Chapter Thirty-Six: Dumb Luck? Perhaps!

Entertaining cowboys was simplicity itself—just slaughter a few cattle, bring out the house’s red wine, and let everyone indulge in a feast of dubious culinary creations. Though the White family descended from nobility, generations spent in Texas had worn away most traces of aristocratic air. By William White’s time, there remained perhaps a hint of a London accent, but little else lingered.

The cowboys were not disappointed. William White was a consummate conversationalist, spinning off-color jokes with ease. Though some were a bit risqué, he never crossed any real lines. Don’t label Texans as simply rough and wild; in truth, this is the most traditional corner of America. Skip Sunday service and your father is liable to tan your hide.

This land is the stronghold of the Elephant, and that is no accident. The Donkey’s theories of liberal freedom are ridiculed here, and anyone daring to promote alternative lifestyles would be bent out of shape by the response. That’s the rational reaction—several decades earlier, such talk would have earned you a noose, no hesitation.

Modern Americans push the envelope ever further. At first, not opposing was enough; now, failing to show active support invites public censure. The writer dares predict: America’s days as global top dog are numbered. If everyone opts for the alternative, where will the next generation come from? Even without such antics, the population is in decline; with them, who will be left? Healthcare and social security alone will bury America, leaving no energy for anything else.

Social security and healthcare are, at heart, the world’s largest Ponzi schemes—robbing Peter to pay Paul. As long as new people enter the system, it holds. Once numbers dwindle, well, you’d better not plan on retiring before eighty.

Cowboy gatherings are unapologetically masculine affairs: drinking, talking, and, of course, cursing Northerners is a staple of the evening. No state is more out of sync with the federal government than this magical land. They care nothing for what the folks in D.C. think—if it benefits them, they’ll take it; otherwise, they’ll show you the door.

Farmers have had a rough time in recent years, so their ire naturally turns on the federal government, their language unfit for print. The local priest will be busy this week; many have confessions to make. Such is the American way—insulting others requires confession, but who knows what they do after a killing? Perhaps confession again.

Cowboy parties end early; everyone rises with the dawn. It’s nothing like the parties in Los Angeles. If someone has too much to drink, it’s of no consequence. Owners of distant ranches don’t bother going home; there are plenty of spare rooms, and no one feels put out. Such is the camaraderie among cowboys.

In the days of defending against outside threats, banding together was essential—otherwise, they’d have been wiped out. Then again, the definition of “outsider” is debatable; they were the invaders here, after all, and the others only sought to reclaim their land—yet were nearly exterminated for it.

Meanwhile, the Police Academy continues its money-spinning run. Though receipts dipped in the third week, the decline was slight, suggesting untapped potential. America has its first- and second-tier cities, and the movie was released in near lockstep, dictated by the distribution network.

Why do many blockbusters run for over half a year? It’s the industry’s way—major cities wrap in a month, after which prints are shipped to smaller towns. Don’t think there’s no money in those places; Europe and America have hardly any true countryside, and living standards are similar everywhere—some things are even pricier in small towns. Transportation costs are higher, and with lower sales, prices naturally rise.

Land isn’t expensive in America; even big cities are reasonable. If wages are about equal, it’s natural for small towns to be costlier—fewer people, higher expenses.

The more popular a film, the longer it runs. The distribution system of this era is akin to the traveling projection teams of old China—screening the film town by town. When the American run winds down, foreign distributors pick it up cheap. Everyone knows the market’s condition; as long as the profit share is right, Hollywood movies remain highly attractive.

Professional buyers won’t overlook this film. Even if it doesn’t explode overseas, it’s guaranteed to perform at a solid, mid-to-high level.

Now, Hollywood’s giants are starting to feel the pinch. Do you have your own distribution channels? How did we fail to notice? Domestically, the major chains can’t entirely dominate; theater owners must weigh their own interests. If William White delivers another film, they’ll tread carefully.

Had they taken a ten percent cut in the first week, they’d be laughing in their sleep. Instead, they lost their heads and opted for a buyout model. Though they still made plenty, it lacked the sweet ease of a direct profit share. Still, they’ve found a solid method—guaranteed minimum buyouts ensure their returns.

Now they’re certain that many small companies will adopt this approach, freeing themselves from the claws of the major studios.

They agreed to a fifteen percent share in the first week but quailed at the last moment. Now, eager to recoup their loss, they’re ready to cash in next time.

Optimists and pessimists both abound. Some believe William White merely got lucky; his film’s style is easily imitated, and the next one might flop. Yet all concede his marketing was dazzling—so much so that Harvard Business School plans to use it as a case study.

Their professors say William White should never have attended USC; he ought to teach at Harvard. His marketing campaign is textbook legendary, upending conventional wisdom.

This kind of success is no fluke; on the contrary, he could sell manure for a king’s ransom. He’s a born marketing genius. Making films is a waste—he ought to teach, shaping the next generation.

Receiving such praise left William White rather exasperated. If he became a teacher, would those sweet little lambs stand a chance?

Self-dealing is forbidden, a stain that cannot be cleansed in America. Students may misbehave, but teachers must never cross the line.

At best, his credentials qualify him as a teaching assistant—and a temporary one at that—but even teaching assistants are bound by the same rules; he’d have to keep his zipper firmly closed.

William White estimated he’d last three days at most before losing all restraint, and the consequences would be dire—he’d land himself in prison for good.

All he could do was thank the Harvard professors and firmly insist that his character was lacking, making him wholly unsuited for such a noble vocation.

His reply was the stuff of legend. Given his notorious boldness, everyone found it hilarious. Presumably, Harvard professors don’t read the gossip columns—if he ever became a teacher, parents would be in for a headache.

At least he was self-aware, bluntly declaring his own lack of virtue. The message was unmistakably clear.

He honestly couldn’t handle it—the temptation was simply too great. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life behind bars!