| the world. “That’s a complicated question,” Rubin said. “Most economists will tell you that there’s no inherent limit to the number of good new jobs that the U.S. economy can generate, because there’s no limit to human ingenuity. People invent new industries, new needs and wants. I think the economists are probably right. Historically, it’s been the case. Of course, there’s no guarantee that the pattern holds this time. With the pace of technological change, the size of the countries we’re competing against, and the cost differentials with those countries, we may see a different dynamic emerge. So I suppose it’s possible that even if we do everything right, we could still face some challenges.” I suggested that the folks in Galesburg might not find his answer reassuring. “I said it’s possible, not probable,” he said. “I tend to be cautiously optimistic that if we get our fiscal house in order and improve our educational system, their children will do just fine. Anyway, there’s one thing that I would tell the people in Galesburg is certain. Any efforts at protectionism will be counterproductive—and it will make their children worse off in the bargain.” I appreciated Rubin’s acknowledgment that American workers might have legitimate cause for concern when it came to globalization; in my experience, most labor leaders have thought deeply about the issue and can’t be dismissed as kneejerk protectionists. Still, it was hard to deny Rubin’s basic insight: We can try to slow globalization, but we can’t |
reminded me how to pack—just khakis and polo shirts, he said; no fancy linen trousers or silk shirts. I assured him that I didn’t own any linens or silks. On the drive down, we stopped at a TGI Friday’s and I ordered a cheeseburger. When the waitress brought the food I asked her if she had any Dijon mustard. Dan shook his head. “He doesn’t want Dijon,” he insisted, waving the waitress off. “Here”—he shoved a yellow bottle of French’s mustard in my direction—“here’s some mustard right here.” The waitress looked confused. “We got Dijon if you want it,” she said to me. I smiled. “That would be great, thanks.” As the waitress walked away, I leaned over to Dan and whispered that I didn’t think there were any photographers around. And so we traveled, stopping once a day to play a round of golf in the sweltering heat, driving past miles of cornfields and thick forests of ash trees and oak trees and shimmering lakes lined with stumps and reeds, through big towns like Carbondale and Mount Vernon, replete with strip malls and Wal-Marts, and tiny towns like Sparta and Pinckneyville, many of them with brick courthouses at the center of town, their main streets barely hanging on with every other store closed, the occasional roadside vendors selling fresh peaches or corn, or in the case of one couple I saw, “Good Deals on Guns and Swords.” We stopped in a coffee shop to eat pie |
