Hearing the recent news about Volkswagen admitting that it
systematically cheated to make its cars appear to produce lower emissions made
me recall a scandalous pie-eating contest I competed in as a child.
This memory came rushing back to me. I was walking to the
train to commute downtown. I was listening to NPR on my headphones, and the
report detailed how the giant carmaker equipped 11 million of its vehicles
worldwide with “defeat devices.”
This clever software could detect when the car was being
tested for harmful emissions, mask the actual results and produce “cleaner”
results that not coincidentally corresponded with its “low emission cars”
marketing campaign.
As the reporter described the scope of the scandal, my first
reaction was – “Surprise, surprise…another big company breaking the rules in
the interest of profits…” but then my pie-eating-contest memory surged into my
head.
I was 7 years old, attending a summer carnival or “field
day” event run by the local park district. The air smelled like cotton candy
and fresh-cut grass. I was sweaty from running races. When someone announced
the start of a pie-eating contest, I really had little interest, but I happened
to be standing by the picnic table where the event was to take place, so I sat
down.
Before I knew it, my rivals were seated around me. We stared
each other down while a jovial park district official placed a white paper
plate in front of each of us. On the plate was a rectangular Dolly Madison
single-serving cherry pie. We were
instructed to hold our hands behind our backs, use only our mouths and on the
count of “3, 2, 1….Go!!” begin devouring the pie.
Adrenaline kicked in. I was a competitive kid. I figured,
what the hell? I could do this, just like I’d gotten honorable mention in the
baseball throw and second place in the 50-yard dash in my age group, nosed out
by a lanky Hugh Stallberg.
I was making solid progress consuming the pie. My nose and
cheeks were covered in red pie filling. My chin was caked with the sweet,
flakey crust. But just then, a hand snuck into my view, grabbed a chunk of my
pie and tossed it away.
It was my friend Kevin – a boy at my school with a “devil
may care” approach to life. He was a rebel. He had a mini-bike, occasionally used swear words and would tell me about girls he’d “made out” with.
No one seemed to see him, despite the crush of adults and
kids surrounding the picnic table. They were all screaming, cheering for
us all to eat faster, eat the pie, to win!
I kept eating. Kevin grabbed another chunk, throwing it into
the tall grass. I gobbled up the final piece, and just then the judge came up
behind me, grabbed my wrist and thrust it up over my head.
My first reaction was that I’d been caught. Busted. The cheater
had been exposed. I was prepared to blame it on Kevin, but I knew he’d smartly
scurry away in the crowd, leaving me to take the heat. I knew though, I was just as
guilty.
But instead, the barrel-bellied park district man yelled,
“The Winner!” The crowd erupted,
chapping, smiling at me. I stood up – scraps of crushed pie bits stuck to my
face. I managed a weak smile, ashamed, knowing that I didn’t deserve it. I was
a cheater.
I glanced at Kevin – his stringy, shoulder-length blond hair
covering one of his slightly reptilian eyes. He subtly smiled then winked at me –
celebrating our winning “team effort” – as the blustery park district contest official
pumped my hand in congratulations and thrust a pale blue “honorable mention”
ribbon into my other hand (apparently they’d run out of “First Place”
ribbons).
To this day, I still have the ribbon. It’s in my scrapbook.
For some reason I kept it. Really, until now, I’ve kept this a secret – a deep,
dark secret from the world.
As I boarded the commuter train to ride downtown, I
suppose I wondered about this pie-contest. While no one else other than Kevin knew the truth, I certainly
did. And I’ve been carrying it around ever since.
It makes me wonder about Volkswagen. I wonder would would have happened if the EPA had
not detected this smart software – this “defeat device” devised to trick
emission-testing systems. What then?
Volkswagen car sales would continue to rise. The company’s low
emissions marketing campaign would be a rousing global success. No one would
know, except a few clever, tight-lipped engineers and the company’s top brass.
At the annual Sales Record Award Ceremony, the team of
conspirators would covertly wink at each other, smile subtly and celebrate
their “success.” They would be rewarded with praise, accolades, plaques and
monetary bonuses. In truth, they cheated but just had not been caught.
(Cue the Vincent
Price-like maniacal laugh sound effect….cut to a photo of 7-year-old Terry,
face covered in the remnants of a Dolly Madison Cherry Pie, trying actively to
suppress the shame amidst the spirited applause from the crowd around the
picnic table.)
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