Bottlemania - Elizabeth Royte [34]
“The economics of a tax just don’t work,” Brennan had said, “because our competition is Coke and Pepsi, and they bottle their water in their areas of distribution. We’re transporting water from northwestern Maine; if you tax that, we’re just not competitive. We won’t build up there.”
He insisted that the margins on Poland Spring were “very, very thin.” (In 2006, Nestlé’s 32 percent share of the U.S. bottled-water market—of which Poland Spring is by far the biggest moneymaker—brought profits of $7.46 billion.) “Nestlé has seven regional brands,” Brennan continued. “If the tax were implemented, it would not make sense to expand the business into Maine. It would make sense to move somewhere else.”
“Hogwash!” Stefan Jackson blurts when I ask if such a thing is likely. “They’re not going to leave. Poland Spring is in Fryeburg, on Wards Brook, because forty percent of what comes out of the aquifer comes back in a year. They’re not going to leave because the hydrogeology and the way the watershed has been managed make this one of the greatest springwater sources in the United States. That water is very pure.”
In a television debate between Wilfong and Brennan, the moderator asked Brennan if he thought consumers would pay a higher price for springwater if they knew part of the price, the tax, was going toward environmental preservation, sort of like Ben & Jerry’s “one percent for peace” or the Rainforest Alliance’s certified-sustainable chocolate. Visibly agitated, Brennan changed the subject. “Coke and Pepsi aren’t taxed,” he said.
Wilfong reminded Brennan that Maine’s public and private sectors had spent billions to keep the state’s water clean: Poland Spring traded on Maine’s pristine image but paid little for the water it extracted. Brennan reminded Wilfong that Poland Spring had a payroll of $37 million a year and employed six hundred people statewide (since the debate the numbers have risen to $46 million and seven hundred employees). It’s the same defense used by any beleaguered manufacturer: changes will cost us money, we’ll be forced to lay off workers, and higher prices will deprive consumers of a product they might want to buy.
Watching them spar, I feel for Brennan. He’s a nice guy, overworked, and a bit out of his element. But why should he be any good at corporate communications? He is a scientist, after all, not a professional pacifier. Not only is he called upon to gather and interpret hydrogeological data, and to pursue permits to drill wells, build infrastructure, and withdraw and transport water, but he must also respond to turtle alerts and field media inquiries, and defend Nestlé in print and in person. The job is only getting tougher as the company grows more successful and opponents of water privatization more emboldened. Against the ropes, Nestlé has organized focus groups and hired the conservative pollster Frank Luntz, among other consultants, to help share—and spin—its message.
Ever since the scope of Nestlé’s activities in Fryeburg became generally known, in 2004, local residents have been trying to get a grip on what may be both a blessing and a curse. The town has collected information on its aquifer, the better to understand its resilience and potential, and it has held listening sessions, meetings, and hearings—some of them excruciating with details—to tackle the seemingly endless legal issues that crop up when others want what you’ve got. Now, two days before Fryeburg’s annual town meeting, Jim Wilfong gathers half a dozen Nestlé opponents in Howard Dearborn’s office to discuss an ordinance that, if approved by voters, would exclude new pumpers from Wards Brook and, according to this group, hand Nestlé a virtual monopoly on the aquifer’s water.
“You’ve got to feel the room, don’t lose your audience,” Wilfong advises those who plan to speak against the ordinance. “Hannah, you’ve got to say just one thing, bite your tongue, and sit down.” Hannah Warren, who is short and energetic, with a red