I’ve never bought meth or heroin, but apparently it’s easier now than ever. Prices dropped over the last decade, drugs became easier to find, and more people, from broader swaths of society, began using. Or so I’ve been told by several long-term users.
This is capitalism working the way it’s supposed to. People want something, others make money by providing it.
And the reason why demand for drugs has increased over the past decade can also be attributed to capitalism working the way it’s supposed to. It takes a combination of capital (stuff) and labor (people) to provide any service, but the ratio of these isn’t fixed. If you want to sell cans of soda, you could hire a human to stand behind a counter and hand sodas to customers, or you could install a vending machine.
The vending machine requires labor, too. Somebody has to fill it when it’s empty. Someone has to fix it when it breaks. But the total time that humans spend working per soda is lower. In theory, the humans working with the vending machine are paid higher wages. After all, it’s more difficult to repair a machine than to hand somebody a soda.
As our world’s stuff became more productive, fewer people were needed. Among ancient hunter gatherers, the effort of one person was needed to feed one person. Everyone had to find food. Among early farmers, the effort of one person could feed barely more than one person. To attain a life of leisure, a ruler would have to tax many, many peasants.
By the twentieth century, the effort of one person could feed four. Now, the effort of one person can feed well over a hundred.
With tractors, reapers, refrigerators, etc., one human can accomplish more. Which is good – it can provide a higher standard of living for all. But it also means that not everyone’s effort is needed.
At the extreme, not anyone’s effort is needed.
There’s no type of human work that a robot with sufficiently advanced AI couldn’t do. Our brains and bodies are the product of haphazard evolution. We could design something better, like a humanoid creature whose eyes registered more the electromagnetic spectrum and had no blind spots (due to an octopus-like optic nerve).
If one person patented all the necessary technologies to build an army of robots that could feed the world, then we’d have a future where the effort of one could feed many billions. Robots can write newspaper articles, they can do legal work, they’ll be able to perform surgery and medical diagnosis. Theoretically, they could design robots.
Among those billions of unnecessary humans, many would likely develop addictions to stupefying drugs. It’s easier lapse into despair when you’re idle or feel no a sense of purpose.
In Glass House, Brian Alexander writes about a Midwestern town that fell into ruin. It was once a relatively prosperous place; cheap energy led to a major glass company that provided many jobs. But then came “a thirty-five-year program of exploitation and value destruction in the service of ‘returns.’ “ Wall street executives purchased the glass company and ran it into the ground to boost short-term gains, which let them re-sell the leached husk at a profit.
Instead of working at the glass company, many young people moved away. Those who stayed often slid into drug use.
In Alexander’s words:
Even Judge David Trimmer, an adherent of a strict interpretation of the personal-responsibility gospel, had to acknowledge that having no job, or a lousy job, was not going to give a thirty-five-year-old man much purpose in life. So many times, people wandered through his courtroom like nomads. “I always tell them, ‘You’re like a leaf blowing from a tree. Which direction do you go? It depends on where the wind is going.’ That’s how most of them live their lives. I ask them, ‘What’s your purpose in life?’ And they say, ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You don’t even love yourself, do you?’ ‘No.’ “
Trimmer and the doctor still believed in a world with an intact social contract. But the social contract was shattered long ago. They wanted Lancaster to uphold its end of a bargain that had been made obsolete by over three decades of greed.
Monomoy Capital Partners, Carl Icahn, Cerberus Capital Management, Newell, Wexford, Barington, Clinton [all Wall Street corporations that bought Lancaster’s glass company, sold off equipment or delayed repairs to funnel money toward management salaries, then passed it along to the next set of speculative owners] – none of them bore any personal responsibility.
A & M and $1,200-per-hour lawyers didn’t bear any personal responsibility. They didn’t get a lecture or a jail sentence: They got rich. The politicians – from both parties – who enabled their behavior and that of the payday- and car-title-loan vultures, and the voters of Lancaster who refused to invest in the future of their town as previous generations had done (even as they cheered Ohio State football coach Urban Meyer, who took $6.1 million per year in public money), didn’t bear any personal responsibility.
With the fracturing of the social contract, trust and social cohesion fractured, too. Even Brad Hutchinson, a man who had millions of reasons to believe in The System [he grew up poor, started a business, became rich], had no faith in politicians or big business.
“I think that most politicians, if not all politicians, are crooked as they day is long,” Hutchinson said. “They don’t have on their minds what’s best for the people.” Business leaders had no ethics, either. “There’s disconnect everywhere. On every level of society. Everybody’s out for number one. Take care of yourself. Zero respect for anybody else.”
So it wasn’t just the poor or the working class who felt disaffected, and it wasn’t just about money or income inequality. The whole culture had changed.
America had fetishized cash until it became synonymous with virtue.
Instead of treating people as stakeholders – employees and neighbors worthy of moral concern – the distant owners considered them to be simply sources of revenue. Many once-successful businesses were restructured this way. Soon, schools will be too. In “The Michigan Experiment,” Mark Binelli writes that:
In theory, at least, public-school districts have superintendents tasked with evaluating teachers and facilities. Carver [a charter school in Highland Park, a sovereign municipality in the center of Detroit], on the other hand, is accountable to more ambiguous entities – like, for example, Oak Ridge Financial, the Minnesota-based financial-services firm that sent a team of former educators to visit the school. They had come not in service of the children but on behalf of shareholders expecting a thorough vetting of a long-term investment.
This is all legal, of course. This is capitalism working as intended. Those who have wealth, no matter what historical violence might have produced it, have power of those without.
This is explained succinctly by a child in William Gaddis’s novel J R:
“I mean why should somebody go steal and break the law to get all they can when there’s always some law where you can be legal and get it all anyway!”
For many years, Gaddis pondered the ways that automation was destroying our world. In J R (which is written in a style similar to the recent film Birdman, the focus moving fluidly from character to character without breaks), a middle schooler becomes a Wall Street tycoon. Because the limited moral compass of a middle schooler is a virtue in this world, he’s wildly successful, with his misspelling of the name Alaska (“Alsaka project”) discussed in full seriousness by adults.
Meanwhile, a failed writer obsesses over player pianos. This narrative is continued in Agape Agape, with a terminal cancer patient rooting through his notes on player pianos, certain that these pianos explain the devastation of the world.
“You can play better by roll than many who play by hand.”
The characters in J R and Agape Agape think it’s clear that someone playing by roll isn’t playing the piano. And yet, ironically, the player piano shows a way for increasing automation to not destroy the world.
A good robot works efficiently. But a player piano is intentionally inefficient. Even though it could produce music on its own, it requires someone to sit in front of it and work the foot pumps. The design creates a need for human labor.
There’s still room for pessimism here – Gaddis is right to feel aggrieved that the player piano devalues skilled human labor – but a world with someone working the foot pumps seems less bad than one where idle people watch the skies for Jeff Bezos’s delivery drones.
By now, a lot of work can be done cheaply by machines. But if we want to keep our world livable, it’s worth paying more for things made by human hands.