Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

I looked.

Sadly, John had picked a poor example. Not of workmanship, but of the worker.

'How old is this little girl?' I asked.

The moppet sewed on deftly, paying us no heed. If anything, she picked her pace up slightly.

'She fourteen,' the supervisor said.

He evidently knew some English.

'John, that's utter bullshit,' I said quietly. This kid is ten at most.'

'Fourteen,' the supervisor parroted. And John concurred.

'Oliver, that is the legal minimum.'

'I'm not disputing the law, I'm simply saying this girl's ten years old!'

'She has card,' the supervisor said. He had a working knowledge of the tongue.

'Let's see,' I said. Politely. Though I didn't add a 'please'. John was impassive as the supervisor asked the little kid for her I.D. She looked in panic. Christ, if only I could reassure her that it wasn't a bust.

'Here, sir.'

The boss waved a card at me. It had no picture.

'John,' I said, 'it has no photograph.'

'A picture's not required if you're under seventeen,' he said.

'I see,' I said.

They looked as if they wanted me to move on by.

'In other words,' I then continued, 'this kid's got an older sister's card.'

'Fourteen!' the supervisor shouted once again. He gave the little girl her card back. Much relieved, she turned and started working even faster than before. But now taking furtive glances at me. Shit, suppose she hurts herself?

'Tell her to stay loose,' I said to John.

He told her something in Chinese and she worked on, no longer glancing at me.

'Tea, please,' said the supervisor, and he bowed us toward the cubicle that was his office.

John could see I hadn't bought the number.

'Look,' he said, 'she does a fourteen-year-old's job.'

'And gets how much? You said they pay the "youngsters" half.'

'Oliver,' said John, unruffled, 'she takes home ten dollars every day.'

'Oh, fine,' I said, and added, 'Hong Kong dollars. That's a dollar-eighty, U.S. bucks, correct?'

The supervisor handed me a shirt.

'He wants you to inspect the workmanship,' said John.

'It's fine,' I said. 'That "double stitching" stuff is really-class (whatever that may be). In fact, I own a few of these, myself.'

You see, the shirts they made here bore the label Mr B, And guys, it seems, are wearing them this year in sweater combinations.

As I sipped my tea, I wondered if a million miles away in New York, Miss Elvy Nash knew how they made those fine-as-wine creations she was pushing.

'Let's go,' I said to John.

I needed air.

I changed the conversation to the weather.

'It must be pretty brutal in the summer months,' I said.

'Very humid,' John replied.

We had run this gamut, so I knew the right riposte.

'Just like New York in August, huh?'

'About,' he said.

'Does it … slow the ladies any?'

'Beg your pardon?'

'I didn't notice air conditioning back there,' I said.

He looked at me.

'This is Asia, Oliver,' he said, 'not California.'

And on we drove.

'Is your apartment air-conditioned?' I inquired.

John Hsiang looked at me again.

'Oliver,' he calmly said, 'here in the Orient the worker lives with different expectations.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'But don't you think that even here in Asia, John, the average worker's expectation is to have enough to eat ?'

He didn't answer.

'So,' I then continued, 'you agree a dollar-eighty's not enough to live on, right?'

I knew his thoughts had long ago karate-chopped me dead.

'People work much harder here,' he stated very righteously. 'Our ladies don't read magazines in beauty parlors.'

I sensed that John was conjuring up his private image of my mother lazing underneath a dryer.

'For example,' he then added. 'The young girl you saw. Her whole family works there. And her mother does some extra sewing for us in the evening.'

'At her house?'

'Yes,' John replied.

'Oh,' I said. 'What labor law calls "homework", right?'

'Right.'

I waited for a sec.

'Johnny, you're a B-School graduate,' I said. 'You should recall why "homework" is illegal in the States.'

He smiled. 'You don't know Hong Kong law.'

'Come on, you fucking hypocrite!'

He slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop.

'I don't have to take abuse,' he said.

'You're right,' I answered, and I opened up the door. But damn, before I stormed away I had to make him hear the answer.

'Homework is illegal,' I said softly,' 'cause it gets around the union wage. Guys who have to work like that get paid whatever the employer cares to give them. Which is usually zilch.'

John Hsiang glared at me.

'Oration over, Mr Liberal?' he inquired.

'Yes.'

'Then listen for a change and learn the local facts of life. They don't join unions here 'cause people want to split their pay and people want their kids to work and people want the chance to take some pieces home. You dig ?'

I wouldn't answer.

'And for your goddamn lawyer information,' John concluded, 'there is no minimum wage in Hong Kong Colony. Now go to hell!'

He gunned away before I could inform him I already was there.

The explanations for the things we do in life are many and complex. Supposedly mature adults should live by logic, listen to their reason. Think things out before they act.

But then they maybe never heard what Dr London told me once. Long after everything was over.

Freud — yes, Freud himself — once said that for the little things in life we should, of course, react according to our reason.

But for really big decisions, we should heed what our unconscious tells us.

Marcie Binnendale was standing eighteen hundred feet above the Hong Kong harbor. It was twilight. And the candles of the city were beginning to be lit.

The wind was cold. It blew the hair across her forehead in the manner I had often found so beautiful.

'Hi, friend,' she said. 'Look down at: all those lights. We can see everything from here.'

I didn't answer.

'Want me to indicate the points of interest?'

'I saw enough this afternoon. With Johnny.'

'Oh,' she said.

Then gradually she noticed I had not returned her smile of welcome. I was looking up at her, wondering was this the woman I had almost … loved?

'Something wrong?' she asked.

'Everything,' I answered.

'For instance?'

I said it quietly.

'You've got little children working in your sweatshops.'

Marcie hesitated for a moment.

'Everybody does it.'

'Marcie, that is no excuse.'

'Look who's talking,' Marcie answered calmly. 'Mr Barrett of the Massachusetts textile fortune!'

I was prepared for this.

That's not the point.'

'Like hell! They took advantage of a situation just the way the industry is doing here.'

'A hundred years ago,' I said, 'I wasn't there to say it made me sick.'

'You're pretty sanctimonious,' she said. 'Just who picked you to change the world?'

'Look, Marcie, I can't change it. But I sure as hell don't have to join it.'

Then she shook her head.

'Oliver, this bleeding liberal number's just a pretext.'

I looked at her and didn't answer.

'You want to end it. And you're looking for a good excuse.'

I could've said I'd found a goddamn good one.

'Come on,' she said, 'you're lying to yourself. If I gave everything to charity and went to teach in Appalachia, you'd find some other reason.'

I reflected. All I really knew was I was anxious to depart.

'Maybe,' I allowed.