John MacDonald - Trojan Horse Laugh

“Oh, certainly! Radio, sky writing, posters, newspaper ads, direct mail and a team of industrial salesmen.”

“What do you mean by industrial salesmen?”

“Take Company X. It employs three hundred men. A round dozen are chronic complainers and troublemakers. Others have bad days when their work is poor. Morale is spotty. If one hundred percent of the employees are adjusted, the personnel director will know what the plant morale will be at any time. It will thus be possible to plan ahead and set production schedules accordingly. Labor difficulties are minimized and profit goes up.”

“Sounds like Nirvana,” Joe Morgan said dryly. “What does paradise cost?”

“Ten dollars for the individual. Right dollars per person for industrial contracts. Frankly, Mr. Morgan, that is less than our costs, though I do not wish you to print that information.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Dr. Lewsto went to the door, brought in a very tall, very grave young woman who, in spite of her severe dress, her air of dignity, seemed to walk to the haunting beat of a half-heard chant.

“Mr. Morgan, this is Miss Pardette, our statistician.”

Her handshake was surprisingly firm. Dr. Lewsto continued, “Miss Pardette has been in Daylon for the past month with her assistants, compiling statistics on industrial production, retail sales and similar matters. She will compile new figures as our work progresses.” Lewsto’s voice deepened and he took on a lecture platform manner. “It is our aim to show, with Daylon as our test city, that the American city can, through Happiness, Incorporated, be made a healthier, happier and more profitable place in which to live.”

Joe Morgan gravely clapped his hands. Both Miss Pardette and Dr. Lewsto stared at him without friendliness.

Dr. Lewsto said: “I’m afraid, Mr. Morgan, that I detect a rather childish sort of skepticism in your manner. You should not be blind to progress.”

“How could you say such a thing, Doc?” Joe asked blandly. “I’m impressed. Really impressed. Every red-blooded American wants happiness. And you’re the man to see that he gets it.”

Lewsto Said, visibly molting, “Ah... yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me, Mr. Morgan.”

But Joe felt the cold eye of Miss Pardette on him.

He said quickly, “Am I to assume, Dr. Lewsto, that you will give every one of your patients the same basic emotional cycle?”

“Yes. That is the key to the whole picture. Instead of a tangled maze of cycles, everyone we treat will have exactly the same cycle, co-ordinated with everyone else.”

WHERE’D YOU GET THAT EMOTIONAL BINGE? IT’S AS OUT OF STYLE AS A RUSTY HINGE. WIPE THAT FROWN OFF YOUR SULKY BROW — WITH A TEN DOLLAR BILL GET ADJUSTED NOW!

Main Street. It just happens to be Daylon. It could be anybody’s main street. Warm May sun, sweating cops implementing the street lights at the busiest corners. A rash of panel delivery trucks, housewives cruising looking for a place wide enough in which to park, music blaring from a radio store.

Three blocks from the very center of the city another cop has been detailed to keep the line orderly in front of number thirty-four, Caroline Street. It is a small budding, and across the front of it is a huge sign — “HAPPINESS, INCORPORATED”.

The line moves slowly toward the doorway. Inside, it is rapidly and efficiently split into the appropriate groups. Those who are arriving for the first time pay at the desk on the right, receive their number. There are a hundred thousand people in Daylon. The new numbers being issued are in the eleven thousand series.

Those whose cycles have been charted, are shunted up the stairs to where a small vial awaits, bearing their number. A smaller group files toward the back of the building for the essential booster shots.

A plump little man sulks in line, herded along by his wife who looks oddly like a clipper ship under a full head of sail.

She says, “And you listen to me, Henry. After nineteen years of put-ting up with your childish moods this is one time when you are going to—”

Her voice goes on and on. Henry pouts and moves slowly with the crowd. He tells himself that no shot in the arm is going to make his life any more enjoyable. Not with the free-wheeling virago he has endured for these many years.

The policeman on the beat is sweating but he smiles fondly at the line. Fastened to the lapel of his uniform is a tiny bronze button with an interlocked II and I. Happiness, Incorporated. The bronze button is issued with the booster shot.

Back to the main drag. A diaper delivery truck tangles fenders with a bread truck. Both drivers are at fault. They climb out, and, through force of habit, walk stiff-legged toward each other, one eye on the damage. They both wear the little bronze button. They smile at each other.

“No harm done, I guess. Anyway, not much.”

“Same here. Hey, you’re one of the happiness boys, too.”

“Yeah, I got herded into it by the wife.”

“Me too, and I’m not sorry. Gives everything a glow, sort of.”

They stand and measure each other. The cycle is on the upswing. Each day is better than the last. The peak is approaching. It is but three days away.

“Look, let’s roll these heaps around the corner and grab a quick beer?”

Main Street in May. A small, ruffian child, pressed too closely in a department store, unleashes a boot that bounces smartly off the shin of an elderly matron.

The matron winces, smiles placidly at the child’s mother, limps away.

The mother grabs the infant by the ear. “You’re lucky she was one of the adjusted ones, Homer. I’m going to take you home and belt you a few, and then I’m going to take you and your father down and get both of you adjusted.”

Main Street with a small difference. People smile warmly at strangers. There is a hint of laughter in the air, a hint of expectancy. The little bronze buttons catch the sun. The unadjusted stare bleakly at the smiles, at the little buttons, and wonder what has happened to everybody. They begin to feel as though they were left out of something.

Joe Morgan walks dourly along the street, rigidly suppressing an urge to glare at every smile.

A man hurrying out of a doorway runs solidly into him. Joe, caught off balance, sits down smartly. He is hauled to his feet, brushed off. His hand is pumped up and down by the stranger,

“Whyn’t yah look where you’re running?” Joe asks.

“Fella, I’m sorry. I was just plain clumsy. Say, can I buy you a drink? Or can I take you anywhere? My car’s right around the corner.”

Joe squints at the little bronze button, says, “Skip it,” walks down the street.

Joe is unhappy. The managing editor, proudly sporting a little bronze button, has set up a permanent department called, “The Progress of Happiness,” and he has assigned Joe Morgan to run it. Joe is out tracking down progress.

He stands across the street and glares at the long line waiting to be processed. He is torn by doubts, wonders vaguely whether he ought to join the line and be adjusted. But he cannot permit such a violation of his right of privacy.

He goes into the offices assigned to Miss Pardette.

Miss Pardette was busy. Joe Morgan sat near her desk, cocked his head to one side and listened carefully to the music she seemed to carry around with her. He couldn’t help thinking of Alice Pardette as wasted talent. All she would have to do in any floor show would be to walk across the floor. In the proper costume she would make strong men clutch the tablecloth and signal for another drink. The vitality of her seemed to press against the dark suit she wore like a torrential river held taut by a new dam.