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In Which George W. Rhine Takes My Measure

    Next day, clean-shaven and with my faith in my fellow man much restored, I sought out Chuck's father. And found him at last, ensconced in his office - a back room on the ground floor of the old Cleworth Publishing Company - 22 West Putnam Avenue. His office opened direct into the alley, surely an omen had I but known...

    George W. Rhine was an imposing figure. Maybe five eight or thereabouts (the Rhines were stocky folk), he probably weighed in then around 275 pounds. But as I was to learn, he could move his ponderous bulk with amazing alacrity. Topping it all off was a great leonine head, down from which to one side hung vestiges of what had doubtless in youth been a resplendent "carrot top". And as I was also to learn, still present was the dynamic fire that so often drives redheads.

    He was sitting behind an enormous antique desk littered with papers, food scraps, small woodcarving and carpenter's tools, cut magazines and printers' galley proofs, and what all else I couldn't take in at first glance. He was chewing a cigar stub (more - much more, anon), and swatting flies as they droned around the open office in the summer heat. Hooded, but piercing eyes took me in at a glance, then fixated somewhere in space above my head.

    I prepared myself for the "interview" - which I presumed would be most grueling and no doubt would unearth my many secret shortcomings and presumptuous posturing (this, be it noted, was the McCarthy Era and unfrocking rascals was a national pastime...).

    "College feller, right?" The voice - I hear it yet - was "gravely" I guess they call it - reminiscent in its way of Hollywood's late Eugene Pallette, as indeed was George's whole demeanor.

    "Sit down. Chuck mentioned he'd run into you...".

    I sat.

    The gravel rolled around a bit and then...

    "College man myself," came forth. "Kansas University. Toxicology. Degree in Toxicology."

    He paused to let this sink in. The flies, sort of a third party to this discussion, seemed unimpressed by this sinister achievement and continued to crawl across his bald pate. He took his time. Vigorous chewing for several minutes on his unlit cigar resulted in perceptible shortening of it; only vaguely did I become aware that he was eating his cigar and not smoking it... Two dark furrows ran down from each corner of his mouth and disappeared in the jowls below. In time, I came to know these were permanent nicotine stained waterways but at this juncture they excited little attention.

    I waited for the interrogation to begin. The stub quieted down, the gravel seated itself once again in his voice box, and he began the interview...

    "I was born in Manhattanville, Kansas," he said.

    "Back before the Turn of the Century... My father owned a farm thereabouts. I remember when I was about nine years old or so, the Pawnee still used to come through our place every year - on their way to a reservation or campground of some kind up north of us. By then, you understand, they were more like gypsies so to speak ... they wore mostly white men's clothes and they all traveled by horse-and-wagon."

Though I was eager to present my credentials as an NYU graduate with a Degree in Creative Writing (under Irwin Shaw, no less), it seemed as if the Editor-In-Chief of this prestigious industrial publishing house had yet more on his mind, so I remained silent, and listened...

    "Used to steal my Pop's hams every year," he confided.

    "The old man had a smokehouse - some distance from the main house - out of sight in a cottonwood draw. Same thing happened every year: the Pawnee would come through - and they'd bust into the smokehouse and lift a few hams. The old man would discover this and get all worked up. He had a shotgun - and down it would come, and he'd load it with rock salt and nails and then with like as not me or one of my brothers (there were five in all) in tow - down to the campground we'd go. And there would be the biggest palaver you ever saw - while some old Indian "Chief" would deny vehemently the appropriation of the white man's goods and my dad would insist just as forcefully that they were all a pack of rascals and they must pay him for the hams they had stolen.

    "So, one year it occurred to me - I say I was maybe 9 or 10 or so - that human nature being what it is you know, .... (here the piercing eyes suddenly bored into my very brain, seemingly I thought, checking on how well - and if - I had absorbed the trenchant observation regarding human nature...).

    He continued. ".... I thought to myself, 'Well, George, and maybe there's something in all this for you...'.

    "So I came up with a plan. The next time the Indians were due on their annual round, I took a little red wagon I had and the day before their arrival, I went down to the smokehouse. It was dark and smoky inside and all - but I managed to lift two or three of Pop's best, and put them in my wagon. Next morning when the first of the caravan pulled into sight, I was there with my red wagon, waiting for them.

    "In no time, we had struck a deal - and I sold my Dad's hams to the 'Chief' for greenback currency - which I stuffed in my pocket.

    "Sure 'nuff - later on my Dad found the smokehouse door ajar and his temper flared. He was a redhead, you know ( I never would have guessed). Out came the shotgun and down we all trooped to the Indian's camp. But this time those Redskins had a new tale to tell (the hooded eyes twinkled at the memory). The old Chief had balls-o'-brass, because he now insisted they had not stolen the hams - the little white boy had sold them to him! I laid on mum as a clam behind Pop's back - and watched the fun. For several minutes there, I really thought Pop was going to do this old "coffee cooler" in and hang his hide on the smokehouse! Not only were the damned Indians purloining his hams - they were casting aspersions on his house as well!

    "But Pop always was one to have his eye on the main chance, Bernie, and one to figure the pay back in every deal. The hams were gone for sure - and no bringing them back. But maybe he could trade something of value back out of these Redskins. Maybe something worth more than the hams... You know, if you keep your head, Bernie, and watch the other guy carefully - you can usually trade up most deals. So that's what Pop did. There were chores aplenty up to the farmhouse, and stock to water and feed. Firewood to fetch. One of the bucks was good at leather work and the mule's harness was in need of repair...

    "These things can work to your advantage if you think them through and don't fly off the handle. (The eyes began to twinkle again). "And then - if you're still minded you have to get even - why all you do is just wait and when their guard is down kick 'em real hard in the sore leg!"

    Here he lay about with abandon with the fly swatter for several minutes.

    "I think that was the first time I ever figured it out that human nature is human nature - always has been and always will be, far as I can see. Experience don't change it much down through the centuries - hasn't changed all that much since Pharaoh's day. Can't change it anyway - not from the bench - not from the pulpit. It's just the way things are.

    "I just figured, you see, that come hell or high water those Indians were going to steal Pop's hams every year when they showed up. And Pop was going to blow steam over it, and like as not get back labor tenfold out of their hides over what the hams were worth in payment. Now that being the case - and it seemed just a fact of life to me - I just thought now how can I dip into this affair and skim off a little gravy for myself? Not change anything you know - nothing like that. You can't change things in this world you know. People are people.

    "But you want to learn to get your ducks in a row and get everything working and just skim some off for yourself. Kind of "natural like" as Life goes by, you might say...."

    "Get your ducks in a row - get everything working". How often I was to hear George use those words in the years ahead as Chuck and I confronted one problem after another in the burgeoning publishing business and often wondered which tack to take or what to do next. George's shadow would fall across the door of the office we shared - and pausing to spit his cigar cud none-too-delicately in our communal wastebasket, he would only suggest - from the sidelines as it were - "You dudes best get your ducks in a row...".

    There followed another reflective period of cigar stub chewing. In the hot silence I waited. He kicked a few more flies in their sore legs when they weren't looking - and brushed the ashes from his resplendent and very fancy necktie.

    "I took toxicology in college," he re-announced - seemingly to no one. I wondered if I had somehow again got things mixed up some way (an early and persistent failing) and that perhaps, it was I who was there to interview George... Perhaps someone somewhere wanted me to hire a poisoner... Was I dreaming?

    It was no dream.

    "First job I got when I got out of college - I went to work for myself!" (Here the eyes scrutinized me to see if a blow had been landed...).

    "Invented a termite poison. Best damn poison around! It worked great. I had an old truck (all I had was an old rowboat... self-employment hadn't been too kind to me).

    "I used to sell this poison to the farmers. They put it down around their foundations and all - even soaked the fence posts with it. It worked great. But, Bernie, sales began to fall off. I thought about it and figured it out: there were no repeat orders! I had originally figured that I would go around yearly, getting reorders, and that would keep me going. But none of these farmers ever reordered. And the reason, I found out - was that that poison was permanent and it lasted and lasted.

    "So, says I, 'And George this will never do'. So I went to work and watered that mix down some and I tinkered with it night and day on and off till finally I got a poison that would wash out after about a year's rains... And sure enough - sales picked up!"

    At last he leaned back in his old swivel chair and regarded me steadfastly. (Now it starts, I thought. Sweaty palms).

    "What time can you come in in the morning?" he asked. "We generally open the office around eight o'clock. You'll share an office with Chuck. He can show you the ropes. Then you might move...", he added mysteriously.

    With that he heaved his substantial bulk erect. Somehow I knew the "interview" was over. And I had the job! Without another word (a family trait - more later), he turned and went out into the alley through his private door. And I was left alone in his office to find my way back to the lobby and the front entrance.

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