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"In the meat-pie plant I have incredibly sophisti- cated equipment, real precision machines. But I don't get too automated with the tarts because'l want to keep the homemade thing about them. I spent half-a-million bucks in England having equipment designed to be compatible to my products instead of changing my product to adapt to a machine." r 'Mike Laing takes me down.to the plant to see for "myself. Laing is 27; his hair is short, his moustache neatly clipped and he wears a conservative three- piece suit and what the English call sensible shoes. He is his boss' opposite number yet he has Jackson's complete confidence. We have put on smocks and little paper hats in accordance with health regulations and Laing's sense of sartorial dignity is obviously offended. He is spouting data about tarts-per-minute and hurrying 'through as fast as he can without appearing impolite. But I can't hurry. I am transfixed at the sight of thousands of tarts traveling along the conveyor belts. There actually is a human element to this automation, a certain robot quaintness that is totally absent in the Mother Jackson's plant where pastry enters the maw of a machine as an amorphous mass and emerges as meat pies. Here, though, the tarts are treated to the attentions of machines whose*huge mechanized limbs closely imitate man. Giant metal claws like prosthetic hands mix tubs of batter. Aluminum forearms coax the tarts along. Little stainless-steel fingers drop in raisins. And all the while they move along, three shifts and 24 hours a day, an endless Chinese army of butter tarts. We return to Jackson's office. He persuades Laing to stick around for a beer. As the cans are being opened, a secretary enters to say that someone I'll call Whitney is on the phone. Both of them crack up at this announcement. Whitney, I am given to understand, is an object of longstanding mirth, an effete gentleman of precise manners and impeccable diction, a whining stickler for details. Before fielding the call, Jackson entertains us with a preview of the conversation, assuming both his and Whitney's roles. Then, while Laing, the secretary and I are choking with laughter, he picks up the phone and repeats...verbatim and with exact intonations...his part in the parody. He does it, 'moreover, with an absolute poker face, looking at each of us in turn. Five minutes later he hangs up: "I re a 1977 B100 %2 TON VAN erano new 225 Slant 6, Rear Glass, Passenger Seat, Oil Guage, G78 White Wall Tires. YW2 Suspension package. Ser. No. 113692. 04 "ag Js The butter-tart baron ctu.) 1975 PINTO HATCHBACK Must be seen. 30,000 miles, Rustproofed and Radial Tires. JXY 194. $2287.00 1974 ASTRA HATCHBACK 39,000 miles, Rustproofed, Radial made him come around to our price." Laing has been talking to me about the saxophone. It's a hobby he has in common with his boss. 'We're both hockey nuts," he adds. Jackson looks at me. "Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Russia to see the hockey games and I ordered 12 steaks at midnight and got them?" I confegs I haven't heard that one but I must be "looking a bit skeptical. "Well it's the truth," Jackson says. 'And I'm the only man to have ever done so. I had thé KGB and Intourist both after me but I got them. Medium rare. My lawyer can verify that." He shouts at his setretary, 'Get barrister Jermyn on the phone!" Several minutes later the lawyer is located; I am summoned to speak with him and he assures me that Ken Jackson did get 12 steaks one midnight in Moscow but cannot say for sure that they were medium rare. "I Wouldn't Still Be Getting Thrown Out Of The Legion If | Was Any Different" JIT PRIOTINTA JA La WT AAS MASE NS -- PORT PERRY STAR -- Wednesday, Nov. 24, 1976 -- 33 Laing goes home. Jackson and I head downtown (such as it is) to Emiel's Restaurant for dinner. And for more beer; Jackson has no aversions to bending the elbow nor to admitting it. Indeed, he happily announces his recent six-month suspension from the Legion for rowdiness. He has, however, astounding recupérative powers; he can put it away all night and be at his desk at eight next morning for all the world as if he's passed the entire night in the just slumber of a teetotaler. Jackson calls the waitresses by name and the owner greets him warmly. A few of the diners nod. Throughout the evening I notice people looking at him with respect, even with a kind of awe. No doubt they're trying to figure out what it is that has made him so successful. If he nods hellos to one of them, you just know the guy will later go home and tell his wife: "Hey honey, 1 was talking to Ken Jackson in Emiel's..." Some, on the other hand, don't'like the man. It is obvious in their expressions. They smirk when he laughs too loudly, shudder when he bangs his fist on the table. They resent his wealth and power. After all itis they who have followed the rules and toed the line and it is Ken Jackson who is wearing the fine clothes, driving the Mark IV, sailing the big boat and vacationing in Hawaii. They regard his flouting of 'convention as an insult to their lifestyle and his ostentatiousness as salt in the wound. "I'know there must be plenty of people: who don't like me," Jackson says. "I say what I mean and I don't tell lies. I must have stepped on a few toes but I've never cheated five cents in business. Let them say what they want; I've been good to Port Perry." And he's right. It's not hard to find townspeople who don't much like Ken Jackson, but it's impossible to find anyone who will even imply that he has ever operated less than totally honestly. "Success hasn't changed me basically," Jackson says. "My 'personality is the same as ever." He thinks about it for a moment. "Hell, if I was any different I wouldn't still be getting thrown out of the Legion." , . As we left the restaurant I asked him just why he believed he had done so well. He became thoughtful and looked away down the hill to the lake. "Iremember one time, when I was about 10 years old, my mother handed me a pair of pants that had patches on the ass. Hell, there were patches on the patches. I decided right then and there I wasn't going to wear those kind of clothes any more. And I haven't done bad for a guy with a grade-five education." He got in his car, started the motor, looked up and shrugged. "I guess I've always seen life as a great big challenge." Then he drove off home. It was twilight. Ilooked at the lake, too, and at the dark hills on the other side. Ken Jackson had grown up a few miles past those hills. I stared beyond them, back into the dusks of time, and saw mother Jackson in her depression kitchen, lifting a tray from the oven. And there was her young son watching intently, waiting to taste his first butter tart. She'd never have suspected that dream in that tray of tarts, never have guessed that the capricious arm of the zeitgeist was already reaching down into the little scene, plucking Ken Jackson from the masses so that he would one day stride forth out of the kitchen to his destiny on the other side of the tracks. As the butter-tart baron. DUE TO A MASSIVE EXPANSION Of Our Present Building In Order To Serve You Better, We Will Be Clearing Many Models Due To A Shortage Of Space. 1977 DODGE ASPEN srano new 2 door Coupe, Cloth & Vinyl Interior, D78x14 Tires, Automatic Transmission, 225 Slant 6 Engine, AM Push-button Radio, Disc Brakes, Deluxe Wheel Covers. Ser. ats TO 4087.00 Freight extra *4365.00 Freight extra. 1977 ASPEN srano New 4 Door Sedan, Automatic Transmission, 225 Slant 6, Radio, D78 White Walls, Parchment Vinyl Bench. Uses either leaded or unleaded gas. 4154.00 Freight extra. MANY MORE TO CHOOSE FROM. PRICES IN EFFECT UNTIL NOVEMBER 27, 1976. ! 1976 DODGE DART SWINGER Slant 6, Automatic, p.s., Radio, Defogger, Deluxe Interior. 7 months left on warranty. KNM 815 3647.00 *1689.00 Act Fast And $ave PORT PERRY CHRYSLER HWY, 7 & 12 MANCHESTER -- Phone 985-7329 gd ~ PATE TRL OA BRGONAIRE EHO a gq 12 4 K po . u et _ __----_----------_" CAN NARRTATNTS CN AE Ba ol a TWAS dX ~~ a x Cand oy or Ry oN das CES AG BRE aS ARI SIE si Pir deri Fa Fe SE I he 2 Tl A ad SL Na Rr 1) tte. ER oe ~~ x TA nh Stl eit » at VIE ood Dds CCA TN : a