Remember when a lot of stuff used to be made in America? Then everything went to Japan, then to foreign countries no one realized actually existed, and now China? We still make some things here. We make the top of lists in yearly deaths from guns, highest health care costs, and we made the number one spot on the Countries With Presidents Being Sued By Porn Stars list. But that’s not what I’m referring to. I mean products manufactured in America.
Back in ancient times (the 1950s and 1960s), we manufactured products, many with planned obsolescence built in. They’d work for a while, then conveniently self-destruct. This would keep the economy moving by creating a demand for new stuff. Autos were the prime example. After two years, the body would be rusting out and components would quit working when you drove to the dealer for a glitzy, newly-designed model because you were now driving an antique piece of Made in America junk.
In a discussion with my friends about why American-made stuff was mostly doo-doo, we theorized it was because of assembly lines, where humans performed tasks that could be done by a trained artichoke. This turned their brains to oatmeal, to qualify them for a seat in Congress. To test the theory, I got a job at Motorola assembling console-style color television sets. For you younger readers, these were the kind with big wooden cabinets that could be used as coffins when the set or its owner no longer functioned. As the empty cabinets moved along the assembly line, my job was to insert a 40-pound, 23-inch picture tube I’d snatch from a moving line of hanging picture tube baskets behind me, bolt it in at the four corners with an air gun, and stick on a faceplate for the tuning controls. The guy opposite me would insert a control box and screw it to the faceplate from the back.
The first couple days were okay, because I was getting my rhythm. After that, my mind began its journey to the oatmealdom. All of us on the line lived for the buzzer signaling the 10-minute morning and afternoon breaks or the 30-minute lunch. We’d regularly tell jokes or stories as the sets moved past, or play tricks on fellow assembly-line slaves at stations farther down. One time, I didn’t notice the guy before me had stuck a piece of cardboard on the back of my faceplate. When the guy across from me inserted the control box, he could only partially screw it to the faceplate because the stems for the knobs couldn’t push through. The lady next to me was supposed to press the knobs on the stems. She was yakking with the lady opposite her and didn’t notice the cardboard. When she pressed the knob where it was supposed to go, it just fell on the floor. That she noticed. While cursing out the guy who’d stuck on the cardboard, she frantically poked at the opening with a screwdriver, trying to get a hole for the stems to poke through so she could attach the knobs. The guy opposite me ran along with a screwdriver, trying to finish attaching the control box. The TV kept moving down the line as the poor knob lady stumbled over the person next to her, trying to get her knobs attached.
Our eight-hour shift produced 175 finished TVs. The company bigwigs decided they needed more sets, so they increased the speed of the line to a 200-set-per-shift rate. Our new foreman thought we could do better than that, so he pushed the cabinets closer together. Every fourth basket in the line behind me was supposed to hold the tube I needed. When it didn’t, I’d be dancing around as if I had a full bladder while the console cabinets moved merrily along. By the time the correct tube showed up, I had to grab it and bolt it in place without knocking the knob lady off her stool. The guy on the other side of the line would be following along, stretching his air hose, waiting to screw the control box to the not-as-yet-in-place faceplate. We’d end up popping out our air hoses and plugging them in at the next station, while I’d run back to grab a faceplate.
The fellow before me had enough one afternoon and tossed a spare vacuum tube and a couple of bolts into the mechanism of the assembly line belt. Grinding, a loud pop, and the line quit moving. We had an hour break while the mechanics tried to fix the problem.
Finally, out of 212 sets we made one day, quality control could only pass four to shipping and two of those were returned for repairs. The Powers That Be decided something must be done, but that’s a story for another column.
Anybody want to buy a low-mileage, assembly-line-built, Made in America TV?