22/5/98

For the Goods of the Company

Last month I got paid a bundle. That's when I really  got to work.

    You know what's the hottest new trend in America these days? I mean, besides designer cigars. The answer is: barter.
    Of course, long before the credit card, before even the concept of loose change, barter was the universal form of payment. As everyone knows, the system collapsed for the simple reason that there was nothing to buy.
    I saw my boss in the staff caf one day recently, and mentioned this curious revival of bartering in the most moneyed society of all time. I knew right away I was boring him, because he said "uh-huh" and moved to another table. But then the sweaty, ink-stained guys from the press swarmed in, and he came back.
    "So I was saying," I intoned through a mouthful of couscous, "Americans are now really into this barter thing. Instead of exchanging money, they pay with their own goods and services. They even have clubs and clearing houses and agents, who take what you have to offer and provide an equal value in return from the pool of other participating barterers for whatever it is you need."
    "Uh-huh." He abandoned his meal and got up.
    "Yeah! Nowadays, even large businesses are involved, bartering their --"
    My boss froze. "Did you say..."

I FORGOT about all that until three weeks later. Payday.
    "Where's mine?" I asked the secretary.
    "Boss wants to see ya," she said, blowing a pink bubble that burst on my nose.
    "First o' the month," I told him jauntily. "Time to get out that ol' checkbook, remember?"
    "Look, uh --"
    "Orbaum," I reminded him.
    "Right. We're a little short this month, so we went down the list and paid whoever we could. Sorry, ol' bean."
    "But sir, I'm top of the list. My name starts with an alef."
    He grimaced. "That bloody dyslexic paymaster." Then his face brightened. Great, I thought, he remembered where the rest of the money was. "Y'know," he said, "there is a solution...."
    I must say, he did give me all the credit for coming up with the idea. "Your services for our goods," he said, and slapped me on the back. "Orbach, you're a genius."
    "Orbaum."
    "This month, you make a bundle. It's a deal, then?"
    "I just don't know. What am I going to do with 1,000 copies of yesterday's Jerusalem Post? I mean, if 1,000 people didn't want to buy the paper yesterday, how'm I gonna find 1,000 people today who will?"
    "Barter, man! Hey -- if it works in America, it'll work here."
    "Yes, but ... what's my mortgage bank going to do with a bundle of stale news?"
    "Look, son, if we printed money here, I'd give you that to barter instead. But we don't. Take what I can give you, and consider yourself lucky you don't work at a sewage processing plant."

"AND WHAT'S this?" my bank manager demanded.
    "A check, sir."
    "A check for the sum of 386 newspapers? Is this some kind of joke?"
    Boy, if this were America, he'd be offering me a cigar in gratitude.
    Alright; think, I thought: who uses old newspapers? And then it hit me: the fishmonger!
    "It's a deal," he said. "You give me 1,000 stale newspapers, I'll give you 1,000 stale sardines. Straight up."
    It was no problem trading the sardines: a kibbutz in the Galilee was desperate for rotting fish to keep marauders away from the chicken coups. Great, I figured, I'll take the value in chickens, which I can easily sell from any street corner in the country. "But if I give you my chickens," the farmer reasoned with a shrug, "I won't need the fish to keep safe that which I don't have anymore of." 
    He kindly offered an alternative I had no alternative but to accept, seeing as how my financial situation was worsening by the minute.
    Somebody, I assured myself, must be desperate for 1.5 tons of fowl foulment. As landfill. Or avant-garde costume jewelry.  Explorers maybe. (C'mon, don't you watch movies? They like to leave trails behind them so they can find their way back.)
    I asked around, no dice: no one knew any explorers, there are no jewelers in Israel that avant-garde, and when I finally found a landfillman he told me that what I had to offer was, frankly, chicken-feed.
    House-painters, of course! What painter wouldn't be excited to have this all-natural ingredient that, when mixed with any color of the rainbow, produces a gorgeous textural stipple effect!
    Twenty years ago maybe; stipple, I was told by no less than eight house-painters, is out of style.
    What inspired me to drive past the Knesset with my load of excretia I don't know, but when I saw the large group of men and women standing about, I knew, I just knew, I had me a customer.
    "Whatcha doin'?" I asked.
    "Striking," one of them said.
    "So where's the placards?" I asked.
    "Ain't none," came the answer I could have guessed myself.
    "How come?"
    "Because we're the ones who make the placards, but we're on strike so --"
    "-- so no one knows. The politicians, the media, the public. That's tough." That's when I showed 'em my chicken nuggets.
    "Nice," one of them said. They weren't getting it.
    "You need a gimmick. A fresh idea. This stuff is fantastic, just think of the effect of a ton and a half of this crapola all over the Knesset lawn."
    It worked like a charm. The strike was settled within the hour, and the following morning they were back at work making placards ... for me.
    And that's what I like about this barter thing: I gave them what they need, they gave me what I need.
    "Bad news, sir. Orbaum's back."
    "Give him something to do, and if he asks, I'm out."
    "Negative, sir: you are very definitely in. Better take a look."
    Every exit was blocked with "ON STRIKE!" signs. For every sign there was a reporter, a TV crew, an interviewer.
    A bunch of nosy journalists is the last thing a newspaper needs.
    The boss stuck his head out a window. "ORBACH!!"
    He demanded to know what's the meaning of this, and I told him, and we talked about it for a while and we came to an agreement.
    If I give him all the signs, he gives me my paycheck.
    Like I said, the system works.
    Though I can't imagine the boss trying to barter the placards.