The Year 1952, Chapter 1

Harvey Larson, a short, stout, balding, middle-aged man, sits at his desk in the corner of the dairy's office on West Seneca Street.  He deliberately occupies the largest one.  After all, he is the boss.  Those who own 100% of the company's stock give Harvey all the power he needs to rule over his small empire.  Who knows, perhaps someday they'll sell him some of the business.  For now, president and general manager are good enough.

It is late on Thursday night, September 4, 1952.  All the other office personnel left hours before.  There are workers out in the other part of the building where the milk is brought in, pasteurized, homogenized and bottled, but Harvey can't hear any of the noise.  He works best when he is alone and doesn't have to deal with the administrative bullshit of more or less 100 employees.  There is still a mess of paperwork, including a screw-up by his bookkeeper, that Harvey has to review before calling it a night.  He will stay at his desk another hour.   

Sometimes Harvey's problems seem overwhelming.  First, there are the dairy farmers.  Will they reliably deliver the milk to satisfy the demands of the dairy's customers?  

Second, there are the employees inside the building.  Sometimes, they are so careless operating the machinery which can cause glass bottles to break.

Third, there are the delivery men.  Half of them are lazy bastards who take their sweet time making deliveries.  

Fourth, there are the retailers, grocery stores and restaurants mostly.  Harvey has stiff competition requiring schmoozing to keep them loyal.  

Fifth, there are the consumers.  Everybody should drink three glasses of milk a day, but how many do?  Too many are drinking soda instead.

Last week, the shop steward told Harvey the Union is not satisfied with his new contract proposal and wanted a meeting as soon after Labor Day as possible.  Unions!  He hates them.  Sometimes Harvey thought he'd like to just shut it all down to see how they like it.  Then, he could stay home and relax.  

Finally, after a long day, Harvey gets up from his desk, locks the office door and walks to his Buick in the lot nearby.  He will be home, a three bedroom, one bath, cape, in 10 minutes.  Harvey hopes that by the time he arrives, his only child, Burt, will be asleep.  He is so exhausted after more than 12 hours at the office that he won't be able to deal with Burt's questions.  It will be best to put him off until morning.  The previous Tuesday, Burt began school again, the seventh grade, Harvey thought.  He is never quite sure what grade or even how old his son is.