Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“That’s all right, Tom,” Dick said pleasantly. “I understand. By the way, some of the people over at United Broadcasting called me up the other day to ask about you. Anything definite developed there yet?”

“I haven’t made up my mind what to do,” Tom said, figuring he’d better leave an opportunity to say he didn’t want to go to United Broadcasting if Hopkins ended by not wanting to hire him.

“We’d like to keep you here if we could,” Dick said, “but I don’t want to try to influence you too much. There are a few things you might want to take into account when you make your decision, however.”

“I certainly would appreciate any advice. ”

“If you stay here, you can expect fairly steady small salary increases,” Dick said. “If you go there, you might make a great deal in a short while, and on the other hand, you might find yourself without a job. It’s extremely unlikely you’ll remain in your present financial position for long if you go to United Broadcasting — you’ll either go up or down. ”

“It’s hard to figure,” Tom said tentatively.

“I happen to know Mr. Hopkins,” Dick said.

So they told him all about the job, Tom thought. Probably he knows more about it than I do — a whole lot more.

“He’s a fine man,” Dick continued. “He’s one of the few authentic business geniuses in New York today. If you get a chance to work with him, it will be a great privilege.”

“That’s what I think,” Tom said.

“On the other hand,” Dick went on thoughtfully, “I understand that they don’t really want you to work for United Broadcasting — they want you for some private project Ralph Hopkins is dreaming up. There are some dangers for you there. ”

Dick paused. “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“He might get sick of his project and abandon it — a man like Ralph Hopkins is always starting things, trying them out, and discarding the ones that don’t work. If that happened, he might drop you — or he might let you try out at United Broadcasting. But the important thing for you to remember is that when you start work on a private project for a man like Hopkins, you don’t have any clearly defined ladder to climb. You’re just going to have to play it by ear, hoping Hopkins will not lose interest. You won’t have any real profession — your profession will be pleasing Hopkins. And if you fail in that, the experience you’ve had with Hopkins won’t necessarily prepare you for a very good job anywhere else.”

“I can see that,” Tom said.

“What I’m trying to say,” Dick continued, “is that working for Great Men is a profession in itself, and the trouble is that when you’re through with one Great Man, you can’t always find another.”

He’s making it sound as though I’m going to be a professional toady, Tom thought. He’s trying to persuade me not to go. He said nothing.

“I think I ought to add,” Dick said, “that when you leave, if you leave, we’ll have to replace you, and it might not be possible for us to find a position here for you if you returned to look for a job.”

“Of course,” Tom said.

Dick smiled. “Make your own decision,” he said. “Whatever you do, I wish you luck.”

Tom thanked him and went to his own desk. If he had really wanted to keep me he could have offered me a big raise, but that would have encouraged everybody else to threaten to leave, he thought. He couldn’t do that. Or, if he wanted to keep me, all he would have to do would be to give me a bad reference. He could do it over the telephone and I’d never know about it, but Dick would never even think of that. The union of bosses is powerful, but, within its self-prescribed limits, marvelously scrupulous. Tom glanced at his watch and saw it was almost time for lunch. On his desk was a long report from a college trying to explain what it had done with a half-million-dollar grant the Schanenhauser Foundation had given it a year ago. Tom started to read it. He decided he wouldn’t go to lunch. He worked right through the day, unobtrusively making sure that Dick Haver knew it.

When Tom got back to Westport that night he found the house spotless, and an enormous steak dinner in the oven awaiting him.

“THERE’S AN APPLE PIE IN THE BREAD BOX,” Mrs. Manter shouted. “THE CHILDREN HAVE ET THEIR SUPPER AND ARE IN BED.”

“Fine,” Tom said. “How is everybody?”

“YOUR WIFE’S NOT REALLY SICK AT ALL,” Mrs. Manter said, “TAKE ME HOME NOW — IT’S ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK.”

Before taking her home, Tom ran up the stairs to see Betsy, who was lying on a neatly made bed looking wilted. “How are you?” he asked.

“Exhausted,” she said. “Just watching that woman makes me exhausted. Do you know what she did? She washed clothes by hand in the bathtub, and she scrubbed all the woodwork in the kitchen. She mowed the lawn. She made cookies. And the children mind her like trained seals. She tells them to keep quiet and they don’t say a word.”

“Maybe we can learn something,” Tom said.

“The children are in their room now keeping quiet.”

“I’ll take her home,” Tom said. “Can you manage till I get back?”

“I won’t tell the children she’s gone,” Betsy said weakly.

At seven the next morning Tom awoke with the knowledge that he had to prepare breakfast for the children, get Mrs. Manter, and go into New York to have lunch with the president of the United Broadcasting Corporation. He was dismayed to find that no freshly pressed suit was in his closet, and that the one shirt in his drawer which didn’t have a frayed collar lacked two buttons.

“Betsy!” he said. “I can’t go in to see Hopkins looking like a bum!”

“I forgot!” Betsy replied. “I was supposed to pick up your things at the cleaners the day before yesterday. So much has been going on!”

“What will I do?”

“Go down and get breakfast,” Betsy said. “I’ll be pressing your gray flannel suit and sewing on buttons.”

“Are you strong enough?”

Betsy struggled out of bed. “You don’t have to be very strong to lift a button,” she said.

Dressed only in his shoes, socks, and underpants, Tom went to the kitchen and fried eggs. The children, feeling much better in spite of the fact that their faces had not yet healed, insisted on having breakfast in the kitchen, instead of in bed. Tom remembered the formal breakfasts his grandmother’s butler had served during his own childhood, with silver covers on dishes of eggs and sausage, and, seeing himself in his underwear serving his children, he thought, Things sure are different for them — one thing they won’t have to get over is gracious living.

By the time he was dressed, Tom found himself surprisingly nervous at the prospect of meeting Hopkins. He felt almost the way he had before combat jumps during the war. “Wish me luck,” he said to Betsy, after he had delivered Mrs. Manter and was leaving to catch his train.

“You’ll get the job,” Betsy said confidently.

That was the way she always was. During the war, he was sure, she had never worried about him — she was perfectly confident that he’d come back unhurt. Her confident letters, which sometimes had arrived when he was certain he would never survive the next jump, had made him acutely lonely, and he felt the same way now as he bent over and kissed her.

There’s no damn reason in the world to be nervous, he thought, later in the morning, as he walked toward the United Broadcasting building. After all I’ve been through, why should I be nervous now? He wondered what Hopkins was like. What did a man have to be like to make so damn much money? It’s never just luck that lets them make it, he thought, and it isn’t just who they know — I won’t let myself fall into the trap of thinking that. Hopkins has got something, something special, or he wouldn’t be making two hundred thousand a year. What is it?