Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“I don’t doubt it,” Tom said. “I just don’t want to have to commit myself tonight.”

“You wouldn’t take my ideas and go to a big outfit with them, would you?”

“I don’t plan to, but I don’t want to commit myself,” Tom said. “There are a lot of wrinkles to be ironed out of your ideas yet. Do you really think we can make a profit of ten thousand dollars on each house and quarter-acre lot?”

“Maybe — and what if we only make half that? Would that be so bad?”

“No, but how are you going to pay interest on a hundred thousand dollars while we’re building? And there’ll be taxes. It might be a year before we had anything to sell. We’d be operating on an awfully slim margin.”

“Hell, we can borrow a hundred and ten thousand and use ten of it to pay the interest and taxes — that would last us almost two years!”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “You make it sound awfully easy. What if you run into unexpected delays? What if you can’t get your materials on time, or a storm washes us out when everything’s half done, and what if a depression sets in, and we can’t sell our houses when we finish them? This might be an easy way to make a pile, but it’s also an easy way to go bankrupt!”

“Tom always looks at the dark side of everything!” Betsy said impatiently. “Tommy, sometimes I think you just look for reasons why nothing can ever get done.”

“You got to gamble,” Bugala said. “Hell, everything’s a gamble! It’s the guys who take the chances who make the dough! If I hadn’t been willing to gamble, I’d still be on a pick and shovel gang!”

“I’m willing to gamble,” Tom said. “I just want to make sure we’ve got the odds on our side.”

Bugala laughed and stood up. “We’ll make it work!” he said confidently. “Get in touch with me after you’ve talked to Judge Bernstein about the zoning.”

The next morning on the way to the train, Tom asked Betsy to circle around by the waterfront, where the old yacht club had been, so he could look at the house Hopkins had built. Involuntarily, Betsy stepped on the brakes when they saw it. Hopkins’ house was low, long and enormous. The old yacht club wharf had been removed, and in its place was a carefully buttressed sea wall and an elaborate artificial harbor, in which a tall white yawl was anchored. One wing of the house reached out over the edge of the harbor. At least twelve acres of green lawn separated the house from the road. Betsy whistled. “You mean you work for that guy?” she said.

THAT SAME MORNING Ralph Hopkins awoke in his Park Avenue apartment at precisely seven o’clock. He had been working on his speech about mental health until after midnight, and as soon as he opened his eyes, his thoughts were full of it again. The latest draft written by Ogden wasn’t right, and Hopkins was beginning to wonder whether he was ever going to be able to devise a speech on mental health he wanted to give. Maybe the whole idea of starting a mental-health committee was a mistake. Glancing at his wrist watch, he saw it was quarter after seven. No time to worry about the speech now, he thought — there was a busy day ahead. He jumped lightly out of bed, stepped briskly across his small, simply furnished bedroom, and slid open a door leading to a large tiled shower room. Stripping off his white silk pajamas, he stepped into a booth and pulled a curtain. He turned an elaborate chromium dial on the wall in front of him, and hot water shot against him at a high velocity from a dozen nozzles placed in the booth above and on all sides of him. Gradually Hopkins turned the dial until the water was lukewarm — the doctor had forbidden him to take cold showers. He stood there in the lukewarm water for thirty seconds before turning the shower off and stepped out of the booth. From a special slot in the wall he drew an enormous, warm turkish towel. Wrapping himself in this, he walked to the other side of the room and stepped on a set of scales which had been built into the floor. He weighed a hundred and thirty-eight pounds, including the towel. That was three pounds too much, he figured, and made a mental note to cut down on his eating. It was stupid to get fat, he thought — half his friends were eating themselves into their graves.

After he had brushed his teeth and shaved, Hopkins went into his dressing room, where his valet had laid out his clothes. The valet was not there — Hopkins liked to have his clothes laid out for him, but hated to have people fussing about him. He dressed himself.

At quarter to eight Hopkins walked downstairs to the living room of his apartment, just as his personal secretary, Miss MacDonald, the elderly gray-haired woman Tom had observed in Hopkins’ outer office, was arriving. She always began her working day at a quarter to eight in Hopkins’ apartment and went to the office with him.

“Good morning, Miss MacDonald,” he said cheerily. “What have you got on the docket for me today?”

“Mr. Albert Pierce is coming in to have breakfast with you,” she said. “Mr. Pierce owns three television stations in Texas and two in Oklahoma. He has some programming suggestions he wants to discuss with you — remember his letters?”

“Yes,” Hopkins said.

The breakfast business appointment was routine; it had been routine for ten years. So many people wanted to see Hopkins that it was necessary to fit them in wherever possible. First there were all the people who wanted to see him on company business — production people, research men, the top entertainers who had to be flattered, advertising executives with big contracts, the owners of affiliated stations, promotion men, publicity experts, sponsors, writers who were great artists and had never written for television, but now were going to. There were also bankers, real-estate men, investment experts, and lawyers who, under Hopkins’ guidance, administered the holdings of the United Broadcasting Corporation. And in addition to all these people who wanted to see Hopkins, there were executives of the many corporations of which he was a director, and the men and women connected with the good works of which he was a trustee. Hopkins was a trustee of two universities, five hospitals, three public libraries, one fund for orphaned children, two foundations for the advancement of the arts and sciences, a home for the blind, a haven for crippled children, and a snug harbor for retired seamen. In addition to that, he was a member of committees and commissions studying, variously, conditions in South India, Public Health in the United States, Racial Segregation, Higher Standards for Advertising, the Parking Problem in New York City, Farm Subsidies, Safety on the Highways, Freedom of the Press, Atomic Energy, the House Rules of the City Club, and a Code of Decency for Comic Books.

“After Mr. Pierce, Dr. Andrews is coming up — it’s time for your quarterly check-up,” Miss MacDonald said.

Hopkins frowned slightly. It was only common sense to have a quarterly check-up, but he detested it. “All right, what next?” he asked.

“Because of Dr. Andrews, I haven’t scheduled you for anything at the office before ten o’clock this morning. At that time Mr. Hebbard wants a conference with you — he’s got some new cost estimates and time schedules. At eleven there’s a board meeting, lasting through lunch. ”

She was interrupted by the doorbell. Hopkins opened the door. Albert Pierce, a large potbellied man wearing a wide cream-colored sombrero, walked in.

“Hello!” Hopkins said, shaking his hand heartily. “So good of you to come so early. I had hoped to have lunch with you, but my board is meeting today, and you know how it is! I certainly appreciate this chance to see you!”

The big man beamed. “Right nice of you to put yourself out for me!” he said.