American Dreams (17 page)

Amiably he said, 'Oh, we know all about that. The flickers are beneath you Broadway folks. You'll get over it as soon as we turn a few actors into stars. Offer's open anytime. Call me when you're back in town, Paul,' he said with a tip of his hat.

After Bitzer walked away Paul said, 'You were pretty hard on him.'

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Fritzi looked rueful. 'I suppose I was, I'm sorry. It's the way I feel. I should have kept it to myself.'

In Buffalo, after a day spent filming Niagara Falls, Paul delivered his first lecture, nervously, but with good response from the audience. Bill Schwimmer, the lecture agent, had taken a sleeper from New York to catch the performance. A quiet, scholarly man who made occasional unsmiling references to his wife, he called Paul a 'natural' -- said he could book him for an extended tour whenever he returned. On this trip Paul had only two more speaking engagements, Cincinnati and Louisville. By the time he left Louisville to photograph the splendid horse farms near Lexington, he felt like a seasoned trouper.

In Indianapolis he filmed a spectacular flagpole sitter, then arranged to look at the real object of his trip, the site of a proposed new motor speedway.

One of the developers, James Allison, picked him up at his hotel and drove him out, talking the whole way about his company, Prest-OLite, makers of running-board gas tanks for headlights.

Allison and his three partners believed Indianapolis had a great future in racing. He proudly showed off raw land west of the city, but that's all it was at the moment, raw. Paul thanked him, tipped his cap, and said he'd return when the track opened. At 4 a.m., he climbed aboard a train for Detroit, the new auto capital.

Americans hadn't invented the horseless carriage, as it was called at first.

A couple of Germans, Gottlieb Daimler and Karl Benz, took those honors.

But America seemed to be developing the motor car faster and more aggressively than Europe. Companies sprang up like mushrooms, produced a few vehicles, or none, then sold out, merged or just disappeared.

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There were presently over a thousand different auto makers. Most assembled their cars from components bought outside.

Paul had read an article in Harper's that enumerated the trades in which auto makers got their start. Colonel A. A. Pope had manufactured bicycles, confidently declaring, 'You can't get people to sit over an explosion.'

Ransom Olds originally made stationary gas engines, White made sewing machines, David Buick plumbing fixtures. Studebaker was formerly the world's largest producer of horse-drawn vehicles.

Of the many companies, the one bearing the name of Henry Ford seemed to emerge in the press oftener than others. Paul had read about Ford in the London Light, the flagship paper of the press lord who employed him.

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Sometimes called a self-taught genius, Ford had been in the auto trade about ten years, starting companies, then dissolving or walking away from them in the wake of disputes with partners, which had included bankers, a coal merchant, and a bike racer. It was Ford's latest model that Paul meant to photograph. The car had been designed and worked on in secret for two years.

The trip to Detroit in an old wooden day coach wasn't exactly Paul's idea of a high time, though this observation was tempered with an admission that success was probably spoiling him. The air blowing through the car reeked of coal smoke and toilets. Sandwich wrappers and broken peanut shells littered the floor. The water tank on the wall at one end was empty, the dipper missing. After the sun came up the car felt like a fiery furnace. Some god of discomfort had further decreed that all the windows would remain stuck in the closed position. Though Paul wasn't the neatest of men, or much concerned with externals, he spent a lot of time on the open platform between cars, puffing a cigar.

The train arrived at the Michigan Central Depot on the shore of the Detroit River. Paul claimed his lacquered case from the baggage car, checked to be sure his camera had arrived unbroken, and hailed a hissing steam taxi. He consulted a tobacco-flecked card from his vest pocket.

'Hotel Ponchartrain.'

His first impression of Detroit improved his mood. It seemed a modern, bustling city. Its population of nearly four-hundred thousand included Poles and Finns, French and Sicilians, Rumanians, Armenians, and Chinese. And of course plenty of German-Americans, in a section called Little Berlin.

Some streets were old-fashioned cedar blocks sealed together with Reunions

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pitch; even on this cool, crisp day he could smell the tar. But the buildings were tall, the monuments imposing, and all the streetcars electric, a hallmark of progress.

He had an address for Carl, had telegraphed asking his cousin to meet him in the Ponchartrain bar when he got off work. Paul unpacked, soaked in a hot bath to relieve his back ache, then rested a while with his hands laced under his head, daydreaming of Julie. He strolled around Cadillac Square and the town's central plaza, Campus Martius, for a half hour. At six-thirty he put his foot on the brass bar rail and ordered a Crown lager.

They had it. Cood for Uncle Joe.

A large and lively bar crowd, mostly well-dressed gentlemen, kept up a loud chatter. Eavesdropping, Paul found that much of the conversation
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had something to do with the auto trade. He heard the words 'damnable unions.' Someone else said, 'Don't worry, the E.A. has four men undercover in that plant.'

_

One section of the back bar held an amazing array of auto parts, every 1

thing

from a cast-iron engine block to fenders, brass coach lamps, dashboards, and radiators. A man set a coat tree near the engine block, hung a linen driving coat on it, and began to extol the coat's virtues to a couple of prospects.

'Paul!' Carl waved a cloth cap as he charged across the barroom. His shoes were scuffed and his brown suit looked secondhand - too short in the jacket and trousers. But his smile was as broad and bright as Paul remembered. The cousins hugged each other.

Paul ordered schooners of beer. Carl asked questions about Julie and the children. After Paul answered them, he said, 'What about you? How are you doing at Ford's?'

'I love it, it's an exciting place.' Carl planted his elbows on the bar with his palms cupping the frosted schooner. 'Oh, I don't love everything about it. I hate the time clock. Job's taught me plenty about automobiles, though, and gotten me in with the racing crowd. Lots of automakers race to show off their cars.' He reached for a bowl of peanuts, clumsily let it slide out of his fingers, spilling some.

'What do you do exactly?'

i don't stay inside, thank (k»d, I couldn't stand that. Henry Ford can't stand it either. I le comes and goes at all hours. 'Course, he's the boss. I'm I

a lowly utility driver. Pay's not bad for unskilled work - twenty-eight cents an hour for a nine-hour day.*Mostly I drive Model T's down to the freight yards for shipment. Sometimes I deliver a special-order car to a 104

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sales agent in Ohio or Michigan or northern Indiana. Occasionally I take a car on a test run.'

'Ford has its own test track?'

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Carl laughed. 'Right outside. Cadillac Square, Woodward Avenue - the streets.'

'I've an appointment to film the new Model T in the morning. A man named Couzens arranged it.'

'James Couzens. Money man. Kind of a sour apple. Smiles maybe once a year. God, it's good to see you. Let me tell you about this gorgeous girl I met.'

In the Ponchartrain dining room, they ate a huge meal of pot roast, potatoes, corn on the cob, cauliflower and summer squash, hard rolls and pumpernickel, with a constant flow of beer. Paul asked how it happened that Detroit was becoming the auto center. The earliest manufacturing had been widely scattered from the Midwest to Massachusetts.

'They say it's because a lot of local people had experience in building marine engines for the lake boats. Nobody had to start machine shops or foundries, because they were already here. And there's money all over the place. Millionaires whose fathers got rich building carriages or railroad cars are looking for another plunge. There's a good spirit in Detroit. People are willing to take risks. Mr. Olds, the Dodge brothers - they're born gamblers.'

How

had Carl learned to drive? He grinned. 'In secret. Six inches at a time.'

He explained that he'd formerly worked at a bicycle repair shop in Columbus, Ohio. A few wealthy men stored their autos at the shop, taking them out only in good weather. Carl observed the drivers carefully for a few weeks. Then late one night he took his first untutored 'drive' in a one cylinder Packard runabout, going forward six inches, then back inside the storage barn, with only a few light bumps against the walls.

Two nights later the shop owner walked in unexpectedly and caught him at it. The owner admired his cheek and his eagerness to learn, told him to take the Packard around the block the next day. He'd be liable if he banged it up or put a single scratch on the paint.

'I told him I wouldn't, and I didn't.'

'And you got on with Henry Ford with no trouble?'

i wouldn't say that. I was nervous as hell when he interviewed me.'

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Paul took his cigar out of his mouth. 'The head of the company talked to you personally?'

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'Well, it doesn't usually work that way, but when I came here from Columbus, I wrote a letter to Mr. Ford. Pretty crude stuff, I'm an awful writer. I couldn't believe it when he wrote back. He invited me to his house. Said he hardly ever.did the hiring, except at the top level, but there was something in my letter that he liked.'

'What was it?'

With an ingenuous smile Carl said, 'I was kicked out of Princeton.'

Then he described his memorable first meeting with his employer.

On the night of the interview, Carl had stood beneath one of the verdant old elm trees on Harper Avenue for a long time, feet fidgeting, stomach flip-flopping. He couldn't remember being in such a state of nerves, probably because no other moment that he could recall, not even stealing a first kiss from Hilde Retz on a chaperoned sleigh ride in seventh grade, was so charged with tension and anticipation.

Harper Avenue was far from a poor street, but neither was it upper crust. The object of Carl's attention was a large but plain frame house, not at all what you'd expect of a man supposedly on his way to riches. Henry Ford had grown up in the country out by Dearborn, and he'd grown up poor, that much Carl knew. Maybe he didn't like to associate with the Woodward Avenue crowd, most of whom had inherited their wealth.

Finally, with an exertion of will Carl overcame his anxiety and stepped off the curb. In the shrubs around the wide porch, birds twittered in the twilight. A plain-faced woman answered his knock.

'You must be the young.man Henry's expecting.. I'm Mrs. Ford, won't you come in?'

The principal shareholder of the Ford Motor Company bounded into the hall to greet him. Ford's celluloid collar hung by one button; he'd discarded his tie. He was a tall, skinny man with big ears, piercing deep-set eyes and a craggy face that reminded Carl of Civil War photos of Lincoln, only less wrinkled. Mid-forties, Carl judged.

'Come in, Carl, have a seat. Care for a cup of coffee, or Malto Grape?

That's a fruit drink. We serve nothing stronger.'

The front parlor was furnished with a lot of old, dark, unpretentious furniture. The major pieces were surnrtinded by a Victorian clutter of fern pots, footstools, taborets, and curio cabinets. As Carl sat down, awaiting a 106

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grilling, an adolescent boy ran down the stairs into the front hall. Ford hailed him and introduced his son, Edsel. 'What do you want, son?'

'Can I take the car out, Pa?'

'Sure, but be back before dark.' The front door banged. Ford said,

'Fine lad. Our only child. Named him for my best friend. Started him driving at age eight.' Thumbs stretching and unstretching his suspenders, Ford regarded Carl soberly. 'So you want a job at our factory. Tell me why.'

Carl drew a long breath and delivered a halting but fervent statement about his fascination with machinery, autos in particular. He said that driving, even on the roughest roads in the foulest weather, thrilled him.

Ford asked whether he was a native Detroiter. No, Chicago. What was his father's trade? Oh-oh.

'He's a brewer, sir. Crown's beer.'

Ford gave him another long, searching stare. 'Heard of it. I won't hold it against you.'

Mrs. Ford brought a tray with glasses of Malto Grape. Ford settled back and cracked a couple of jokes while they sipped their drinks. Then he pulled a letter from his shirt pocket and examined it. Carl recognized the note paper. Ford folded the letter and complimented Carl on being dismissed from Princeton. 'I left school at fifteen and I've done all right. Far as I'm concerned, college is mostly bunk. Emerson said, "A man contains all that is needful to his government within himself."' Have you ever read Emerson?'

'No, sir,' I'm afraid not.' A lit professor had assigned it, but Carl had been too busy playing football.

'You should.' Ford sprang out of his chair. 'Let's sit on the porch while it's still light. I like to watch the birds.' He led Carl out a side door. The wide porch bent around the corner of the house. Ford took the swing, Carl one of the white wicker chairs. The evening was fragrant with the smell of mown grass.

'You have any questions, Carl?'

'Well, sir, could you tell me what kind of work I might do if--?'

'By jiminy!' Ford leaped off the swing, pulled a brass telescope from a wicker basket. Whatever he saw made him exclaim, 'Have a look, have a look. Baltimore oriole. I love birds.'

Carl screwed his eye to the eyepiece. In the fading light he saw a flash of orange in a spirea bush, but that was all. He murmured something he
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hoped sounded appreciative.

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