Cosmetic Factors – 1950
Married Quarters Block, Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada, 1950
As she entered her new home, Jeanine Pryor made a very profound statement concerning the theory of relativity, a statement that was to have a small yet significant impact on U.S. society. Her words, as her husband opened the door and ushered her in, were few and simple. "Oh George. This is wonderful."
In fact, the married quarters at Nellis were Spartan and utilitarian. They were, however, brand new and were being occupied for the first time and still had the freshness that would soon fade under the demands of everyday life. Yet no matter how austere the quarters were, they were still better that a countryside wooden shack with no electricity and an outside toilet. That was what Jeanine Pryor had regarded as her home until her marriage and it was the yardstick by which she judged her new surroundings. By that standard, her quarters were indeed wonderful.
The layout was simple, an L-shaped room with the entrance at the top end of the L vertical. First area on the way in was a living section, with a table, a couple of seats, a couch and a radio on the shelf. Further down the vertical of the L was a small "kitchenette" that base rumor said had been salvaged from B-36s that had gone through the Featherweight IV program. It certainly looked the part, a coffee machine, a small two-ring hotplate, a sink and a little oven. Then, around the corner, in the horizontal of the L was a double bed.
It wasn't just wonderful, it was paradise.
Abandoning her husband by the door she ran down the room, touching the new furniture and running her hand over the table. There was a low partition separating the living area from the kitchenette and she almost tripped over it in her hurry to see her new domain. Under the kitchenette counter were two cabinets. One was just storage, shelves and drawers, but the other had a single door with a handle. When she opened it, a light came on and she gasped. It was an unheard-of luxury, one of the new electric refrigerators.
"George, come and look at this! We've got a refrigerator."
Indulgently her husband left their luggage and joined his wife. "I heard about this. The story around here is that the bigwigs back in Washington would only let General LeMay build these new quarters if he made us pay rent for them. So, to make up for that, he had the builders install all the things we'd normally have to buy. Have you looked through the door back there?"
Jeanine went back up the room to a door that was half way down the upright arm of the L. She opened it and her husband waited for the gasp. He wasn't disappointed, Jeanine's cry of delight echoed around the room. "A bathroom! A real bathroom. With a tub and a shower." There were also two washbasins flanking the toilet. Jeanine saw the door in the wall facing her and realized the bathroom was shared with their neighbors. It was a neat design, the bathroom was cradled in between the two Ls, the whole making a neat, rectangular and easy-to-build unit.
"Darling, can I leave you here to get sorted out? I have to find my Sergeant and report in. I'll be back soon." George Pryor kissed his wife and vanished out the door, leaving behind a slightly bedazzled but very happy spouse.
Jeanine was packing her makeup and toiletries into the bathroom cabinet nearest her door when the other one opened. A young woman, blonde looked in and took in the surroundings. Seeing Jeanine she smiled. "Could you get me some towels please?"
Jeanine nearly exploded. How dare this woman stick her head around the door and treat her like a maid? She was about to give the woman a tongue-lashing when her mind got the better of her temper. The blonde didn't know her and probably the only black women she'd ever met were maids. Also, Jeanine didn't know where her husband stood relative to George, making an enemy now could hurt him badly. Much better to play it safe.
"I'm sorry, I dont think there are any. The advice we got when we left Holmstead was to bring our own. I'm Jeanine Pryor by the way, my husband and I just moved in next door."
To her delight, the courtesy had a much more devastating effect that the most vituperative trailer-park language. The blonde went brilliant crimson with embarrassment, one hand flew to cover her mouth while the other flapped helplessly. She made a series of tentative choking noises, starting to say one thing, then changing her mind to try another. Eventually, she managed to get started. "Oh my, I'm sorry. I didn't think, I just, oh, I am sorry. Ummm. I'm Denise Anderson. We just got here as well. From Stewart up in New York. Everybody calls me Deedee, Oh lord, I am so sorry."
Jeanine took pity on her. So the blonde was from New York. That made her mistake understandable. "Don't worry about it Deedee. No harm done. My friends call me Jenna. Look, if you and your husband are short of towels and such we can lend you some, we got given lots as our wedding presents."
"That's so kind, thank you. I should have guessed you were in here though, the light above the door is on."
"I'm sorry?"
"In units like this, with shared bathrooms, when somebody switches the light on in here, lights outside, above the doors, turn on as well, tells us the bathroom is in use. We've got a cabinet each I see."
"Yeah, I thought I'd take possession before my husband filled it up with his stuff."
"Good move." The two women looked at eachother and both burst out laughing, more from released tension than anything else.. "Jenna, look, if ever I say something mean, it's me being stupid and thoughtless OK? I'd love us to be friends and I really wouldn't to say anything nasty deliberately. Hey is that your lipstick? I haven't seen that shade before."
Jeanine passed it over. "Its a special brand for black women. Your makeup just doesnt look right on us and our hair stuff would probably melt yours. Whatever you do, don't try my straightener by accident. Instant baldness."
Denise looked at the shade then instinctively at the price tag on the base. Her eyes widened in shock. "You pay how much for a lipstick? That's outrageous."
"Post Exchange doesn't stock cosmetics for black women. Have to get them by mail order. George needs special shaving soap and they don't stock that either so we mail order it as well. Post exchange management says there isn't enough demand to make stocking the stuff worthwhile."
"Do they indeed? Well, we shall have to see about that, won't we?" Denise's face had all the grim determination of a New York city girl who had a job to do and had to do it now.
Coffee Morning, Senior Base NCO's Quarters. Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
"A dollar sixty-five for a lipstick! And we pay a dime. Its disgraceful. And all the other stuff is the same. Hairspray, foundation, everything."
"Can't they use ours?" Iris Neilsen's voice was worried. Her husband was the senior NCO on the base and if this issue was causing problems with the enlisted men and their families, it was his business and he needed to know about it.
"No, all the shades and colors are different. I tried Jenna's lipstick and it was beautiful on her but I looked like I'd been punched in the mouth. When she tried mine, it looked like her lips had died. It's not just the women either, apparently, if the men don't have the right shaving soap, they get bumps from in-growing hairs and that causes skin infections."
"You used the lipstick from a ni......." Celia Davenport's voice trailed away as a dozen pairs of hostile eyes focused on her. "Well, I was just saying."
"Don't." Iris Neilsen's voice was as cold as liquid nitrogen. She switched her attention to Denise. "Deedee. What do you suggest?"
"The problem is the Post Exchange. Their management won't stock the stuff, they say it's too expensive and there isn't the demand for it. That's a lot of bull. A lot of the enlisted men here are black and quite a few are married. There are a number of black women in the Air Force Police as well. The PX doesn't stock the cosmetics and toiletries because they can't be bothered."
"That's the charitable way of thinking. But their explanation doesn't wash. The post exchange is supposed to supply necessities for the base personnel and their families. If it isn't doing that, then something needs to be done. Any ideas?"
"My father was in the rag trade, the New York clothing district? The Union there had a thing called a work-to-rule. It means doing everything by the book, exactly as regulations say. No thought, no intelligence, just blindly and exactly following the words as written."
"We can't do that here. The Air Force Police people might have some scope for that but there's no way the ground crews are going to put their bombers at risk. No way at all. Some of them even swear the bombers talk to them." A ripple of "boys and their toys" laughter went around the room.
"I know, but what are the regulations concerning the Post Exchange? Has anybody ever read them? The PX management are claiming its too much trouble to stock the things the black people need, perhaps we need to find ways to persuade them its more trouble not to."
Post Exchange, Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada, 1950
"Mister Soros, come quickly."
"What is it. I'm busy." A true statement, Soros was evaluating the taste and flavor of a cup of coffee and he hated being disturbed while evaluating the coffee.
"You must see this. It's terrible." Stirred by the urgency in the meat section manager's voice Soros left his cup of coffee and went out into the body of the PX. Then he stopped dead with sheer horror. A small group of women had set up a small table in th meat section with a set of scales and they were weighing the meat portions.
"What the devil do you think you are doing?"
"Good morning Mister Soros, I'm Denise Anderson, chairwoman of the Post Exchange committee of the Women's Base Support Group. We're just weighing the meat portions you have for sale here."
"Whadya mean, they're pre-weighed and packaged."
"Exactly, and very interesting we find that. You see we weighed the empty packaging and are now weighing the packs on sale and subtracting the package weight to get the weight of the meat portion inside. Regulations state that portions should be weighed to an accuracy of one tenth of an ounce but we're finding considerable variations between the advertized weight and the actual weight of the meat."
"Of course you are. Meat is a natural product, there's bound to be some variation."
"That's not what the packaging says. But variation says that some should be heavier than listed, others should be lighter. We're finding that they're all lighter. We've weighed 36 samples, we'll stop when we've weighed them all, but the pattern is well established. All the packages are light, some very considerably."
"Have you never heard of wastage?"
"We have Mister Soros, but according to regulations, wastage should not exceed ten percent. The lightest package we've found so far is 24.7 percent underweight and the heaviest is 15.1 percent underweight. The average error is a weight deficiency of 21.2 percent. It could be described as criminal waste but that would be charitable."
Soros goggled at her for a moment then stormed out.
Supply Office, Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
"It's an outrage. I've never been treated like this before!" Soros had seen his contact in the Supply office, a Sergeant Prout, and had been referred up to the Supply Officer's Adjutant, Chief Master Sergeant Robins.
"They're within their rights. You'll have to live with it. And, Mister Soros, if I find out you have been gouging my boys and their families......"
Soros gulped and fled.
Next Day, Post Exchange, Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
"Mister Soros, come quickly." The floor of the Post Exchange was full of people, not a happy thing where they were all standing still and waiting. Even as he watched, another woman stepped up to the cashier's desk.
"I'd like to buy this on layaway." The customer produced a stick of chewing gum. The cashier sighed and tore another page off the layaway form pad. It had been a long hard morning, saved only be the fact that all the women buying gum on layaway had been exquisitely polite. Nevertheless, the whole Post Exchange was at a complete standstill.
Next Day, Post Exchange, Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
"Mister Soros, come quickly. They're back."
It had taken two nights but all the meat packages had been reweighed and repackaged. Now the women, their accursed table and their triply-damned scales were weighing packages of carrots. Soros called Sergeant Prout and made the point clear. If this wasn't stopped, a nicely profitable little sideline would suddenly cease to exist. For years the management had been buying time-expired vegetables from local markets and repackaging them. The two of them went to the vegetable section.
"Stop that right now!"
"Mister Soros, I am sorry to have to tell you that we are finding that these packages also are underweight. Also, the carrots are supposed to be fresh and washed. We bought several packages at random and opened them. As you can see, they are still dirty and as for being fresh." Denise bent the carrot. It should have snapped, instead it squished. "This whole stock appears to be overage. And, as you know, the pilots need carrots for night vision so this is a flight safety hazard as well." There was almosta collective gasp for that was a deadly phrase, the moment somebody said "flight safety" life got serious for everybody and complaints went right up the chain of command until it reached the top. And nobody wanted Him coming down on them.
Denise reached for another package of carrots. Prout wasn't going to take it any more. He pushed her away.
"I'm sorry Sir, that's assault. I'm going to have to place you under arrest." Two Air Force Policemen had been 'shopping with their wives' in the vicinity. And police were never off duty. They moved forward to detain the Sergeant who was so unwise as to try and push past them. There was a flurry, a series of quick, very hard punches and a badly-bruised sergeant was semi-conscious on the floor being handcuffed.
Office of General Dedmon, Commander, 100th Bomb Group, Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
Generals Brereton and Dedmon were standing at attention in Dedmon's office. The third person was present only by courtesy of a speaker phone but his presence still dominated the office. General LeMay was not pleased.
"Brereton, you can do better than this! General Dedmon, what do would you have done in this situation?"
"Nothing Sir. Things like this happen now and then, people need to blow off steam. Pay too much attention to the symptoms and they get an importance out of all proportion to their real significance, ignore them and they fade away and we can deal with the real problem quietly."
"Good, Dedmon, you seem to have grasped something that has eluded General Brereton. General Brereton, you are relieved as Base Commander. Report to my headquarters for re-assignment. Dedmon, you are temporary base commander as well as commander of the 100th. Now, do what it takes to make this problem go away. I have a bomber fleet to run."
There was a click. General Brereton left to pack his bags and depart the base. As soon as he was gone, Dedmon looked at the pile of reports on his desk and sighed. He pressed his intercom. "Binkie, please send everybody in."
The office filled up. He sighed again, looked at the crowd, and picked up the first report. "Soros you claim that the ladies were weighing pre-packaged portions in the PX. They are entitled to do so under the regulations so what are you complaining about?"
"Nothing Sir."
"Good, then this report is rubbish." Dedmon screwed it up and threw it in his wastepaper basket. "Youa re also complaining that the base personnel are buying gum on layaway. Are your prices really so outrageous that they have to do that?"
"No Sir but"
"But me no buts. That means this report is also obviously rubbish." The screwed up paper landed neatly in the wastepaper basket. "Now Sergeant Prout, I have heard it said that there are NCOs so stupid and incompetent they get beaten up by the enlisted men. You are not such an NCO are you? No? Then this report is obviously a joke. Very funny Sergeant, now we've all had a good laugh.." The screwed up report made a third direct hit on the basket. "Now we have the question of your assault on Mrs Anderson." Dedmon paused, this was going to be tricky.
Denise Anderson cut in smoothly. "There was a lot of refuse on the floor Sir, I think the Sergeant may have slipped."
Dedmon looked at her with appreciation, not gratitude for he'd have found a way out of this eventually, but this made it easier. "A simple accident then. So this report can go."
The wastepaper basket was beginning to get full. "And that means the arrest was a simple misunderstanding. You agree Sergeant Prout, remembering that any investigation into the circumstances will be a full one. You do? Excellent. This report can be discarded then." The screwed-up paper hit the rim and teetered for a second before falling into the basket. "That just leaves this one. Chief Master Sergeant Robins, you claim that the smooth running of the supply section has been disrupted." He looked at his empty desk. "But I see no evidence to suggest this. Are you so inept you cannot run your section under the normal conditions of an operational base?"
Chief Master Sergeant Robins looked at the single piece of paper in Dedmon's hands, all that was left of a once-imposing pile of reports. "No Sir. Permission to withdraw my report Sir."
"Granted." Dedmon screwed up the last piece of paper and flipped it into his wastepaper basket. "So since we don't have any problems, why are you all in my office? Ladies, Mister Soros, please remain here." When the others had left, Dedmon picked up again. "Mrs Neilsen, please tell me what is really going on here."
"General, Sir, the black people on this base can't get the cosmetics and toiletries they need from the PX. Mister Soros won't stock them so they have to mail-order them. That's expensive to start with and by the time delivery charges are added, its exorbitant. The junior enlisted men with families are really tight for cash and its a burden they don't need. Mister Soros said it was too much trouble to stock the stuff the black people needed so we decided to make it more trouble for him not to do so. Only then we found out all this other stuff."
"I see. Soros, its your function as Post Exchange manager to stock the Exchange with the goods needed by the personnel on this base and to do so at reasonable prices while providing good quality products. You are obviously incapable of doing so. I will be taking this matter up with the AAFES." Dedmon realized he'd never actually looked at the brand names on his wife's cosmetics. "Ladies, who makes cosmetics?"
Headquarters, Army and Air Force Exchange Service, Washington, DC.
"So why are do you charge so much for products aimed at black people?"
"We don't Sir. In fact we don't produce products aimed at that market at all." The CEO of Revlon squirmed slightly in his seat. "Another company does and we can't answer for their marketing practices. At a guess, the formulations are different and the products are produced in small quantities. That boots their costs right up"
"Why don't you service that market?"
"We're a premium product supplier and, as I said, the market is small and not wealthy. The type of products we manufacture are just not suited to that sector."
Robin Locksley leaned back in his seat. He'd been appointed just recently with specific instructions to clean up and modernize the whole AAFES system. Amongst other things, dealing with this problem was one of the items he had to look at. He'd also been made aware that this particular aspect of his operation had attracted General LeMay's personal interest. As a result his executive assistant, Dido Carthagina, had spent all morning on the telephone to cosmetics manufacturers.
"David, the US Armed forces have been integrated for almost six years. We have black people on every base and on every ship. That's a huge market and when their families are included, its bigger yet. We're prepared to offer you an exclusive contract to supply cosmetics and toiletries formulated to suite black servicemen and women to the whole AAFES network. We understand that the formulation and production scale problems may cause a price premium, we just expect that the premium be reasonable, not the twenty-fold our people are paying at the moment. If you aren't interested, well Avon are due to visit us this afternoon and they may be."
The Revlon CEO stared at the new head of AAFES. Then his mind started ticking over. If his company produced a new range of cosmetics for black women and priced them the same as the usual range, they could then create a new deluxe range of cosmetics for white women who didn't want their friends to think they used the same products as black women. A deluxe range that could be sold at a handsome premium. Except for a more ostentatious package, the products themselves needn't be any different. It would be a very good way of jacking up their prices across the board by at least, ohhh, fifty percent? That meant they'd be getting a huge new market at existing prices, a new market at premium rates and sticking a competitor in the eye, all at the same time.
"Robin, I don't see any need for a price premium. We'll price our new range at the same level as our existing products. The company will eat the extra cost, call it our contribution to national defense. We'll need to do some market research though and develop some test products. Can we have access to your bases so we can get some help with product development?"
"Of course. Just let us know what you need and we'll make sure it happens. David, thank you for being so cooperative on this, I'll make sure General LeMay gets to hear of how helpful you've been."
The door closed and Locksley span his office seat around. Revlon were going to make a fortune out of this, he just knew it. But then, it had always been that way. A long time ago, a very long time ago, he'd believed in robbing the rich and giving to the poor but he'd grown up since then. He's learned the rich were rich because they saw ways of making money in any given situation. Rob the rich and they made money by selling law and order services. On the other hand, nobody ever helped the poor by giving them money, all it had ever achieved was to teach them to expect more handouts. In the end that made them poorer when the money being given away ran out. The only real way to deal with things was to treat everybody fairly, rich and poor alike. Easier said than done of course, Locksley was painfully aware that he was one of the rich and , if it was the old days, he'd be robbing himself.
He sighed, life was so complicated. Still, he had a pleasure to look forward to. This evening Lillith and Naamah had challenged him to an archery match.