Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

I shouldn’t get excited, he thought. It doesn’t really matter. Here goes nothing. It will be interesting to see what happens.

Maybe it will turn out all right, he thought; maybe it really will. Betsy says you have to believe everything will turn out all right, even if it doesn’t. You can’t go on worrying all the time; it has to stop someday. You can’t really believe the world is insane; you have to believe everything’s going to turn out all right. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. I shall grow old gracefully, and my children will all grow up happily and healthily, and everything’s going to be fine; it is ridiculous that optimism should always sound false.

He wondered suddenly whether the young German in the leather jacket who had stood negligently holding his rifle and coughing had been an optimist. And he wondered whether the girl or woman who had written the man in the leather jacket the letter on thin, blue, faintly scented stationery had had faith that everything was going to turn out all right. And how about the other men he had killed? How about the man who had run zigzagging across the beach, while Tom moved the machine gun up on him, the bullets kicking up the sand behind him, until the man had sagged with the blood pouring out of his mouth like a long tongue? Had he had faith? In what? And how about Mahoney? And Maria, who right now, perhaps, might be trying to raise her son alone?

Maybe they had no faith, Tom thought. Maybe they were like me, always expecting disaster, surprised only when it doesn’t hit. Maybe we are all, the killers and the killed, equally damned; not guilty, not somehow made wise by war, not heroes, just men who are either dead or convinced that the world is insane.

He felt someone pulling his trouser leg and looked down. Janey was there, telling him that lunch was ready. She had a worried expression on her face. Her hand was soft as a dove in his as he led her into the house.

THE IMPORTANT THING is to make money, Tom thought as he took the train into New York on the following Monday. The important thing is to create an island of order in a sea of chaos — somebody very bright had said that, somebody whose name he had forgotten, but whose writings he had studied at college. And an island of order obviously must be made of money, for one doesn’t bring up children in an orderly way without money, and one doesn’t even have one’s meals in an orderly way, or dress in an orderly way, or think in an orderly way without money. Money is the root of all order, he told himself, and the only trouble with it is, it’s so damn hard to get, especially when one has a job which consists of sitting behind a desk all day doing absolutely nothing.

On his way up to his office in the elevator that morning, he did not see Caesar — he was grateful for that. And he hadn’t been sitting behind his desk doing nothing for more than fifteen minutes when the interoffice communication box crackled and buzzed. He switched it on.

“Rath?” Ogden’s voice whispered hoarsely.

Tom turned up the volume control. “Good morning,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you fly down to Atlantic City this afternoon — the Stockton House Hotel? I’ve just heard that the place is filling up with conventions, and I want to make sure we have the proper accommodations for Mr. Hopkins on the fifteenth.”

“Sure I can go,” Tom said. He was so grateful to be given something to do that his voice sounded ridiculously eager.

“I want you to make all the arrangements, both for the rooms and the speech. Check the speaker’s platform. Find out just what room his speech is scheduled for, exactly where it is, and what door he should enter.”

“I will!” Tom said. He found himself speaking with exclamation points, like Ralph Hopkins.

“Check the amplifying equipment, and if it isn’t good, make the hotel fix it. Be sure there’s a lectern — Mr. Hopkins likes to stand behind a lectern with enough space on it to open a ten-by-twelve-inch notebook. Are you taking notes?”

“Right!” said Tom, scribbling furiously.

“He likes the lectern four feet five inches from the floor,” Ogden continued, “and he likes the mike the same height, to the right of the lectern, not in front of it. There will be only the mike for the loudspeaker — this won’t be broadcast.”

Tom was not surprised at that. For the president of a broadcasting company to have his speech broadcast, even if he wanted maximum publicity, would be shooting fish in a barrel. The executives of broadcasting companies yearn for space in magazines and newspapers, and the publishers of magazines and newspapers yearn for radio and television coverage.

“I’ve got it,” Tom said.

“Now about his rooms. Get a suite of three. He likes a hard mattress. Try out the mattress — he hates a soft one.”

“Right,” Tom said.

“But it shouldn’t be lumpy. Don’t hesitate to make the hotel get you a good one — hard but smooth.”

“Check,” Tom said.

“Immediately after the speech, a bartender should be on duty in the living room of Mr. Hopkins’ suite, and he should be equipped to serve fifty people anything they want. He should remain on duty for the rest of the evening if necessary.”

“Got it,” Tom said.

“Now about flowers. Mr. Hopkins sometimes gets hay fever, so be sure there’s no goldenrod or anything like that around — sometimes they put it in fall decorations. And he detests chrysanthemums. He likes roses — long-stemmed roses. Be sure there are several dozen around his rooms.”

“Right,” Tom said.

“And be sure he gets a good bedroom suite. Mr. Hopkins’ rooms all should be facing the sea. Three rooms, with the living room big enough to hold fifty people comfortably — he detests crowded rooms. We’ll also need single rooms for you, me, and Miss MacDonald on the same floor, all reserved for September 15th.”

“Fine,” Tom said.

“Another thing. Mr. Hopkins will want an electric refrigerator and a few bottles of Scotch in his bedroom. He doesn’t like to have to keep calling room service.”

“I’ve got it,” Tom said.

“There should be a large-screen television set and a radio in his bedroom.”

“I’ll get them.”

“We’ll want a man with a wire recorder to record Mr. Hopkins’ speech — he likes to hear it played back.”

“Will do.”

“Make sure the local press is alerted. Our public-relations department will be sending them advance releases, but it helps to drop in and chat with them.”

“I’ll do it,” Tom said.

“I guess that’s about all — in general, make sure everything’s set for Mr. Hopkins. Call me when you get back. Tell the travel department to get you a plane ticket.”

Before Tom could say “Right” again, Ogden snapped off his voice box. Tom started to telephone Betsy to say he wouldn’t be home that night, but before he got the call through, the voice box sputtered again. This time it was Hopkins. “Tom,” he said, “could you come up to the apartment for dinner tonight?”

“Bill Ogden just asked me to go to Atlantic City to arrange hotel accommodations for your speech,” Tom said.

“Oh, fine, but see me when you get back, will you?”

“Sure,” Tom said, hoping Hopkins would tell him what he wanted. Instead, Hopkins said cheerily, “Have a good trip,” and the voice box was silent.

That afternoon Tom boarded a plane and sat down in one of the comfortably upholstered seats. As the plane gunned its engines and began the familiar headlong, all or nothing, rush down the runway, he fastened his safety belt and leaned back, still wondering what Hopkins wanted to see him about. Anyway, I won’t have to jump this time, he thought — this time I’m on my way to test a mattress and arrange for long-stemmed roses. He started to laugh. I’ll get roses with the longest god-damn stems in the whole world, he thought.