It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: Assembly Line, by B. Traven

Episode Date: June 29, 2025

Margaret reads you a story about arts and crafts.  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is an iHeart Podcast. Coolzone Media Book Club, Book Club, Book Club, Book Club, Book Club, Book Club, Book Club. I wonder how long I can do that for. Book Club, Book Club. Now I got bored. Hello, and welcome to Coolzone Media Book Club, your weekly book club that I host. My name is Margaret Killjoy and I host the Cool Zone Media Book Club, which is what I had already said.

And every week I read you different stories and it's the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do the reading for you. You might have other book clubs like that. Well, it wouldn't be me doing the reading for you. Although I do like reading. Anyway, okay. I've been on this kick where I've been reading old stories written by radicals, and I have got for you a story that I'm excited about. It is written by B. Traven. And if you've never heard of B. Traven, that's understandable. And if you have heard of B. Traven, you might be excited. B. Traven was a really important Mexican pulp fiction writer.

He was writing in the 20s, 30s. I actually don't know when he stopped writing because I don't have his whole biography in front of me. But if he's famous today, there's two old movies based on his books. One is called The Death Ship, and that's less known, and then there's The Treasure of the Sierra Nevadas. And that movie was a big old hit before I or most of you were born. But the thing that is really neat about B. Traven,

and one day he's actually gonna be a character on, I'm gonna do episodes about him at some point on cool people who did cool stuff. So I don't have all the information right now. The thing is, is that no one knew who B. Traven was for so long. Like he would only meet people in darkened rooms in order to do interviews and stuff like that. He was completely anonymous as this very popular pulp fiction writer in Mexico. And a lot of his work was translated in English and, you know and two Hollywood movies were made after his books.

And almost certainly, I believe people see this as a known fact now, he was a German anarchist named Rhett Marrutt, who was part of this. There was this whole wave. Germany almost had a revolution at the end of the 1910s, and I haven't really covered this on Cool People Did Cool Stuff yet. So I don't know a ton about it. Rosa Luxemburg is the big famous person from all this whole thing. And there was a bunch of anarchist artists who got together and tried to create a Soviet

and in the Soviet sense of like a bottom-up assembly organized society rather than what the Soviet Union became, which has nothing to do with Soviets. I'm not bitter. Rhett Marrute had to flee Germany because of his role in this revolution, but he was a fiction writer. And so he made it to Mexico and he started writing and he wrote a lot of really popular stuff. And so I'm going to read one of his short stories today. This story is called Assembly Line. And I've said this with a couple episodes recently. It was written in 1928,

or it was published in 1928 in English. It was probably translated into English by B. Traven himself. But the way that people wrote about race and indigeneity was different. And I would also say that the way that indigeneity versus like radical leftist politics looks different in Mexico historically.

This is going to be a story about an indigenous man in Oaxaca. And I could not really tell you about the relationship of B. Traven to indigeneity in terms of writing and things like that. But I can tell you that I have studied since like the 1840s, 1850s, this overlap between European anarchist politics learning from and hanging out with and being part of Mexican radical culture, including indigenous culture.

And so I suspect, I don't know, whatever, I'm doing this thing where I'm like, hey, some of the writing in this is like not the way that someone would write it now or things like that. But I still find it a very interesting story. And I also like reading these stories because of how they're indicative of the way that radical fiction writers perceived of their world and what they like to write about at different times.

And I think that there's a value also in that. I also just like this story. This is another example, kind of like the Tolstoy stories I've been reading, where it is a skilled writer who is writing these political parables. And I think that that skilled writer is important. And I also have a particular love, like Tolstoy's fine.

I have a particular love for pulp fiction and adventure novels, and that's what B. Traven is more known for. Although this is not as much of an adventure story. Right. The story. Assembly line. B. Traven. 1928. Mr. E. L. Winthrop of New York was on vacation in the Republic of Mexico. It wasn't long before he realized that this strange and really wild country had not yet been fully explored by Rotarians and lions, who are forever conscious of their glorious mission on Earth. Therefore, he considered it his duty as a good American citizen to

play his part in correcting this oversight. In search of opportunities to indulge in his new avocation, he left the beaten track and ventured into regions not especially mentioned, and hence not recommended by travel agents to foreign tourists. So it happened that one day he found himself in a little, quaint Indian village somewhere in the state of Oaxaca. Walking along the dusty main street of this publicito, which knew nothing of pavements, drainage, plumbing, or any means of artificial light save candles or pine splinters, he met with an Indian squatting on the earthen floor front porch of a palm hut, a so-called yacalito. The Indian was busy making little baskets from baste and all kinds of fibers gathered by him in the immense tropical bush which surrounded the village on all sides.

The material used had not only been well prepared for its purpose, but was also richly colored with dyes that the basket maker himself extracted from various native plants, barks, roots, and from certain insects by a process known only to him and the members of his family. His principal business, however, was not producing baskets. He was a peasant who lived on what the small property he possessed, less than 15 acres of not too fertile soil, would yield after much sweat and labor and after constantly worrying over the most wanted and best suited distribution of rain, sunshine, and wind and the changing balance of birds and insects beneficial or harmful to his crops.

Baskets he made when there was nothing else for him to do in the fields, because he was unable to dawdle. After all, the sale of his baskets, though to a rather limited degree only, added to the small income he received from his little farm. In spite of being by profession just a plain peasant, it was clearly seen from the small baskets he made that at heart he was an artist, a true and accomplished artist. Each basket looked as if covered all over with the most beautiful, sometimes fantastic, ornaments. Flowers, butterflies, birds, squirrels, antelopes, tigers, and a score of other animals of the wilds.

Yet the most amazing thing was that these decorations, all of them symphonies of color, were not painted on the baskets, but were instead actually part of the baskets themselves. Bast and fibers dyed in dozens of different colors were so cleverly, one might actually say intrinsically, interwoven that those attractive designs appeared on the inner part of the basket as well as the outside. Not by painting, but by weaving were those highly artistic designs achieved. This performance he accomplished without ever looking at any sketch or pattern. While working on a basket, these designs came to light as if by magic.

And as long as the basket was not entirely finished, one could not perceive what in this case or that the decoration would be like. People in the market town who bought these baskets would use them for sewing baskets, or to decorate tables with, or window sills, or to hold little things to keep them from lying around. Women put their jewelry in them, or flowers, or little dolls.

There were, in fact, 102 ways they might serve certain purposes in a household or in a lady's own room. Whenever the Indian had finished about 20 of the baskets, he took them to town on market day. Sometimes he would already be on his way shortly after midnight, because he owned only a burrow to ride on, and if the burrow had gone astray the day before, as happened frequently, he would have to walk the whole way into town and back again. At the market, he had to pay 20 centavos in taxes to sell his wares. Each basket cost him between 20 and 30 hours of constant work, not counting the time spent gathering the bast and fibers, preparing them, making dyes, and coloring the bast. All this meant extra time and work. The price he asked for for each basket was 50 centavos,

the equivalent of about four cents. It seldom happened, however, that the buyer paid outright the full 50 centavos ast, or four reales as the Indians called that money. The prospective buyer started bargaining, telling the Indian he ought to be ashamed to ask such a sinful price. Why the whole dirty thing is nothing but dirty patate straw which you find in heaps wherever you may look for it the jungle is packed full of it the buyer would argue. If I paid you you thief ten centavitos for it you should be grateful for it and kiss my hand. Well, it's your lucky day. I'll be generous this time. I'll pay you 20 and not one green centavo more.

Take it or run along." So he sold finally for 25 centavos, but the buyer would say, and what do you think of that? I've only got 20 centavos change on me. What can you do about that? If you can change me a 20 peso bill, all right, you shall have your 25 Fierros." Of course, the Indian could not change a 20 peso bill, and so the basket went for 20 centavos. He had little, if any, knowledge of the outside world, or he would have known that what happened to him was happening every hour of every day to every artist all over the world. That knowledge would have made him very proud,

because he would have realized that he belonged to the little army which is the salt of the earth, and which keeps culture, urbanity, and beauty for their own sakes from passing away. Often it was not possible for him to sell all the baskets he had brought to market, for people here as elsewhere in the world preferred things made by the millions, and each so much like the other that you were unable, even with the help of a magnifying glass, to tell which was which and where was the difference between two of the same kind. Yet he, this craftsman, had in his life made several hundreds of these exquisite baskets, but so far no two of them had ever turned out alike in design. Each was an individual piece of art and as different from the other

as a Marriott from a Velázquez. Naturally, he did not want to take those baskets, which he could not sell at the marketplace, home with him, again, if he could help it. In such a case, he went peddling his products from door to door, where he was treated partly as a beggar and partly as a vagrant, apparently looking for an opportunity to steal,

and he frequently had to swallow all sorts of insults and nasty remarks. Then, after a long run, perhaps a woman would finally stop him, take one of the baskets and offer ten centavos, which price through talks and talks would perhaps go up to fifteen or even twenty. Nevertheless, in many instances, he would actually get no more than just ten centavos, and the buyer, usually a woman, would grasp that little marvel right before his eyes and throw it carelessly on the nearest table as if to say,

Well, I take that piece of nonsense only for charity's sake. I know my money is wasted. But then after all, I'm a Christian and I can't see a poor Indian die of hunger since he has come such a long way from his village. This would remind her of something better and she would hold him and say, Where are you at home anyway, Indito? Where's your pueblo? So, from Huhu Tonak? Now listen here, Indito. Can't you bring me next Saturday two or three turkeys from Huhu Tonak? But they must be heavy and fat and very, very cheap, or I won't even touch them.

If I wish to pay the regular price, I don't need you to bring them. Understand? Hop along now, Indito. The Indian squatted on the earthen floor of the portico in his hut, attended to his work and showed no special interest in the curiosity of Mr. Winthrop watching him. He acted almost as if he ignored the presence of the American altogether. How much is that little basket, friend? Mr. Winthrop asked when he felt he had at least to say something so as to not appear idiotic. $0.50, Patroncito, my good little lordy, for reales, the Indian answered politely.

All right, sold, Mr. Wintrop blurted out in a tone and with a gesture as if he had just bought a whole railroad. And examining his buy, he added, I already know who I'll give that pretty little thing to. She'll kiss me for it, sure. I wonder what she'll use it for." He had expected to hear a price of three or even four pesos. The moment he realized that he had judged the value six times too high, he saw right away what great business possibilities this miserable Indian village might offer to a

dynamic promoter like himself. Without further delay, he started exploring those possibilities. Suppose, my good friend, I buy ten of these little baskets of yours, which I might as well admit right here and now have practically no real use whatsoever. Well, as I was saying, if I buy ten, how much would you then charge apiece? The Indian hesitated for a few seconds, as if making calculations. Finally, he said, If you buy ten, I can let you have them for 45 centavos each, Senorito, gentlemen. All right, amigo, and now let's suppose I buy from you straight away 100

of these absolutely useless baskets. How much will each cost me? The Indian, never looking up to the American standing before him and hardly taking his eyes off his work, said politely and without the slightest trace of enthusiasm in his voice. In such a case, I might not be quite unwilling to sell each for forty centavitos. Mr. Winthrop bought sixteen baskets, which was all the Indian had in stock. But you know who does have more in stock?

Well, whoever's advertising, they probably have a bunch of stuff. And you could buy it, if you want. Or you could press the forward 30 seconds button a couple times. So you hear the theme music again. You can do whatever you want. Over the past six years of making my True Crime podcast hell and gone, I've learned one thing, no town is too small for murder.

I'm Catherine Townsend. I've received hundreds of messages from people across the country begging for help with unsolved murders. I was calling about the murder of my husband at the cold case. I've never found her and it haunts me to this day. The murderer is still out there. Every week on Hell and Gone Murder Line, I dig into a new case, bringing the skills I've learned

as a journalist and private investigator to ask the questions no one else is asking. Police really didn't care to even try. She was still somebody's mother. She was still somebody's daughter. She was still somebody's sister. There's so many questions that we've never gotten any kind of answers for.

If you have a case you'd like me to look into, call the Hell and Gone Murder Line at 678-744-6145. Listen to Hell and Gone Murder Line on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The summer of 1993 was one of the best of my life. I'm journalist Jeff Perlman, and this is Rick Jervis. We were interns at the Nashville Tennessean, but the most unforgettable part, our roommate, Reggie Payne, from Oakley, sports editor and aspiring rapper.

And his stage name, Sexy Sweat. In 2020, I had a simple idea. Let's find Reggie. We searched everywhere, but Reggie was gone. In February 2020, Reggie was having a diabetic episode. His mom called 911. Police cuffed him face down. He slipped into a coma and died. I'm like thanking you, but then I see my son's not moving. No headlines, no outrage, just silence. So we started digging and uncovered city officials bent on protecting their own.

Listen to Finding Sexy Sweat on the iHeartRadio app, Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I know a lot of cops and they get asked all the time, have you ever had to shoot your gun? Sometimes the answer is yes. But there's a company dedicated to a future where the answer will always be no. Across the country, cops call this Taser the revolution. But not everyone was convinced it was that simple. Cops believed everything that Taser told them. From Lava for Good and the team that brought you Bone Valley

comes a story about what happened when a multi-billion dollar company dedicated itself to one visionary mission. This is Absolute Season One, Taser Incorporated. I get right back there and it's bad. It's really, really, really bad. five and six on June 4th. Ad free at Lava for Good Plus on Apple podcasts. And we're back. After three weeks stay in the Republic, Mr. Winthrop was convinced that he knew this country perfectly. That he had seen everything and knew all about the inhabitants, their character, and their way of life, and that there was nothing left

for him to explore. So he returned to good old New York and felt happy to be once more in a civilized country, as he expressed it to himself. One day, going out for lunch, he passed a confectioners and, looking at the little display in the window, he suddenly remembered the little baskets he had bought in that faraway Indian village. He hurried home and took all the baskets he still had left to one of the best-known candy makers in the city. I can offer you here, Mr. Winthrop said to the confectioner, one of the most

artistic and at the same time most original of boxes, if you wish to call them that. These little baskets would be just right for the most expensive chocolates meant for elegant and high-priced gifts. Just have a good look at them, sir, and let me listen. The confectioner examined the baskets and found them extraordinarily well suited for a certain line in his business. Never before had there been anything like them for originality, prettiness, and good taste. He, however, avoided most carefully showing any sign of enthusiasm, for which there would be time enough once he knew the price and whether he could get a whole load exclusively.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, well, I don't know. If you ask me, I'd say it isn't quite what I'm after. It depends, of course, on the price. In our business, the package mustn't cost more than what's in it. Do I hear an offer? Mr. Winthrop asked. Why don't you tell me in round figures how much you want for them? I'm no good at guessing. Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Kempel, since I'm

the smart guy who discovered these baskets and since I'm the only jack who knows where to lay his hand on more, I'm selling to the highest bidder on an exclusive basis, of course. I'm positive you can see it my way, Mr. Kempel. Quite so, and may the best man win, the confectioner said. I'll talk the matter over with my partners. See me tomorrow morning, same time, please. And I'll let you know how far we might be willing to go. Next day, when both gentlemen met again, Mr. Kemple said,

Now, to be frank with you, I know art on seeing it, no getting around that. And these baskets are little works of art, they surely are. However, we are not art dealers, you realize that, of course. We've no other use for these pretty little things except as fancy packing for our French pralines made by us. We can't pay for them what we might pay, considering them as pieces of art. After all, to us, they're only wrappings.

Fine wrappings, perhaps, but nevertheless, wrappings. You'll see it our way, I hope, Mr. Yes, Mr. Winthrop. So here is our offer, take it or leave it, a dollar and a quarter a piece and not one cent more. Mr. Winthrop made a gesture as if he had been struck over the head. The confectioner, misunderstanding this involuntary gesture of Mr. Winthrop, added quickly, all right, all right, no reason to get excited,

no reason at all, perhaps we can do a trifle better, let's say 150. Make it 175, Mr. Winthrop snapped, swallowing his breath while wiping his forehead. Sold, 175 a piece, free at Port of New York. We pay the customs and you pay the shipping, right? Sold, Mr. Winthrop also said, and the deal was closed. There is, of course, one condition the confectioner explained when Mr. Winthrop was to leave.

One or two hundred won't do it for us. It wouldn't pay the trouble in the advertising. I wouldn't consider less than ten thousand or one thousand dozens, if that sounds better in your ears. And they must come in twelve different patterns well assorted. How about that? I can make it sixty different patterns or designs. So much the better. And you're sure you can deliver ten thousand, let's say, early October?"

Absolutely, Mr. Winthrop avowed and signed the contract. Practically all the way back to Mexico, Mr. Winthrop had a notebook in his left hand and a pencil in his right, and he was writing figures, long rows of them, to find out exactly how much richer he would be when his business had been put through. Now, let's sum up the whole goddamn thing, he muttered to himself. Damn it, where is that cursed pencil again? I had it right between my fingers. Ah, there it is.

Ten thousand he ordered. Well, well, there we get a clean cut profit of fifteen thousand four hundred and forty genuine dollars. Sweet smackers. Fifteen grand right into Papa's pocket. Come to think of it, that republic isn't so backward after all. Buenas tardes, mi amigo. How are you?

Whom he found squatting in the porch of his jacolito as if he had never moved from his place since Mr. Winthrop had left for New York. The Indian rose took off his hat, bowed politely and said in his soft voice, "'Be welcome, Patroncito. "'Thank you, I feel fine, thank you. "'Muy buenas tardes.' "'The house and all I have is at your kind disposal.'

He bowed once more, moved his right hand in a gesture of greeting and sat down. But he excused himself for doing so by saying, "'Perdon me, Patrocito. I have to take advantage of the daylight. Soon it will be night.' "'I've got big business for you, my friend,' Mr. Winthrop began. "'Good to hear that, señor.'

Mr. Winthrop said to himself, "'Now he'll jump up and go wild when he learns what I've got for him.' And aloud he said, "'Do you think you can make 1000 of these little baskets? Why not, Patroncito? If I can make 16, I can make 1000 also. That's right, my good man. Can you also make 5000?

Of course, Senor, I can make 5000 if I can make 1000. Good. Now, if I should ask you to make me 10,000, what would you say? And what would be the price of each? You can make me ten thousand, what would you say? And what would be the price of each? You can make ten thousand, can't you? Of course I can, senor. I can make as many as you wish. You see, I am an expert in this sort of work. No one else in the whole state can make them the way I do. That's what I

thought and that's exactly why I came to you. Thank you for the honor, Patroncito. Suppose I order you to make 10,000 of these baskets. How much time do you think you would need to deliver them? The Indian, without interrupting his work, cocked his head to one side and the other, as if you were counting the days or weeks it would cost him to make all these baskets. After a few minutes, he said in a slow voice,

it will take a good long time to make so many baskets, Patroncito. You see, the bast and the fibers must be very dry before they can be used properly. Then all during the time they are slowly drying, they must be worked and handled in a very special way so that while drying, they won't lose their softness and their flexibility and their natural brilliance.

Even when dry, they must look fresh. They must never lose their natural properties or they will look just as lifeless and dull as straw. Then while they are drying, I got to go get the plants and roots and barks and insects from which I brew the dyes. That takes much time also, believe me. The plants must be gathered when the moon is just right or they won't give the right

color. The insects I pick from the plants must also be gathered at the right time and under the right conditions or else they produce no rich colors and are just like dust. But of course, jefesito. I can make as many of these canestitas as you wish, even as many as three dozens if you want them. Only give me time." Three dozens? Three dozens? Mr. Winthrop yelled, threw up both arms in desperation. Three dozens? He repeated it, as if he had to say it many times in his own voice so as to

understand the real meaning of it, because for a while he thought he was dreaming. He had expected the Indian to go crazy on hearing that he was to sell 10,000 of his baskets without having to peddle them from door to door and be treated like a dog with a skin disease. So the American took up the question of price again, by which he hoped to activate the Indian's ambition. You told me that if I take 100 baskets, you will let me have them for 40 centavos a piece. Is that right, my friend?

Quite right, Jefesito. Now, Mr. Winthrop took a deep breath. Now then, if I ask you to make 1,000, that is 10 times 100 baskets, how much will they cost me each basket? That figure was too high for the Indian to grasp. He became slightly confused, and for the first time since Mr. Winthrop had arrived, he interrupted his work and tried to think it out. Several times he shook his head and looked vaguely around as if for help.

Finally, he said, Excuse me, Jepecito, little chief, that is by far too much for me to count. Tomorrow, if you'll do me the honor, come and see me again. And I think I shall have my answer ready for you, Patroncito." And so then the guy, the American guy, he like went off and listened to ads. That's what he did. I totally didn't add that to the story. That's definitely a part of the story. That's not true. It's not part of the story. I added it. I'm sorry. I can never lie to you. Here's the news. Over the past six years of making my true crime podcast Hell and Gone, I've learned one thing. No town is too small for murder.

I'm Katherine Townsend. I've received hundreds of messages from people across the country begging for help with unsolved murders. I was calling about the murder of my husband. It's a cold case. I have never found her and it haunts me to this day. The murderer is still out there. Every week on Hell and Gone Murder Line, I dig into a new case, bringing the skills I've never found her and it haunts me to this day. The murderer is still out there. Every week on Hell and Gone Murder Line,

I dig into a new case, bringing the skills I've learned as a journalist and private investigator to ask the questions no one else is asking. Police really didn't care to even try. She was still somebody's mother. She was still somebody's daughter. She was still somebody's sister.

There's so many questions that we've never gotten any kind of answers for. If you have a case you'd like me to look into, call the Hell and Gone Murder Line at 678-744-6145. Listen to Hell and Gone Murder Line on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The summer of 1993 was one of the best of my life. I'm journalist Jeff Perlman and this is Rick Jervis. Rick Jervis We were interns at the Nashville Tennessean,

but the most unforgettable part? Our roommate, Reggie Payne, from Oakley, sports editor and aspiring rapper. Jeff Perlman And his stage name? Sexy Sweat. In 2020, I had a simple idea. Let's find Reggie. We searched everywhere, but Reggie was gone. In February 2020, Reggie was having a diabetic episode. His mom called 911. Police cuffed him face down. He slipped into a coma and died.

I'm, like, thanking you. But then I see my son's not moving. No headlines, no outrage, just silence. So we started digging and uncovered city officials bent on protecting their own. Listen to Finding Sexy Sweat on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I know a lot of cops and they get asked all the time, have you ever had to shoot your gun? Sometimes the answer is yes. But there's a company dedicated to a future where the answer will always be no. Across the country cops call this taser the revolution. But not

everyone was convinced it was that simple. Cops believed everything that Taser told them. From Lava for Good and the team that brought you Bone Valley comes a story about what happened when a multi-billion dollar company dedicated itself to one visionary mission. This is Absolute Season One, Taser Incorporated. I get right back there and it's bad. It's really, really, really bad. three on May 21st and episodes four, five and six on June 4th. Add free at Lava for Good Plus on Apple podcasts. And we're back.

When on the next morning, Mr. Winthrop came to the hut, he found the Indian as usual squatting on the floor under the overhanging palm roof working at his baskets. Have you got the price for 10,000? He asked the Indian at the very moment he saw him without taking the trouble to say good morning. See Patroncito, I have the price ready.

You may believe me, it has cost much labor and worry to find out the exact price because you see, I do not wish to cheat you out of your honest money. Skip that amigo, come out with the salad. What's the price? Mr. Winthrop asked nervously. The price is well calculated now without any mistake on my side. If I got to make 1000 canestitas, each will be three pesos. If I must make 5000, each will cost nine pesos.

And if I have to make 10,000, in such a case, I can't make them for less than fifteen pesos each." Immediately he returned to his work as if he was afraid of losing too much time with such idle talk. Mr. Winthrop thought it was perhaps his faulty knowledge of this foreign language that had played a trick on him. Did I hear you say fifteen pesos each if I eventually would buy 10,000. That's exactly and without any mistake what I've said, Patroncito," the Indian answered in a soft and courteous voice. But now, see here, my good man, you can't do this to me. I'm your friend and I want to help you get on your feet.

Yes, Patroncito, I know this and I don't doubt any of your words. Now, let's be patient and talk this over, man to man. Didn't you tell me that if I would buy but 100 that you would sell each for 40 centavos? See Jefesito, that's what I said. If you buy 100, you can have them for 40 centavos apiece, provided that I have 100, which I don't. Yes, yes, I see that, Mr. Winthrop felt as if he would go insane any minute now. Yes, so you said.

Only what I can't comprehend is why you cannot sell at the same price if you make me 10,000. I certainly don't want to chisel on the price. I am not that kind. Only, well, let's see now if you can sell for 40 centavos at all. Be it for 20 or 50 or 100. I can't quite get the idea of why the price has to jump that high if I buy more than a hundred. Bueno Patroncito. What is there so difficult to understand? It's all very simple. One thousand canestitas cost me a hundred times more work than a dozen.

Ten thousand cost me so much time and labor that I could never finish them, not even in a hundred years. For a thousand canestitas, I need more bast than for a hundred, and I need more little red beetles and more plants and roots for the dyes. It isn't that you can just walk into the bush and pick all the things you need at your heart's desire. One root with the true violet blue may cost me four or five days until I can find one in the jungle.

And have you thought how much time it takes and how much hard work to prepare the bast and fibers? What is more, if I must make so many baskets, who will then look after my corn and my beans and my goats and chase for me occasionally a rabbit for meat on Sunday? If I have no corn, then I have no tortillas to eat. And if I grow no beans, where will I get my frijoles from? But since you'll get so much money from me for your baskets,

you can buy all the corn and beans in the world and more than you need. That's what you think, senorito, little lordy. But you see, it is only the corn I grow for myself that I am sure of, of the corn which others may or may not grow. I cannot be sure to feast upon. Haven't you got some relatives here in this village who might help you make baskets for me, Mr. Winthrop asked hopefully? Practically the whole village is related to me somehow or other. Fact is, I got a lot of close relatives in this here place. Well then, can't they cultivate your fields and look after your goats while you make baskets for me?

Not only this, they might gather for you the fibers and the colors and the bush and lend you a hand here and there in preparing the material you need for the baskets. They might, Patroncito, yes they might, possible. But then you see who would take care of their fields and cattle if they work for me. And if they help me with the baskets, it turns out the same.

No one would any longer work in his fields properly. In such a case, corn and beans would get so high up in price that none of us could buy any and we would all starve to death. Besides, as the price of everything would rise and rise higher, still, how could I make baskets for 40 centavos apiece? A pinch of salt or one green chili would set me back more than I'd collect for one single basket. No, you'll understand, highly estimated Caballero and Jefesito, why I can't make the baskets any cheaper than fifteen pesos each, if I got to make

that many. Mr. Winthrop was hard-boiled, no wonder considering the city he came from. He refused to give up more than $15,000, which at that moment seemed to slip away through his fingers like nothing. Being really desperate now, he talked and bargained with the Indian for almost two full hours, trying to make him understand how rich he,

the Indian, would become if he would take this greatest opportunity of his life. The Indian never ceased working on his baskets while he explained his points of view. You know, my good man, Mr. Winthrop said, such a wonderful chance might never again knock on your door. Do you realize that? Let me explain to you in ice cold figures

what fortune you might miss if you leave me flat on this deal. He tore leaf after leaf from his notebook, covered each with figures and still more figures, and while doing so, told the peasant he would be the richest man in the whole district. The Indian, without answering, watched with a genuine expression of awe as Mr. Winthrop wrote down these long figures, executing complicated multiplications and divisions and subtractions so rapidly that it seemed to him the greatest miracle he'd ever seen.

The American, noting this growing interest in the Indian Indian misjudged the real significance of it. There you are my friend, he said. That's exactly how rich you're going to be. You'll have a bankroll of exactly 4,000 pesos. And to show you that I'm a real friend of yours, I'll throw in a bonus. I'll make it around 5,000 pesos and all in silver. The Indian however, had not for one moment

thought of 4,000 pesos. Such an amount of money had no meaning to him. He had been interested solely in Mr. Winthrop's ability to write figures so rapidly. So what do you say now? Is it a deal or is it? Say yes and you'll get your advance this very minute. As I have explained Patroncito, the price is 15 pesos each. But my good man, Mr. Winthrop, shouted at the poor Indian

in utter despair, where have you been all this time? On the moon or where? You are still at the same price as before. Yes, I know that, Jefesito, my little chief, the Indian answered entirely unconcerned. It must be the same price because I cannot make any other one. Besides, signor, there's still another thing

which perhaps you don't know. You see, my good Lordi and Caballero, I have to make these canestitas my own way, and with my own song in them, and with bits of my soul woven in. If I were to make them in great numbers, there would no longer be my soul in each, or my songs. Each would be like the other with no difference,

and such a thing would slowly eat up my heart. Each has to be another song which I hear in the morning, when the sun rises, when the birds begin to chirp and the butterflies come and sit down on my baskets so that I may see a new beauty, because you see, the butterflies like my baskets and the pretty colors on them. That's why they come and sit down, and I can make my kennis titas after them. And now, Signor Jefesito, if you will kindly excuse me, I have wasted much time already, although it would be a pleasure and a great honor to hear the talk of such a distinguished

caballero like you. But I'm afraid I have to attend to my work now, for day after tomorrow is market day in town, and I've got to take my baskets there. Thank you, Signor, for your visit. Adios. And in this way, it happened that American garbage cans escaped the fate of being turned into receptacles for empty torn and crumpled little multicolored canistitas into which an Indian of Mexico had woven dreams of his

soul, throbs of his heart, his unsung poems. The end. I actually don't have a lot to add to it I think it's a pretty self-explanatory thing. You know, it's called assembly line. There is no assembly line in it. It doesn't even come up that anyone considers an assembly line. And it gets into something that I've covered a lot on both book club and on my show, Cool People Did Cool Stuff, about like the move towards industrialization, right? And what we lose in factory work and things like that. And that I really like. And also, it actually reminds me a lot of some of the stories that I read by William Morris a while ago, which, you know, where is this fiction writer who presaged a lot of like Tolkien

and Lord of the Rings and stuff, but was also mostly known for making wallpaper and inspiring the arts and crafts movement. And this idea of like, really seeing the beauty in ornament and putting time and effort into the things that you make. And I like seeing that reflected in these different ways. And yeah, I hope you enjoyed it too. I'll be back next week with more Cool Zone Media Book Club. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly, at coolzonemedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. This is an iHeart Podcast.