Parable

When you find a story particularly impenetrable, confusing or disconcerting, sometimes it helps to retell it. This particular story was itself a retelling of an older story (the new version left out the whale because people seemed to find that episode too distracting).

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So this crazy rich guy out on the Main Line is getting ready for his daughter's wedding. It's a big deal — one of those extravagant old-money blow-outs at his estate out there off of St. David's Road. The place is ridiculously huge — with gate houses and guest houses and stables and houses for the guys who work in the stables.

The wedding is Saturday and the estate needs some work, so the crazy rich guy calls up a local union contractor. (Most rich guys hate unions, but like I said, this guy's kind of crazy.) He says he wants to hire everybody they can send him to work all day on Friday — but only on Friday, because the job has to be done in time for the wedding.

The union guy catches the scent of money and desperation and scratches some numbers on the back of an envelope. Sixty bucks an hour, ten hours, time-and-a-half for the OT, round up generously … "$700 a head," he says as a starting point in his negotiation.

"How about $2,500 each for the day?" the crazy rich guy counters, and the contractor jumps to agree before the chump sobers up.

So Friday comes around and a dozen union workers show up at the estate and start working. They work hard all morning and they're good at what they do, so they're getting a lot done.

But the crazy rich guy is still worried the place won't be ready in time. So at noon he sends his son down to Kennett Square, to this 7-Eleven parking lot where the immigrant day laborers hang out. Son comes back an hour later with a half-dozen Mexican and Guatemalan guys and they start pitching in.

The union guy isn't too thrilled to have his crew working alongside these non-union immigrants. He's worried their work won't measure up to the standards of his professional craftsmen. And he's worried the rich guy is bringing in this notoriously low-bid labor as leverage to renegotiate the sweet deal he'd agreed to earlier.

"Don't worry about that," the crazy rich guy says. "You and your men will still be getting $2,500 each."

The contractor is relieved, but then the CRG adds, "The same as I'm paying these men."

Then it gets even worse.

Around 4:00 the crazy rich guy sends his son back to the 7-Eleven to recruit some more workers, though of course by that point in the day the pickings are slim. He gets back an hour later with two more immigrant day laborers, one of whom is visibly drunk, and a couple of stoner kids who were hanging out in the parking lot.

By 6:00 the work is done. The house and the grounds look fantastic. The CRG's son is walking around with a stack of C-notes telling everybody how pleased his dad is and how excited his sister is going to be to see all the work they've done.

And then he pays everybody $2,500 for the day. Everybody. Even the migrant workers who didn't start until after noon. Even the drunk guy and the stoner kids who barely worked for an hour — if you could even call what they did working.

And then, to top it all off, the kid invites everybody back the next day, not as workers, but as guests to the wedding.

"Serious party — open bar, live band," kid says, "and don't worry about a gift, you've all done enough." The Mexicans and the stoner kids are all psyched to come and the CRG's son arranges to pick them up the next day at the same parking lot.

Then he turns to the contractor. "How about you?" he asks. "You coming too?"