1/8/97

Gone Public

Pri-vat-i-za-shun! Sell off the banks, Zim, El Al?
Small potatoes...

    "Everyone here?"
    "Yes sir."
    "Then let's start. Gentlemen -- uh, and ma'am -- you all know why I've called you in. And you all know this discussion may not leave this room. Not one single word. If anyone asks -- Goldman, turn off that tape recorder!"
    Goldman blushed. "But it's not what it seems, sir. My daughter, y'see, she's doing a school project on speaking styles of important people, and, well..."
    Goldman was an idiot, everyone knew that; it was the only reason he still had his job. The others knew that when the Chief yelled at Goldman, he was yelling at them.
    "I was saying. If anyone asks what we talked about, we talked about the weather. Understood?"
    "Uh, sir?"
    "What, Goldman?" (Goldman, the Chief knew, was not stupider than the others, he was just too foolish to hide it.)
    "What is the weather? In case the reporters ask, I think we should know. Perhaps if you open the window for a second..."
    "Ashkenazi! Tell Goldman to shut up!"
    That really wasn't fair, because Ashkenazi suffered from a nervous disorder. "M-M-M-Me sir?"
    The Chief sneered sarcastically. "Well, is there another Ashkenazi here?"
    "Yes sir, on my father's side," Goldman answered brightly.
    Zwiebel, insufferable Zwiebel, stood up with a flourish, as everyone knew he would. "Status-wise, my honored colleagues, I am of the opinion that this critical meeting, at this crucial juncture, should, I dare say, move on to the matter at hand, with a modicum of decorum from us all. Mr. Goldman: if you would; Chief: if you please."
    That Zwiebel! Every time he spoke, he sounded like he was campaigning for the Chief's job.
    The Chief glowered. He lit up a cigar (he hated cigars, but he hated Zwiebel more, and Zwiebel had asthma) and for near to a minute presided over a deliciously uneasy silence. No one dared cough.
    "Privatization!" the Chief boomed suddenly, for effect. "That's what this meeting's about, because that's what this country's about. And we here at this meeting, this morning, are going to change this country, forever. Do you understand? Shut up Goldman!"
    "But --"
    "Privatization! It will suck this nation out of the sentimental botz of socialist stagnation. Every last damn agora will spring to action transforming this miserable welfare state into an economic powderkeg. America dominated the world in the Sixties, the Saudis in the Seventies, the Japanese in the Eighties. My friends, with my plan, our economy will run the world throughout the Third Millennium!"
    Everyone around the boardroom gasped, mostly because they wondered what the goyim would say to all that. (The Jewish State has to be a little careful with such talk, you know.)
    Sima Simantov couldn't help herself. "How?" she asked.
    "Pri-va-ti-za-shun! Completely, utterly, totally. To an extent unthinkable in contemporary terms, on a level unimagined by even the most radical economic theorists. Gentlemen -- uh, and Sima, of course -- try to conceive how far this can possibly go!"
    "Oh my God, Tnuva!"
    "Is that the best you can do?"
    "The Histadrut!"
    "Electric Corporation!"
    "No wait, I got it -- government. Chief, you propose turning over the entire government to big business! Brilliant!"
    The Big C was enjoying this. "Dope. Business already runs government, here as everywhere."
    "Nu? So tell already!"
    The man and his cigar leaned forward. A great putrid billow rolled out and just behind it, two words, two simple words everyone knew but no one could comprehend.
    "The public."
    "The public?"
    "He said the public!"
    "That's right: you, me, everyone in this country. The public. Can you grasp the scope of what I'm saying? No, of course not. We're gonna sell shares in the richest resource we have. From Aabarbanel to Zyzerbaum, every taxpayer, every consumer, will be packaged off and sold to the public."
    "Uh, sir, you're proposing to sell the public to itself?"
    "To anyone with money. Local speculators or foreign investors, doesn't matter."
    "Who would bite?"
    "Who wouldn't? It's the safest investment of all time. Never a problem with a bad people crop, no matter the weather; the population always goes up, yet there's never a glut; this is one commodity that can't go out of style. And it can't be manipulated."
    "Unless we give back the Golan with all the people in it."
    "Or what if suddenly a million Israelis emigrate?"
    "Ah, but that's the beauty of the plan. Economic Zionism, I call it: no one's gonna leave if they've hedged their life savings on population growth; emigration will once again be disdained because it'll hit people where it hurts most: not their patriotism, but their portfolios. And it'll be easy to convince Jews to immigrate, because every newcomer makes everyone richer. We'll be massing at the airport to welcome them."
    Levy tapped his temple. "It's mad!"
    "Only because no one ever thought of it before. It's all based on one principle: more people equals more money, and more money attracts more people. Within five years we'll have a population of 15 million, so crazed with success we'll be begging the Palestinian diaspora to join us. Just imagine: every man, woman and child in this country pushing themselves and each other to the limit, to enhance the public welfare. This shleppy little country will be transformed -- friends, this will be the most sensational mass enterprise in human history!"
    "So why the big secret? I mean, instead of keeping public privatization private, publicize it!"
    "Timing, Zwiebel. Some people may not want to be sold on the open market along with pork bellies and IBM. We have to show 'em it's a great idea."
    "But it's a terrible idea." Levy blurted. He was going to quit his job anyway to join his brother-in-law in the reconditioned ball-bearing business, so he could afford to stand up to the Chief. "People from Wall Street at my door, wanting to know why I only have two kids. Before you know it they'll be spiking our water wells with fertility drugs, they'll legalize human cloning, outlaw platonic friendships, for crying out loud. And what happens if other countries follow suit? You know what happens then? World War Three. China invaded from all sides, all in the name of dividends. Speculators bankrolling national takeovers, annexations, colonialization. A global population explosion utterly out of control. Bad idea, Chief."
    "Thank you for your input, Levy. I'll make a note of your objections."
    "Uh, sir?"
    "Goldman, if it's to go to the bathroom, yes, you may."
    "No, sir. I was just thinking --"
    "Then maybe you should go to the bathroom."
    "We don't have to put everybody on the market all at once. We could see if there's any interest first. You know, with a trial balloon."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Like a sample sector. We could start small."
    "Well go on dammit, if you're going to waste our time with a good suggestion, let's have it. What sector? How small?"
    Goldman blushed. "Me."
    Well, you could just imagine. A sort of silent pandemonium broke loose.
    "Please don't hit him, sir," Simantov whimpered.
    The Chief pumped at his cigar. He smiled.
    He smiled?!
    Well, sort of.
    "Goldman," he said, almost fatherly, "at least you tried. You had an idea. I like that. Now shut up. Ashkenazi, get the Tel Aviv Stock Exchange on the line. Tell them we've just become a public country."