Jailbird

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

So he set up a council of seven workers, who were to recommend to the board of directors what the wages and working conditions should be. The board, without any prodding from anybody, had already declared that there would no longer be any seasonal layoffs, even in such a seasonal industry, and that there would be vacations with pay, and that medical care for workers and their dependents would be free, and that there would be sick pay and a retirement plan, and that the ultimate goal of the company was that, through a stock-bonus plan, it become the property of the workers. “It went bust,” said Uncle Alex, with a certain grim, Darwinian satisfaction. My father said nothing. He may not have been listening.