actually learned some Chinese, enough to order, for example. But she'd only been in China for a few months, and it was all pretty new to her. Here in the city, there were hundreds of bicycles, even at night. People watched her openly as it was relatively rare, apparently, to see Americans. Aware that people were watching her, she tried to mask her disappointment in the burger and especially the fries, and just enjoy the familiar surroundings - the red booths and yellow tables, the picture of Ronald McDonald on the wall, the golden arches outside the window. But as she looked around she was aware that the people in the restaurant were somewhat traumatized, even the workers. The workers talked in hushed tones to each other. One woman in the corner stared blankly, as if she'd seen her own death in the last few minutes. Something was not right.
Suddenly, the woman who had been talking to the police asked Anne if she could join her in the booth, and Anne readily agreed. She had brown hair, brown eyes and an open American expression; she was of medium height and a little overweight. She introduced herself as Corrine, and said in a casual way that she was from Oklahoma, as Anne mentioned Alabama. Corrine's hand was shaking as she sat; a cup of coffee was in one, while the cell phone was in the other. But she collected herself quickly and seemed to appreciate Anne's company. Corrine was in her thirties, while Anne was only 22, but they got along quickly and well. Anne forgot about the bad taste of the burger and instead listened to Corrine's story.
Corrine, and others in the restaurant, had apparently just witnessed a brutal murder of a young woman, outside the McDonalds. Six people, apparently members of a cult, had come into the place and requested people's phone numbers, but had gotten into an argument with one woman. A child in the group had insisted that the woman was a demon, she said, and the adult members of the cult began to beat her up, right outside the place; she had died. The police had come and arrested everyone, including the leader, who had arrived in the fancy white car.
Corrine had apparently caught the whole thing on her cell phone video camera, and had agreed to send it to the police. That's what the negotiations were about. Corrine wanted to keep her phone, but was more than willing to share the video. Corrine had reasonably fluent Chinese; she said it was from watching soap operas; it was clearly much better than Anne's, and she was able to carry on her conversation with the police pretty well, and send them the video by text. It was impressive.
Anne asked Corrine about the cult, which, according to Corrine, was called Eastern Lightning. It was Christian, but they believed that the messiah was already here, in the form of a woman, and they were known for being abusive and violent, according to Corrine, though she admitted she didn't know much. She had no sympathy for them, after what she'd seen, though. She said something of the nature that the police here weren't great, but they were better than letting these wacko Christians go about beating people to death. She herself hadn't called the police, but she had no problem with sharing her video, if that would help the police put these people to justice.
For some reason, Anne began to tell Corrine about her own circumstances: how she'd gotten in trouble in her small town in Alabama, being a rebel with her boyfriend; the boyfriend had joined the Army and gone to Afghanistan, while she, Anne, had found Jesus and come here. The white car had reminded her of the sheriff's car in that small town; she'd actually been in it once. It was the car of a pushy, arrogant, powerful jerk, she thought, and she thought of that sheriff while Corrine was describing the leader of the cult.
Anne saw the blood splattered on the McDonalds window, and thought for a moment about the murdered woman, who she could only imagine. According to Corrine, there was little anyone could do to save her life, because there were at least five attackers, and they had some kind of bludgeon or something that they'd used to beat her with. Corrine seemed to blame it all on Christians in general, as if Anne's mission was no different from this cult, and that offended Anne deeply, but she knew that people knew very little about different kinds of Christians, and realized that Corrine would know even less, living in China and all, whereas Anne had seen all kinds of things in her small town in Alabama, and knew that all kinds of things went on under the name of Christianity that would not really qualify as Christian. One had to look past the many who would abuse the name of Christianity, to truly find the heart of the religion, she felt.
Anne's impulse as a missionary was to try to convert Corrine, but she resisted it. Corrine seemed to have deep resentment against Christianity, and alienation from the US, which she'd been away from for several years, being the wife of a businessman. Something told Anne she'd already done the best she could, just by being Christian and not sympathizing with the killers. Her impulse as an American was to say that it was too bad it had happened at a McDonald's; it made the US look bad, and it made Christianity look bad as well. She sometimes wondered what Chinese said about Americans when they were out of earshot, when they were home alone but could see the Western world, with its senseless violence and bad food, encroaching in their town. She didn't want to know. She couldn't blame them for being a little suspicious.
Corrine finished her coffee just as Anne finished her coke, and they got up to go their separate ways. Corrine thanked Anne for her comfort in a time of stress, for giving her an opportunity to talk about and process what she'd seen. Murders were rare in China. They'd be talking about this one for some time, she figured. And she was right. When Anne got home, she saw it on the state-run media service, and from then on she heard repeatedly about the brutal murder. The government, which was called the "Red Dragon" by cult members, was not crazy about the increasing popularity of Eastern Lightning, or any other cult, as far as Anne could tell. A crackdown was coming, somebody said, and there was no telling how that might affect the lives of the missionaries. Being a missionary in China, they said, wasn't easy, even in the best of times.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
PO'd
I was hitchhiking down from the North Country, through Chicago, but taking the tollway around the city, when an old guy in a Lincoln picked me up. Like a Cadillac, the Lincoln was roomy, with a nice radio and dark interior, and the guy was a well-dressed businessman of some kind, a little moody. We talked location for a while; he was going somewhere in Indiana, but close to Chicago; I was going much farther south. It was a cold November day, and there had been a freak ice-storm that had made stopping a little dangerous, one reason I'd avoided going straight down through the middle of the city. It was early evening, too; dark was coming quickly, and that would change hitchhiking a bit.
He wanted to talk about light bulbs, for some reason, as an example of a moral dilemma he had at work. "Suppose you had a way to make light bulbs cheaper; you'd do it, right?" Well, yes, I said, though I wasn't a businessman. "If you did," he continued, "you'd have an advantage in the market, right?"
"Now suppose that as you made them cheaper, they wouldn't last as long. But you reached a point where people didn't notice, you'd still do it, right?" he asked. I began to see what he was getting at.
"Now suppose you could measure people's perception, and you could figure out how long it took before they didn't notice. That would be the ideal length of time to make them last, right?"
"So your research is based on people's perception, not on how to make them last as long as possible with as little expense possible."
"Well," he said, "sometimes that physical part, mastering the craft of making them, is long ago perfected, fairly equal among competitors. So the only thing left is their ability to measure the perceptions of their customers. That's what separates the winners from the losers."
We went past the McDonald's above the freeway, near O'Hare; when we stopped at the tollbooths, he had his ninety cents ready. This was a relief, to tell you the truth. Sometimes people give you a ride on the tollway, and they hock you for ninety cents, which, if I have it, I feel obliged to give. But I don't want to. I'm hitchhiking, and it was icy out there. I was glad he paid the toll.
The toll collector looked out of his little dirty glass box with a glazed expression, though I'm sure he thanked us or mumbled something under his breath. Every time I saw these guys I thought of the story in the newspaper, which I'd read in Wisconsin somewhere, about some toll baron who kept all the profits, long after the roads the tolls were meant to pay for, were paid for. It was legend around Chicago, a kind of corruption everyone took for granted; this millionaire was living it up somewhere out here in the suburbs, while his minions stood in their little glass boxes trading dollars for dimes. And calling the police to come after you if you sped through without giving them their ninety cents.
The old guy drifted into a kind of silence, thinking about the morality of robbing the average man; it was all a matter of perception, he maintained. It wasn't moral, it wasn't right, but it was the way it was. You make them worse, you survive in the market. Planned obsolescence, it was called.
Some people, himself included, remembered light bulbs lasting forever, poor people taking them with, when they left one apartment to move to another, so that they'd never have to buy one. They could make them last forever; they knew how. They could, but they didn't. We discussed this for a while; for part of that time, he was mumbling, as if he remembered a few light bulbs himself. But I knew it wasn't about light bulbs; he had some larger problem that he wasn't bringing up. I felt like he wanted me to judge him, the immoral businessman, but I didn't. I was grateful for the ride. The car was warm. He was genuinely friendly.
It was snowing lightly, and the snow twinkled up against the bright lights of the tollway which shone on the treacherous roads below. If the snow became significant, you could no longer see the ice patches; if that happened, it was real trouble. I tried to gauge whether this guy had had a martini or two, because those things matter in this situation. But the best I could figure, he was sober. He clutched the wheel hard. He was going home with a face of grim determination. There was one more toll collector. This time the road widened out to maybe eight windows, but it didn't matter. Each one that was occupied would have a grim-faced toll man. Again the guy paid the fare; he had his dollar bills ready. The road was slick when it branched into eight, and then again on the other side, but he managed it well.
It occurred to me he could have been the toll baron himself, with his nice Lincoln, and his fine shoes, not revealing his true business. But then, he wouldn't have had to pay at all, and he wouldn't be living in Indiana. No, that wasn't him. I'd never know; I'd never see him again.
Eventually the Lincoln made some funny sounds, and he apologized and pulled over, somewhere just as we were getting into Indiana. Something sounded funny in the car, and he was going to see if he could do something about it while things were still open. He grumbled something about American cars and apologized as he let me out on the edge of the road. I put up my collar, grabbed my pack and went on my way. I was grateful to be on the other side of Chicago, which was too busy for my taste, with too many people that weren't going anywhere except maybe the next little suburb. It was time to get some miles under me; I wanted to be in Alabama, and out of the weather, by dawn.
He wanted to talk about light bulbs, for some reason, as an example of a moral dilemma he had at work. "Suppose you had a way to make light bulbs cheaper; you'd do it, right?" Well, yes, I said, though I wasn't a businessman. "If you did," he continued, "you'd have an advantage in the market, right?"
"Now suppose that as you made them cheaper, they wouldn't last as long. But you reached a point where people didn't notice, you'd still do it, right?" he asked. I began to see what he was getting at.
"Now suppose you could measure people's perception, and you could figure out how long it took before they didn't notice. That would be the ideal length of time to make them last, right?"
"So your research is based on people's perception, not on how to make them last as long as possible with as little expense possible."
"Well," he said, "sometimes that physical part, mastering the craft of making them, is long ago perfected, fairly equal among competitors. So the only thing left is their ability to measure the perceptions of their customers. That's what separates the winners from the losers."
We went past the McDonald's above the freeway, near O'Hare; when we stopped at the tollbooths, he had his ninety cents ready. This was a relief, to tell you the truth. Sometimes people give you a ride on the tollway, and they hock you for ninety cents, which, if I have it, I feel obliged to give. But I don't want to. I'm hitchhiking, and it was icy out there. I was glad he paid the toll.
The toll collector looked out of his little dirty glass box with a glazed expression, though I'm sure he thanked us or mumbled something under his breath. Every time I saw these guys I thought of the story in the newspaper, which I'd read in Wisconsin somewhere, about some toll baron who kept all the profits, long after the roads the tolls were meant to pay for, were paid for. It was legend around Chicago, a kind of corruption everyone took for granted; this millionaire was living it up somewhere out here in the suburbs, while his minions stood in their little glass boxes trading dollars for dimes. And calling the police to come after you if you sped through without giving them their ninety cents.
The old guy drifted into a kind of silence, thinking about the morality of robbing the average man; it was all a matter of perception, he maintained. It wasn't moral, it wasn't right, but it was the way it was. You make them worse, you survive in the market. Planned obsolescence, it was called.
Some people, himself included, remembered light bulbs lasting forever, poor people taking them with, when they left one apartment to move to another, so that they'd never have to buy one. They could make them last forever; they knew how. They could, but they didn't. We discussed this for a while; for part of that time, he was mumbling, as if he remembered a few light bulbs himself. But I knew it wasn't about light bulbs; he had some larger problem that he wasn't bringing up. I felt like he wanted me to judge him, the immoral businessman, but I didn't. I was grateful for the ride. The car was warm. He was genuinely friendly.
It was snowing lightly, and the snow twinkled up against the bright lights of the tollway which shone on the treacherous roads below. If the snow became significant, you could no longer see the ice patches; if that happened, it was real trouble. I tried to gauge whether this guy had had a martini or two, because those things matter in this situation. But the best I could figure, he was sober. He clutched the wheel hard. He was going home with a face of grim determination. There was one more toll collector. This time the road widened out to maybe eight windows, but it didn't matter. Each one that was occupied would have a grim-faced toll man. Again the guy paid the fare; he had his dollar bills ready. The road was slick when it branched into eight, and then again on the other side, but he managed it well.
It occurred to me he could have been the toll baron himself, with his nice Lincoln, and his fine shoes, not revealing his true business. But then, he wouldn't have had to pay at all, and he wouldn't be living in Indiana. No, that wasn't him. I'd never know; I'd never see him again.
Eventually the Lincoln made some funny sounds, and he apologized and pulled over, somewhere just as we were getting into Indiana. Something sounded funny in the car, and he was going to see if he could do something about it while things were still open. He grumbled something about American cars and apologized as he let me out on the edge of the road. I put up my collar, grabbed my pack and went on my way. I was grateful to be on the other side of Chicago, which was too busy for my taste, with too many people that weren't going anywhere except maybe the next little suburb. It was time to get some miles under me; I wanted to be in Alabama, and out of the weather, by dawn.
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