Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“Were you in the war?”

“Yes.”

“Back in the First World War, I was a lieutenant, but I never got overseas. The war ended about two days after I got my commission.”

“You were lucky.”

“I guess I was,” Hopkins said.

Tom sipped his drink. He was tense and wary, terribly conscious that it was important for Hopkins to like him.

“How did you happen to get interested in working on this mental-health project?” Hopkins asked abruptly.

Tom started to say, “I’ve always been interested in mental health,” but he remembered how ridiculous that had sounded the last time he said it. I made up my mind I was going to play it straight with him, he thought, and I will. Aloud he said, “I was working over at the Schanenhauser Foundation. I needed more money, and a friend told me there was an opening in your public-relations department. I applied for it, and Mr. Walker steered me into this.”

“That’s the way I got started in radio,” Hopkins said. “After I got out of the Army, I worked a few years for a brokerage house, and I hated it. A friend told me a magazine was hiring people. I walked over there, and they didn’t have a place for me, but the personnel man said a new broadcasting company was being started in the same building. I walked in and was hired.”

There was a pause. “When I was a boy, I wanted to be an actor,” Hopkins continued, “a Shakespearean actor. That was my ambition for about five years. I used to try out for all the high-school plays, but I wasn’t much good, and they always got me to be stage manager.”

“I don’t think I ever knew what I wanted to be,” Tom replied.

“I wonder whether this mental-health project is right for you,” Hopkins said contemplatively. “I think you have a lot of capabilities. You look at things straight — I like the way you brought that speech down to the ground. And you’re at an important stage of your career. How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“That’s an important age. In the next six or seven years, you should really be on your way.”

“Do you think there will be many opportunities with the mental-health committee?”

“Yes — of a kind. Of course, there’s always a limit to that sort of thing. Organizations which don’t make money never pay much, and the top planning is done by volunteers. There’s a limit to how far you can go as a staff member on that sort of thing.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know,” Hopkins said thoughtfully. “It depends on what you want, I guess. Is money important to you?”

“Yes.”

“I could look around the company and see if I could find a spot for you.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Tom said. Under Hopkins’ kindly but steady gaze he felt as tense as though he were waiting for a parachute jump.

“The business world is different than it was when I was young,” Hopkins said. “It’s tougher and more competitive.”

“I guess it is.”

“A young man has to get started right. The ideal thing is to find a job which always expects a little more than you can deliver, but not so much that you get snowed under. A job should always keep you straining at the limits of your abilities. That’s the way men learn.”

“I guess it is,” Tom repeated.

“How do you assess your own abilities? What do you like best? If you could choose any branch of the business, what would you take?”

There was a pause while Tom wondered whether honesty should be pushed to the point of self-depreciation. I can’t fool him, he thought — he’s not a guy who can be fooled. I’d better go on telling him the truth. “I don’t know what my abilities are,” he said. “I’d like to find out. I’m afraid that the branches of the broadcasting business I’d really enjoy are probably the ones I know least about, and if I got into them, I might not like them as much as I think.”

“What are they?”

“I’d like to analyze the news,” Tom said, entirely to his own astonishment. “I’d like to study the news and give my views on it. I know I don’t have any qualifications at all for that kind of job.”

Hopkins smiled wryly. “That’s like me wanting to be an actor,” he said. “If you wanted to be a news commentator, I’m afraid you’d probably have to put in a long apprenticeship on a newspaper, and there might be a good deal of voice training involved. There aren’t many jobs for news commentators — there are at least a hundred applicants for every opening.”

“I know,” Tom said, “but you asked me what I’d really like, and that came into my mind. It’s not a thing I’ve thought about. To tell you the truth, I’ve always just gone along taking what I could get.”

“If you really wanted to broadcast news, and were willing to devote the time and effort to it, you probably could,” Hopkins said. “I’m afraid the job isn’t as good as you think it is. It pays comparatively little, and unless you’re something special, it’s pretty routine.”

“I know,” Tom said. “With me, it’s probably just a case of far fields looking greener.”

There was a pause, during which Tom regretted his frankness. I’ve made a fool of myself, he thought. I should have told him what I really want to be is a good administrator. That’s a field in which he could really help me. Hopkins’ eyes were still upon him. It was disturbing, that steady, unabashed gaze, the eyes tired, the whole face exhausted, yet so curiously intense and kind.

“How would you like to be my personal assistant?” Hopkins asked suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean, not just on this mental-health thing — someone to help me with everything I do. I don’t really have a personal assistant. Walker is in public relations, and Ogden is going to be a vice-president before long. I’ve never had a personal assistant — I’ve never wanted one. But I like the honesty of your approach, and it strikes me that you might be able to help out in many ways. The job would give you a chance to watch lots of operations in the company and see what you’re best fitted for. Who knows? Maybe you could learn something.” These last words were said with an attempt at jocosity and self-disparagement which was utterly unlike Hopkins. Seeming ill at ease, he got up and poured himself another drink.

“I’m sure I could learn a lot,” Tom said. “It would be a great opportunity.”

Hopkins stood with his back toward him, putting ice in his glass. When he turned around, his briskness had returned, and he seemed his old self again. “I’ll talk to Bill Ogden about it in the morning,” he said. “We’ll see what we can work out. I’m afraid it’s getting late — your wife will be angry at me. Thanks for coming up. It’s so nice of you to give up your evening.”

When Tom got to Grand Central Station that night, he bought a paper to read on the train home. On the front page he saw a story about the marriage of Susan Hopkins to Byron Holgate, whose age was given as forty-eight, but who, in an accompanying photograph, looked much older. After reading the article, Tom folded the paper and sat thinking about Hopkins all the way home to South Bay. When he got to his house, he found Betsy waiting up for him. “Hopkins wants me to leave the mental-health committee and become his personal assistant,” he said.

“Why, that’s wonderful,” she replied. “What a marvelous opportunity! It must mean he likes you.”

“I guess it does.”

“You don’t sound very excited about it.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I’m trying to figure it out. It is a marvelous opportunity — there’s no doubt about that. But I’m not sure I want to be given a job simply because a man likes me. I’m not sure it’s good business.”