By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, December 15, 1945.
“Five miles,” announced Jimmie Frise, “and then we turn right on a good gravel road.”
“I wish we hadn’t come,” I muttered.
“This farmer,” declared Jim, “has over 200 white Holland turkeys. You’ll never see a more beautiful sight.”
“I don’t believe,” I submitted, “a white turkey can taste as good as a normal bronze turkey.”
“And where,” inquired Jim loftily, “are you going to get a good bronze turkey or any other kind of turkey?”
“This Christmas,” I stated, “I would settle for a pair of big chickens. Or even a roast of pork.”
“Every Christmas,” said Jim, “they build up this scare about a turkey shortage. Then, every year, a supply comes along. But this year, of all years, it looks grim. I’m determined to have a turkey.”
“The wet, cold spring, Jim,” I explained, “was as bad for turkeys as for any other crop.”
“We’re going to find turkeys,” insisted Jim. “We had turkeys for Christmas all through the war. Do you mean to say that now the war is over, we are going to miss turkey dinner for the first Christmas? My dear sir, that would be an awful admission. That would confess that we had won the war but lost the peace.”
“If we had turkeys all through the war,” I pointed out, “we should deny ourselves turkeys this Christmas. An act of self-denial and an act of charity. We should send every turkey Canada has produced this year to Britain, France, Greece, Yugoslavia and Russia.”
“Aw,” said Jim.
“It’s a fact, Jim, ” I pleaded. “We haven’t begun to do for Europe and Asia what we should be doing. Here we are solemnly holding conclaves over the atomic bomb. All the atomic bombs in the world can’t do any harm unless there is hatred enough in the world to let them loose. It isn’t the bomb we should be fretting about. It is the hatred between nations. And if nations were generous with each other, there could be no hatred.”
“We’ve been generous,” protested Jim.
“But we still want turkey,” I replied. “The fact is, Jim, we haven’t been generous at all. Not in relation to what we possess. A country is ruled, not by its best brains, but by its smartest brains. Business men are the real rulers of every country. And foreign relations are dominated by business men. Therefore, when the government of one country thinks of another country, it does not visualize the vast mass of the people of that other country. It thinks of the government of that country. That is, two sets of business men, thinking of each other.”
“We have to be practical,” said Jim.
Forced Friendship
“Business is a contest,” I pursued “Business is a competition between men, between groups of men, between companies, communities and, finally, nations. Leave the world in the hands of business men, and you’ll have war as sure as fate. War is business carried to its logical conclusion.”
“You’re a Bolshevik,” suggested Jim.
“We now see,” I concluded, “three organizations of business men with a new and startling method of production – the atomic bomb. It can’t be patented. Their competitors are liable to work out the design any day. While they’ve got the exclusive use of this new machine, they are anxious to make the most of it. They want to corner the world with it.”
“What would you do with the atomic bomb?” inquired Jim.
“Public ownership is the solution,” I submitted. “I have no objection to private ownership, so long as the public is served, and not damaged. But the minute a lot of private ownership organizations get warring among themselves so violently that the public starts to get hurt, then, that’s where public ownership steps in and takes over. Give everybody the secret of the atomic bomb. Send them the blueprints. Send them supplies of uranium and all the rest of the materials!”
“Suicide!” cried Jim.
“Not at all,” I countered. “If we knew every nation had a good big supply of atomic bombs, we’d HAVE to be friends!”
“Eh!” said Jim, so startled that he almost drove into the ditch.
“It’s as simple as that,” I assured him. “In the past, war has come because nations gambled that their armies, navies and air forces were bigger and stronger than some other nation’s. Give everybody the atomic bomb, and none of us would dare go to war. The masses of the people, who would be the ones to die. wouldn’t permit their business men to involve them in war. The atomic bomb is probably the solution of war. But only so long as every nation has it. While only a few nations have it, war is still possible.”
“Why, you’re crazy,” expostulated Jimmie.
“Wait and see,” I said calmly. “The solution of the atomic bomb will be – one big world factory where the world supply of atomic bombs will be manufactured for distribution, pro rata, to every nation on earth.”
“Pro rata?” cut in Jim.
“Certainly,” I said. “The smallest countries will naturally get the biggest supply. It stands to reason. It’s inherent in the very basis of law. You wouldn’t expect a little country like Belgium to have fewer atomic bombs than a big country like France? Why, that would put us right back in the old position of one country having a bigger army than another, just because it has more population. No, sir! The little atomic bomb puts an end to all that injustice. All countries, big and small, balanced. Then let anybody try to start a war!”
“But… but…” protested Jim helplessly.
“Look, Jim,” I said. “Back a thousand years ago, in war, the biggest guy with the biggest battle axe won. Then gunpowder was invented. And the day of the big guy was over. In fact, the smaller the guy, the more dangerous, because he was harder to hit. A big guy with a battle axe was pie. The next step in war was – who can make the biggest gun? Now we come to the next step in war. The atomic bomb. A little wee country can make as many atomic bombs as are needed to wipe the biggest country off the map. Probably they’re doing it right now.”
“What’s the solution?” begged Jim.
“Freely give everybody,” I suggested, “all they ask for. Let everybody know how many everybody else has got. Admit that we are all now prepared to blow one another to blazes at the drop of the hat.”
“Then?” said Jim.
“Then,” I submitted, “we’ll HAVE to be friends.”
“Aaaaa,” gritted Jimmie desperately.
The Wrong Road
But he had to take his mind off the atomic bomb, for we were coming to the gravel road which he said led three miles into the farm of the turkey specialist who grew the white Holland turkey.
“It’s the fifth farm,” said Jim, as we slewed into the side road, “on the left.”
But when we came to the fifth farm, it was just a little huddle of buildings with two cows hiding beside the barn from the wintry wind.
“It can’t be, this one,” I protested.
Jim walked up the lane, as it was too muddy to drive the car; and came back hurriedly, shaking his head.
“We must have the wrong side road,” he said. “I got the most careful road directions….”
“As usual,” I replied bitterly.
We drove hastily back to the highway. Up and down the main stem, cars were snoring in the usual December fashion, their windows steamed, their whole attitude one of huddle and hurry.
“There’ll be a gasoline station up here, somewhere,” suggested Jim.
“Aw, let’s turn back,” I snorted. “Didn’t that farmer know of any white Holland turkeys?”
“No,” confessed Jim, “but it must be in this neighborhood.”
I sat back in disgust. A roast of pork would do me for Christmas.
Two miles up the highway, we came to one of those lonely gasoline stations that sit aloof, as it were, halfway between villages. As we turned into the gas pumps, a man came hurrying out of the chilly little house.
“Say,” called Jim, running down the window, “can you tell us where a farmer around here named Hawkins lives – he breeds white Holland turkeys.”
The service station man seemed to wilt.
“No,” he said dispiritedly, “never heard of him.”
“He must be right around this neighborhood….” went on Jim.
“Never heard of him,” said the station man, miserably.
I never saw a more downcast man in my life than this gas station man.
“Sorry to trouble you,” I called cheerfully. “Horrible day, eh?”
He perked up at my cheeriness.
“It’s been like this,” he said, as if glad of a chance to talk, “for weeks. You’re the fifth car has come into my pumps today, so far, all day. And every one just wanted directions.”
“No sales, eh?” I queried.
“I can’t figure it out,” said the station man. “In summer, I get a fair share of the business. But the minute fall comes, and winter, everybody just keeps right on going.”
“I guess,” suggested Jim, “it looks too cold to stop here. People like to stop for gasoline or oil in a town, where it looks warmer.”
“I guess that’s it,” sighed the gasoline man.
“But it’s sure a disappointment. Christmas coming and I haven’t made $5 in a week.”
“Need any gas, Jim?” I murmured.
“I filled up at that last village,” reminded Jim.
“Oil?” I inquired.
“They examined the oil,” said Jim. “Full up.”
“Let’s get out,” I said, opening my door, “and stretch our legs. Can’t you think up some scheme for making your station look warmer?”.
“I got it painted,” said the gas man. “I spent most of my summer earnings trying to make the place attractive. But traffic just goes hurrying by. In fact, I sometimes think they put on speed when they pass here.”
“Look,” said Jim, “you don’t want to get down-hearted. Face the facts. That’s the secret of success in business. This is a summer-time station. People prefer to stop for gasoline here, in summer, in a nice fresh country setting. But in winter, it looks too forbidding. Too cold. Too exposed.”
An Idea Blossoms
I walked out to the road and watched the traffic go by. There was plenty of it. Both ways.
“My friend,” I suggested, “there is such a thing as business methods. There is a thing called sales resistance and another thing called sales promotion.”
“I’ve read all the business magazines,” said the gas man sadly. “I’ve written to the company. Nobody has any ideas that apply here.”
“I’ve got one,” I announced.
“Let’s hear it,” said Jim sarcastically, still thinking of the atomic bomb.
“Have you got any old tires around the back?” I inquired.
“Yes, there’s a couple,” said the gas man.
“My friend and I,” I outlined, “will go back up the road here, about 300 yards. You give us a hunk of rubber off an old tire. We’ll build a fire in that little woodsy bit, there, and throw the rubber on it.”
“Mmmm?” said Jim.
“The wind, you’ll notice,” I continued, “is blowing across the highway. The smell of burning rubber, here in this lonely country road will drift across the road. I bet you’ll have 20 cars stop here at your station in the first 10 minutes!”
Jim and the gas man looked at me narrowly.
“That’s a dirty trick,” said Jim.
“It’s what you call sales promotion,” I retorted. “The biggest and most successful businesses in the world use the power of suggestion to promote the sales of their goods.”
“Would it be ethical?” inquired the gas station man anxiously.
“Ethical?” I cried. “Why, what are you doing but suggesting to the motoring public that they take good care of their cars? Could anything be more ethical? When the passing motorist drives through the smell of burning rubber, he will immediately be conscience stricken. He will say to himself – ‘Ah. I’ve neglected this engine! There’s the fan belt, or the clutch lining, there’s my brakes gone! He’ll kick himself for having neglected to change the oil.”
“Everybody is guilty of neglecting their cars,” agreed the gas man.
“So,” I pursued, “what will he do? He’ll immediately slacken speed. He’ll spy your station here. And what more natural than that he will drive in? And when he drives in, he’ll lift the hood of his car, and get down under and smell around. And finding nothing wrong, his conscience will be relieved to the extent that he will buy a quart or two of oil, and probably take a few gallons of gasoline while he’s at it.”
Jim gave me a disgusted but slightly admiring look. The gas man hurried around to the back of his cabin.
“Of all the lousy tricks….” said Jim delightedly.
With his knife, the service man cut off a few big hunks of tire; and Jim and I strolled down the road to the little bushy patch where, in a small depression invisible from the road, I built a quick fire of dry sticks and Jim tossed the first bit of rubber on. The stink was immediate.
The breeze wafted it towards the wintry road.
The first car to cross the sales promotion skidded to an instant stop. The driver leaped out, lifted the hood and peered within. He slammed down the hood, leaped back in the car, and at a snail’s pace slowly drove the 300 yards and turned into the gas station. I could see our friend come bouncing out of the cabin.
In rapid succession, four more cars slackened speed as they passed us and all turned into the gas station.
We stoked the bonfire with the heaviest and wettest sticks we could find, so as to let her smoulder, and walked back to the service station. By the time we reached it, seven cars were tangled on the lot, all had their hoods up, and all the drivers were sniffing one another’s cars trying to locate the trouble. And the gas man, whose name was Sam, was pouring oil, pumping gas and lifting floor boards for all he was worth.
“I’ve telephoned for my brother,” he whispered, as he passed us to go in and make change. “I’ll need help.”
“We’ll light another,” I murmured, “up the other way. We’ll get ’em coming and going.”
That Burning Smell
Which we did; and Sam and his brother and a friend the brother had brought with him were all so busy there wasn’t a more crowded gas station between Toronto and North Bay.
“I feel like a heel,” said Jim, as we came back from setting the second sales promotion and got into our car. Sam ran over and shook hands furiously with us.
“Merry Christmas!” he gasped.
“A heel,” repeated Jim, as we drove out, narrowly missing two cars, from both directions, anxiously whirling into the service station.
“Jim,” I pleaded, “we are impressing on all kinds of careless people the need of taking care of their cars. By a mere suggestion, we are doing a great public good. And also helping that poor guy to get a little honest business. The gas and oil he sells are perfectly honest gas and oil.”
Up at the next crossroads, we met the rural mail delivery man who gave us directions to the farm where the white turkey breeder lived. It was three more crossroads north and then three miles in.
As we drove along, I began to chuckle.
“Jim,” I said, “that smell of burning rubber is sure the most potent suggestion in the world. I can smell the stuff still.”
“So can I,” laughed Jim. “If it weren’t for the fact that we knew what it was, I’d be in a panic right now.”
“It smells to me,” I chortled, “as if your gaskets were smoking.”
“It smells to me,” jibed Jim, “like my clutch!”
“Heh, heh, heh,” I laughed.
We passed the second side road.
“We made it too strong,” chuckled Jim. “Why, we must have scooped up a regular carload of those fumes as we passed.”
“The funny part is,” I submitted, “it seems to get worse. Scorched rubber, is certainly the most suggestive smell in all the world.”
“Eh, well,” sighed Jimmie. “After a dirty trick like that, I suppose the two of us ought to smell burnt rubber for the rest of our lives.”
“JIM!” I yelled. “There’s smoke coming up through the floorboards!”
Jim tramped on the brakes. He sidled to the shoulder of the road.
Smoke, really scorched smoke, billowed up through the pedal holes, around the hood, up by the windows.
We leaped out.
It was the clutch.
“Oh, oh, oh,” groaned Jim, tearing up hood and floorboards, “the clutch, of all things!”
So we hitched a lift from a passing car back to Sam’s service station. And there we telephoned to the next town for a tow-truck.
And we left the car in the town for the all-day job of tearing it down and relining the clutch; and took the bus back to Toronto.
And Jim was interested neither in white turkeys nor atomic bombs.
He just looked out the window all the way home.
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