The End of Loyalty

The Rise and Fall of Good Jobs in America


By Rick Wartzman

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Having a good, stable job used to be the bedrock of the American Dream. Not anymore.

In this richly detailed and eye-opening book, Rick Wartzman chronicles the erosion of the relationship between American companies and their workers. Through the stories of four major employers — General Motors, General Electric, Kodak, and Coca-Cola — he shows how big businesses once took responsibility for providing their workers and retirees with an array of social benefits. At the height of the post-World War II economy, these companies also believed that worker pay needed to be kept high in order to preserve morale and keep the economy humming. Productivity boomed.

But the corporate social contract didn’t last. By tracing the ups and downs of these four corporate icons over seventy years, Wartzman illustrates just how much has been lost: job security and steadily rising pay, guaranteed pensions, robust health benefits, and much more. Charting the Golden Age of the ’50s and ’60s; the turbulent years of the ’70s and ’80s; and the growth of downsizing, outsourcing, and instability in the modern era, Wartzman’s narrative is a biography of the American Dream gone sideways.

Deeply researched and compelling, The End of Loyalty will make you rethink how Americans can begin to resurrect the middle class.

Finalist for the Los Angeles Times book prize in current interest
A best business book of the year in economics, Strategy+Business



As I waited for an Uber to pick me up at Google, my mind was racing.

It was late February 2015, and a light breeze blew through the Mountain View, California, night sky. I'd spent the past couple of hours at a meeting of a group called i4j, which stands for Innovation for Jobs. The buffet had been resoundingly mediocre—a surprise considering that we were at the Googleplex, the technology giant's corporate headquarters, famous for its great perks. The cognitive power in the room was sure dazzling, though.

There was Vint Cerf, a Google vice president and one of the fathers of the Internet; Byron Auguste, a former Obama administration economic-policy official who was now running an organization called Opportunity@Work, which was aiming to "rewire the US labor market"; Robin Chase, the cofounder of Zipcar; Marjory Blumenthal, executive director of the President's Council of Advisors on Science and Technology; and a couple dozen other entrepreneurs of both the business and social variety.

This being Silicon Valley, we'd been kicking around how to "disrupt unemployment," which officially stood at 5.5 percent in the United States at that moment, a substantial drop from the double-digit jobless rate that had wracked the nation four and a half years earlier, following the Great Recession. Yet for many folks across the country, the recovery was less than full-bodied. "Right now, as many as 30 million Americans are either out of work or severely underemployed," Jim Clifton, the president of Gallup, the research and consulting firm, noted just a few weeks before my visit to Mountain View. "Trust me, the vast majority of them aren't throwing parties to toast 'falling' unemployment.

"The great American dream," he added, "is to have a good job, and in recent years, America has failed to deliver that dream more than it has at any time in recent memory."

High-tech tends to be full of optimists, and i4j didn't disappoint in this regard. Many on hand could see a day coming soon when algorithms would connect job seekers of all stripes with just the right options for employment—a development that would be terrific for everyone, including business. "There are trillions of dollars to be made in raising the value of people, which are, perhaps, our world's most underutilized resource," asserted David Nordfors, the cochair of i4j.

I, too, am an optimist at heart, and I truly hoped that Nordfors was correct. But as someone who'd spent more than five years examining how the social contract between employer and employee in America had changed since the end of World War II, I was skeptical of any remedies that seemed too quick or easy.

As my Uber driver, Jorge, pulled onto Plymouth Street to take me to San Francisco, it was hard not to think about what kind of job he had. On one level, far too much has been made of Uber, TaskRabbit, and the rest of the online "gig economy," which accounts for less than 1 percent of the US workforce. But on another level, Uber is a perfectly appropriate symbol for positions that are now found all across America: ones that don't pay well, have terrible or nonexistent medical and retirement benefits, and command not the slightest bit of long-term loyalty from one's employer.

Labor economist Guy Standing has a term for those with such jobs: "the precariat,” a group of people who invariably live lives defined by economic insecurity and are all too aware that they're stuck in the mud, if not falling ever further behind. Their ranks extend well beyond those in gig jobs or other forms of "contingent work," and their disenchantment with how poorly they're faring is hardly new. Indeed, members of the working class have been feeling aggrieved since political pundits in the early seventies referred to them as the "Archie Bunker vote,” a nod to the star character of the hit sitcom All in the Family.

Since then, not much has improved for most workers; a lot has gotten tougher. Compensation for some 80 percent of the American labor force, in fact, has barely gone up since Archie ruled the airwaves—a 10 percent raise over forty years, after adjusting for inflation. During the prior twenty-five years, by contrast, pay and benefits for this huge demographic climbed by 90 percent.

Today, nearly half the nation's workforce earns less than fifteen dollars an hour. About a third of men in their prime don't make enough to keep a family of four out of poverty or are altogether unemployed—double what it was thirty years ago. More than 10 percent of jobless men ages twenty-five to fifty-four have stopped looking for work—a trend particularly prevalent among those without a college degree. In the mid-1950s, only 2 percent of this group of men was on the sidelines.

Meanwhile, few Americans have sufficient savings to retire on, in no small part because employers have cut their pension benefits. And businesses continue to push more health-care costs onto their employees.

Some unequivocally good news came when the US Census Bureau reported that median household income rose more than 5 percent in 2015. But this surge didn't come close to offsetting decades of stagnation. For those on the middle rungs of the economic ladder, their income was still more than 4 percent below where it was at the start of the financial crisis in 2007, and more than 5 percent below where it was at the end of the nineties. Even after the latest jump, earnings for male workers were less than they were in the 1970s. Median pay for women has essentially been flat since 2000.

Why is this happening? It's certainly not because American companies have been struggling overall and therefore haven't had the means to do better for those in their employ. Corporate profits have reached historic highs in recent years. A big part of the trouble is that this wealth has not been distributed like it was previously. Workers have been largely left out. Instead, the winners have been the fortunate few: investors (who've reaped dividend increases and stock buybacks) as well as top corporate executives and others at the very high end of the pay scale. Most Americans, even those who work their tails off, can't count on the job market to give them the lift it once did.

"Some say that our current income inequality is no longer like the Roaring Twenties or even the Gilded Age," labor lawyer Thomas Geoghegan has written. "We're reaching inequality that we haven't known since feudalism. Charlemagne, not J. P. Morgan, is the relevant comparison."

Within weeks of my evening at the Googleplex, a slate of candidates would officially announce that they were entering the 2016 race for the White House. The resentment voiced by Geoghegan—and so many others—would now find its expression through the campaigns of Bernie Sanders on the left and, especially, Donald Trump on the right. "The forgotten men and women of our country will be forgotten no longer," Trump vowed in his victory speech on election night. The working class (really, the white working class) had helped to catapult Trump to the presidency, taken in by his promises to restore the kind of blue-collar employment that had once guaranteed a good life. "I want him to bring America back," said Youngstown, Ohio, resident Kerri Smith, a caregiver for disabled children and a former Democrat who voted for Trump. "Bring back the jobs, bring our country back."

But while the electorate's anger was understandable, it was tough to see how shaking up Washington would have the intended effect. There is "the pretense in American elections that choosing the right president will magically fix the nation's wide economic problems," observed journalist Hedrick Smith, the author of, among other books, Who Stole the American Dream? But what "plagues the middle class is much less the product of presidential policies and much more the result of the private-sector trickle-down business model. In the economy, the power to divvy up the nation's pie lies in the hands of corporate CEOs."

This reality—that most Americans' fortunes depend directly on whether they have work and how their company treats them, not on the maneuverings of government—is what compelled me to explore the shifting relationship between employer and employee. It is a narrative that I've been watching play out for a long time from a variety of angles.

For fifteen years I was a reporter at the Wall Street Journal, where I tracked the coal, steel, and aerospace industries, getting to know frontline laborers along with those in the C-suite. I covered economic policy from the Treasury, Federal Reserve, and White House—and was also there when a minimum-wage worker in Louisiana came home after a ten-hour day to discover that her gas had been shut off because she couldn't afford to pay her bill. More recently, I've done management consulting for major corporations at the Drucker Institute and have sat side by side with union leaders on the board of a progressive publication called Capital & Main. From all of these different vantages, I have noticed the growing worship of Wall Street; the increasingly one-sided chess match between employers and their workers; the mounting hoopla around "corporate social responsibility" that, in most cases, has very little to do with companies looking out for their own people.

I bring to these issues a strong belief that by better understanding where we've been, we can be smarter about where we're going. To that end, since 2009 I have been delving into the histories of four companies: General Electric, General Motors, Kodak, and Coca-Cola. By tracing their ups and downs over a seventy-year span—through the Golden Age of the fifties and sixties, the tumultuous years of the seventies and eighties, and the past two and a half decades, when the corporate compact has been completely undone—I tell the bigger story of how America has transformed.

I have tried not to romanticize what was or wash out the complexities and contradictions. Most workers, for instance, did do quite well during the aforementioned Golden Age—but only if they were white and male. For women and people of color, corporate America was a hostile environment. (In many cases, it still is.) The hatred between organized labor and management was often savage. Many look back at that older era and fondly remember it as a time of rock-solid stability, marked by "lifetime employment." I even use that felicitous phrase in a few spots. But it's actually not so cut-and-dried. Even in the 1950s and '60s, it wasn't uncommon for someone to have ten or twelve different jobs over his career. The ability of workers to move around has always been a positive feature of the American economy.

That said, workers in more recent years have found themselves moving less because they've wanted to and more because they've had to. Job security in the private sector is much weaker than it once was, a big reason that many people's incomes have become tremendously volatile, swinging up and down a lot more than they did before. For workers, the American corporation used to act as a shock absorber. Now, it's a roller coaster.

As seen through the lens of GE, GM, Kodak, and Coke, a combination of forces has led us here: globalization and heightened competition from low-wage countries; the fading influence of unions; the introduction of labor-saving technology; a newfound willingness—and at times eagerness—to lay off enormous numbers of people even when there's no crisis at hand; the outsourcing of all manner of work; the decline of manufacturing; and the rise of knowledge jobs for those with the skills and education to grab them and, simultaneously, the rise of third-rate service jobs for those without.

Yet from my reading of these four iconic companies—and the larger universe of businesses that they reflect and represent—I'd single out one other factor as more important than all the others: a reconstituting of corporate culture that has explicitly elevated shareholders above employees. American workers won't be able to overcome these other challenges unless this perversion ceases.

What the future holds is a mystery, of course. Some maintain that we are destined for a prolonged period of slow economic growth, which would be bad for workers. Others see the spread of artificial intelligence setting off the next boom. Some warn that robots will take away so many jobs that masses of people will be left with nothing to do. Others suggest that all sorts of new avenues of employment are about to open up because of cloud computing, Big Data, and the Internet of Things.

Whatever comes, what's clear is that we as a country have to find a way to share our prosperity more broadly again. At stake is nothing less than the well-being of our democracy.

A good place to begin is simply to ensure that more people are working. A tight labor market causes employers to bid up compensation—something that finally started to be realized toward the end of 2016—and split profits more equitably. "With just a few exceptions, our economy has failed to generate the necessary quantity and quality of jobs," Jared Bernstein, who served as director of the White House Task Force on the Middle Class under President Obama, has written. He has calculated that when wages were expanding at a healthy clip for most everyone, from the late 1940s through the late 1970s, the country was at "full employment" more than 70 percent of the time. That's the point at which all eligible people who want a job can find one. Since 1980, we've been at full employment less than 30 percent of the time.

Given his perch, Bernstein has offered numerous policy prescriptions (some of them also supported, to varying degrees, by the Trump administration): putting people to work repairing roads, bridges, railways, airports, and the like through a government infrastructure program; more aggressively overseeing Wall Street so as to protect Main Street jobs from being wiped out in another speculative bubble; more seamlessly reintegrating into the workforce those with criminal records; giving special attention to residents of "job deserts"—depressed urban and rural areas with stubbornly high unemployment rates. All of these recommendations are vital.

But Washington's prod can't alone turn things around. Corporate executives must step up. It is their companies that must do the bulk of the hiring. It is their companies that must reinstitute a sturdier social contract with their workers.

If that sounds Pollyannaish, this is where history is a useful reminder. In the 1940s, those heading some of our biggest companies took it upon themselves to help create tens of millions of decent jobs. And they did so not only to make a buck but also to strengthen society.



While General Electric touted its contribution to the war effort in this 1943 advertisement, it was also starting to plan for peace, including the creation of good jobs for returning US troops.



In March 1943, as they had for three and a half grim years, men across much of the world fought and killed each other on fields of battle, while others brutalized innocents beyond the normal pale of war. Early in the month, US and Australian aircraft bombed a crucial Japanese supply convoy in the Bismarck Sea, prevailing in what Gen. Douglas MacArthur would single out as "the decisive aerial engagement" in the southwest Pacific theater. A few weeks later, the British Eighth Army overran German and Italian forces along the Mareth Line in southern Tunisia, a bloody struggle punctuated by torrential shelling and heavy machine-gun fire. Hitler's SS rounded up the remaining Jews in Poland's Krakow ghetto, sending 8,000 men, women, and children to the Plaszow concentration camp and murdering 2,000 more on the streets. Aboard the Japanese destroyer Akikaze, the crew matter-of-factly gunned down some sixty Germans—Protestant missionaries and Catholic priests and nuns—accused, speciously, of being spies. Then they flung the dead over the side of the ship into the waters off New Guinea.

Meanwhile, at month's end, thousands of miles from the combat and the mayhem, nineteen American businessmen gathered at the Harvard Club in New York to plan for peace. This mission didn't sit well with everyone. Some people found it unseemly to be talking about postwar America while husbands and brothers and sons were still dying halfway around the globe. They fretted that corporate interests were jumping the gun—literally.

The group went by the bureaucratic-sounding name of the Industrial Advisory Board of the Committee for Economic Development, yet their assignment was anything but humdrum: Once the war was over and America's factories were no longer churning out tens of billions of dollars in armaments, how could they prevent the country from falling back into the crippled economic state it had experienced in the 1930s? How could they make sure that legions of servicemen wouldn't find themselves jobless, impoverished, and forced to queue up in bread lines upon their return home? How could they render misguided all of the forecasters who were predicting that as many as 30 million people would soon find themselves unemployed while, in the words of one observer, "the worst depression in history would sweep the land"?

The Committee for Economic Development was far from the only organization trying to grapple with these thorny questions. Over the next two years, the federal War Production Board, the National Resources Planning Board, the Senate's Special Committee on Postwar Economic Policy and Planning, and dozens of other public bodies would all wrestle with these same difficult issues. The United Auto Workers union and various business lobbies, including the US Chamber of Commerce and the National Association of Manufacturers, would take them on as well. But the CED, more than any other entity, gained a reputation for the thoroughness of its analysis, the boldness of its action, and the progressive nature of its thinking—progressive, at least, for a bunch of businessmen.

Some dubbed their worldview "enlightened capitalism." Others called it "liberal conservatism.” Still others affixed harsher labels: one Detroit industrialist went so far as to brand the CED's leaders "the most dangerous men in America." What prompted such contempt was that the CED was far more accepting of organized labor than either the Chamber or the Manufacturers, asserting that unions can, in fact, "serve the common good." The CED also endorsed the idea that federal debt could be added in service of "promoting and maintaining high levels of productive employment"—a perspective at odds with the deficit hawks more commonly found in the corporate community. Taken aback by the CED's position, the Nation ran an article headlined "Heresy in High Places," in which it declared: "Some of the basic concepts of Keynesian economics have at last penetrated into the upper stratum of American business society."

Despite taking such unconventional stances, those shepherding the CED didn't fit the profile of rebels. Many of the executives instrumental in the organization's early days were big bosses at some of the nation's largest corporations. Among them were Eastman Kodak's treasurer, Marion Folsom, a technocrat of the first order; the inventor of the all-electrical car ignition (and holder of 139 other patents) and General Motors vice president, Charles Kettering; and Coca-Cola chairman Harrison Jones, a man so silver-tongued he once boasted that he "could sell bottled horse piss." Charles Wilson, General Electric's president, would join the CED board by the war's end.

For each of these men, generating more jobs was a top priority. To Kettering, or "Boss Ket" as he was known within the corridors of GM, employment and innovation were inextricably linked. "In the future," he said, a major corporation "must accept as a moral obligation the task of propagating new industries. It must pay more and more attention not alone to the improvement of old things but to the development of new things." To Folsom, "well-organized statistical and planning departments" were the vehicles through which companies could project sales fluctuations, regulate inventories, and thus keep employee turnover to a minimum. "If management applies brains and effort to this problem of stabilizing employment," he said, "real progress can be made." To Jones, the trick was to get enough companies to start hiring so that the nation's economic flywheel would begin to turn—workers becoming consumers, leading to demand for more products made by more workers. "The furnishing of jobs starts the cycle, which builds and gathers momentum, and the more men employed, the greater the prosperity," he said. And to Wilson, the idea was similar: companies must consciously keep prices low and paychecks high so that "the common man" would trigger a virtuous circle of economic growth. This was the "dynamic logic of mass production" that Henry Ford had famously dramatized in 1914, when he had instantly doubled his workers' income by decreeing the five-dollar day. "How am I going to sell my refrigerators if we don't give 'em wages to buy with?" Wilson asked.

The CED was the ideal megaphone to amplify these viewpoints. The US Commerce Department had launched the CED as an independent, self-financed organization in September 1942 in a bid to combine the best in economic scholarship with the real-world input of those in industry. The mix proved powerful. "When I started this job, I thought we were going to hatch a hen egg," Paul Hoffman, the president of the automobile company Studebaker and the CED's chairman, confided to the executive committee of the organization six months after its founding. "It has turned out to be an eagle." With the CED's momentum building, its agenda quickly formed. "We are being pressed to go off on a dozen tangents," Hoffman said. "We shall have to hold enthusiasm in check a bit in order to stick to our main purpose—jobs."

On this day, March 29, the man in charge of winning the peace was David Prince, a vice president of General Electric, who called to order the meeting at the Harvard Club at 9:45 a.m. Bespectacled and mostly bald, with stray wisps of gray hair, Prince looked every bit like the engineer he was. His specialty was switchgears. But GE had directed him to concentrate on a switchover of a different sort: the eventual transition to a peacetime economy. Indeed, GE was widely seen as the most advanced company in the nation when it came to postwar planning, having meticulously estimated the output of its products under a host of possible circumstances, and the CED had tapped Prince to spread this know-how.

Much of GE's blueprint involved straightforward, if exhausting, legwork—methodically surveying producers and consumers to gauge supply and demand market by market. "There is nothing mystic or magic or revolutionary about advance planning," said GE's Charlie Wilson. The process was, however, inherently controversial. Some businesspeople worried that the CED's approach was synonymous with centralized control. "To many Americans economic planning denotes totalitarianism," Prince admitted. "They visualize an economic system in which individuals and corporations would follow the dictates of a super economic bureau, and they therefore quite properly suspect it because it is opposed to their ideas of personal liberty."

Yet to Prince and his CED colleagues, this logic was totally backward. Minus sound planning, Prince cautioned, "we will certainly develop overproduction" in a raft of industries, "and I doubt whether we can weather another case of that sort without the government taking over." To the CED, the very best way to keep Washington from exerting too heavy a hand was for companies to plan assiduously and thereby prevent a relapse of the 30 percent jobless rate that had bedeviled the country in the preceding decade. "In the absence of such activity on our part," Prince said, "I fear government will take over by default." Later, he added: "This expectation of mass unemployment gives a perfect charter for all of the crackpots to promote government regulation… make-work projects, etc." By getting out in front of the problem, "this should be an opportunity for the business community to be the champions of courage and optimism," rather than getting dragged down by "the counsel of despair."

Much of the Harvard Club meeting—attended by officials from Kodak; Firestone Tire & Rubber; Sears, Roebuck; the Automobile Manufacturers Association; and other companies and trade groups—focused on selling this vision through a variety of industry handbooks and other publications. One report they discussed at length, "Markets After the War," turned out to be so popular that more than 1,000 requests a day poured in for it. The study, which relied on extensive data crunching by the Commerce Department, revealed a huge gulf between prospective employment one year after the end of the war and the anticipated size of the peacetime labor force. The only way to close the gap, remarked Gardiner Means, the eminent economist who joined the CED staff in 1943, was to spur "a radical change in business attitudes."

Casting itself as "a merchant of ideas," the CED urged managers to jot down the new goods they were hoping to sell after the war, while it also gave advice on how to leverage knowledge gained from military production. In the future, both consumer and industrial offerings "will contain many 'hidden values' resulting from the use of new materials and better methods," the CED suggested in a treatise called "Planning the Future of Your Business." "They will reflect wartime experience, which companies will put to good use to provide the public with products having greater value in performance, in lasting qualities, in appearance and, most important, in price."

In time, the CED set up a massive field operation, with a presence in nearly 3,000 communities all over the United States, through which some 250,000 local trade-association members regularly received information. A relentless push for 58 million private-sector jobs propelled the entire effort. This, said Hoffman, was the target that America would need to hit to avoid catastrophe. His math went like this: in 1940, the year before Pearl Harbor, some 49 million people were employed in the United States, turning out $98 billion dollars worth of goods and services. Thanks to the war, 62 million people now had jobs, and US economic output had soared more than 50 percent. If the country were merely to fall back to where it had been in 1940, the ranks of the unemployed could reach 15 million—an "intolerable” situation in Hoffman's mind. He thought 58 million jobs was the total required to keep the nation humming.

Unpretentious and self-deprecating, Hoffman liked to portray himself as a "simple-minded man with simple objectives." But an explicit goal of 58 million employed—with private industry on the hook for 50 million of those jobs—was, in many eyes, downright audacious. "I don't believe that you made this statement. I hope you didn't,” George Sloan, a prominent New York businessman, told Hoffman. "I am strongly of the opinion that we, as representatives of industry, must be very careful that we do not make statements or implied promises that will be thrown back at us when the war is over by enemies of a free economy… that while they were fighting in Tunisia or Guadalcanal, industry, through its spokesman Paul Hoffman, had assumed the responsibility of supplying 58 million full-time jobs when they returned—and that industry had failed completely in living up to this responsibility."


  • "Rick Wartzman is one of America's finest journalists and this book reminds us why. The End of Loyalty is the story of an idea-that companies and workers are bound not just by formal agreements, but by a deeper social contract. With a historian's sweep and a novelist's eye for detail, Wartzman shows how that contract unraveled and what its demise means for all of us. This is a book people will be reading for many years to understand the American experience."—Daniel H. Pink, author of Drive, A Whole New Mind, and To Sell Is Human
  • "The End of Loyalty is the rich story of how the corporate bonds that were once essential to American life have fractured. It's a prescient book that helps explain the rise of Donald Trump and why so many people feel anger and an acute sense of loss."—Jill Abramson, former executive editor of the New York Times
  • "The End of Loyalty tells a story that needs to be told. Rick Wartzman vividly describes a world in which corporate leaders believed that good business meant generating value for their employees as well as their shareholders, an old-fashioned attitude whose time may come again. It's a great book."—Anne-Marie Slaughter, president and CEO of New America and author of Unfinished Business
  • "In a lucid economic history of the last seventy-five years, Rick Wartzman's The End of Loyalty convincingly argues that the economic angst and political turbulence of our moment are linked to the collapse of a corporate social contract that guided American economic life for much of the twentieth century. While Wartzman places much of the blame for this problem on business and a growing obsession with profit, he challenges all of us-liberals and conservatives, CEOs and union members-to imagine what a new social contract might look like."—E. J. Dionne Jr., author of Our Divided Political Heart and Why the Right Went Wrong
  • "A timely and urgent book. Meticulously written and impressively researched, Rick Wartzman's The End of Loyalty is a penetrating account of the end of the golden years of American capitalism and the unraveling of the social contract. This book will be required reading for anyone hoping to understand our current age of anxiety."—Greg Grandin, author of Kissinger's Shadow and Fordlandia
  • "Wartzman, a senior advisor at the Drucker Institute, documents the deterioration of company-employee loyalty at some of America's corporate giants in this insightful economic history...This impeccably written treatise asserts that it's imperative for Americans to 'share our prosperity more broadly once again' and reinstitute a stronger social contract between corporate executives and the workers who make a company successful."—Publishers Weekly
  • "Wartzman, senior advisor at the Drucker Institute, explores what could be the defining questions of the twenty-first century-where we were, where we are, and where we are headed in terms of jobs and the nature of corporate America in all its bitter reality. His research is excellent and even-handed... Essential reading for those who have ever worried about their jobs."—Booklist
  • "A sharp-edged examination of why large American employers shifted from loyalty to their workers to loyalty focused primarily on stockholders. Through deep reporting and anecdotal storytelling, former Wall Street Journal and Los Angeles Times writer and editor Wartzman delineates the often shameful evolution of policies by concentrating on four of the biggest corporations in the world: Coca-Cola, Kodak, General Motors, and General Electric... A lively history with relevance to every worker."—Kirkus
  • "The changing relationship between large American corporations and their workers in the 20th century provides the basis for this thoughtful and enlightening volume by Wartzman... Highly recommended for general readers and those interested in labor-management issues."—Library Journal
  • "A brilliant, rogue history of American business's transformation over the past 75 years."—Forbes

On Sale
May 30, 2017
Page Count
432 pages

Rick Wartzman

About the Author

Rick Wartzman is head of the KH Moon Center for a Functioning Society at the Drucker Institute, a part of Claremont Graduate University. His commentary for Fast Company was recognized by the Society for Advancing Business Editing and Writing with its Best in Business award for 2018. He has also written for Fortune, Time, Businessweek, and many other publications. His books include The End of Loyalty: The Rise and Fall of Good Jobs in America, which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in Current Interest and named one of the best books of 2017 by strategy+business; Obscene in the Extreme: The Burning and Banning of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in History and a PEN USA Literary Award; and The King of California: J.G. Boswell and the Making of a Secret American Empire (with Mark Arax), which won a California Book Award and the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing.

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