Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to have to depend on somebody’s friendship. I want to feel that any time I want to quit a job, or any time my boss dies or retires, I can walk two doors down the street and get something as good or better. It’s not smart business to depend on friendship — it’s too risky.”

“What makes you think he’s hiring you because of friendship? He liked that speech you wrote. He must think that you’re simply the best man for the job.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “He’s never had a personal assistant before. And the way he was tonight — it’s hard to explain. He was trying to do something for me.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“No — I should be grateful. But I don’t know what he can do for me. For a child, yes — a man can make sure a child gets a good education, and all the rest of it. But for another man, no. After all, what could Hopkins do for me? Keep me on as a ghost writer? I’d hate that as a full-time career. There’s nothing dishonest about ghost writing, really, but the whole idea of it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like being the shadow of another man. Should I ask him to give me a top administrative job? I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it. I must be getting old or something — I’m beginning to realize my limitations. I’m not a very good administrator — not compared to guys like Hopkins and Ogden. I never will be, and the main reason is, I don’t want to be. This sounds like a silly way to put it, but I don’t think you can get to be a top administrator without working every week end for half your life, and I’d just as soon spend my week ends with you and the kids.”

“Some good administrators don’t work all the time.”

“A few — damn few. It’s the fashion nowadays for them to pretend they don’t work as hard as they do. After all, running any big outfit is incredibly hard work. You know what a good administrator has to do? He has to keep a million details in his mind all at the same time, and he has to know how to juggle people. Why do you think Hopkins is great? Mainly, it’s because he never thinks about anything but his work, day and night, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. All geniuses are like that — there’s no mystery about it. The great painters, the great composers, the great scientists, and the great businessmen — they all have the same capacity for total absorption in their work. I like Hopkins — I admire him. But even if I could, I wouldn’t want to be like him. I don’t want to get so wrapped up in a broadcasting business that I don’t care about anything else. And I’m afraid that in asking me to be his personal assistant, he’s trying to make me be like him, and I know that’s foolish. I never could do it, and I don’t want to.”

“Aren’t you making this awfully complicated?” Betsy asked. “He’s offered you a better job. Maybe a raise will go with it.”

“Maybe. But this is complicated! What it all comes down to is, what do we want? He asked me that tonight: what do I want? I tried to answer him straight, but I was too confused to think. He asked me whether money is important to me, and I said yes, but I forgot to say why. I want money to help us enjoy life, but that’s not what a guy like Hopkins wants. He doesn’t care any more about money than a good violinist does. He’s totally absorbed in his work — nothing else matters to him. You could pay him in medals or in beans, you could put him in the middle of the Sahara Desert, and he’d still find some way to go on working day and night. Something about the way he acted tonight scared me. It sounds crazy, but I think he wants to try to create me in his own image and I don’t want any part of it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Figure it out for yourself. Hopkins doesn’t need a personal assistant — he has three secretaries and Ogden and Walker helping him already, and he’s always been careful to keep his relationship with all those people anything but personal. The whole time I’ve known him, he’s never had the slightest personal interest in me. And now all of a sudden he wants me to be his personal assistant. Why?”

“Because he likes that speech you did for him,” Betsy said.

“Partly. But you know something? His daughter got married today — I read it in the paper on the way home. And his son got killed in the war — I’d heard that, and he told me about it tonight. I think the poor guy’s just lonely, and he’s trying to hire a son.”

“If that’s the way he feels, it could still be pretty good for you,” Betsy said.

“I don’t think so. When he found I couldn’t get to be like him, he might get sick of me — he might get sick of me pretty soon, anyway. You can’t tell. Playing with a guy like that is like petting a tiger — any time he wants to turn on you, he can. I don’t want to be in a position like that.”

“What are you going to do, turn him down?”

“No — that might hurt his feelings. As I say, this is like petting a tiger — you have to be awfully careful. And the funny part of it is, I’d like to be his personal assistant for three reasons: I might learn something, it would be a good recommendation for anything else I wanted to do later, and I like the guy. I think I better take the job, but I’m going to have to keep my fingers crossed — nobody can tell how it’s going to turn out. When he finds I have no idea in the world of trying to be like him, he may get mad — and then he may fire me altogether.”

AT QUARTER TO SEVEN the next morning Betsy came into the bathroom while Tom was shaving and said, “I don’t know what to do. Janey says she won’t go to school.”

“She give any reason?”

“No. She just woke up and announced that she wasn’t going. I told her that she had to, and she said she simply wouldn’t.”

“Why don’t you let her stay home a day or two,” Tom said. “At her age it wouldn’t matter.”

“If I let her stay home, Barbara will want to stay too — she’s not very happy about going herself. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to go even less than Janey does, but she’s different. She does what she thinks she has to do.”

“I’ll talk to Janey,” Tom said.

“The trouble is, I really don’t blame the child,” Betsy said. “It’s such an awful-looking school!”

Tom wiped the soap off his face and walked to the bedroom his daughters shared. Janey was sitting on her bed, still dressed in her pajamas. Her face was set in a determined expression, and her hands were folded stubbornly in her lap. On the other side of the room Barbara was slowly getting dressed. Her face looked strained.

“What’s the matter, kids?” Tom asked. “Janey, if you don’t hurry up and get dressed, you’re going to be late.”

“I’m not going to school,” Janey said.

“Why not?”

“I’m just not going.”

“You have to go,” Tom said. “There’s a law. Anyway, you wouldn’t want to grow up without knowing anything.”

“I’m not going,” Janey said. From her face he saw she was about to cry.

“Did something happen at school yesterday?”

“No.”

“Was someone cross to you?”

“No.” She paused before adding, “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“The hall.”

“The hall? What do you mean?”

Janey said nothing.

“What’s the matter with the hall?”

“Nothing,” Janey said.

“I’ll take you to school today and you can show me the hall. Will that help?”

Janey looked down at the floor, her face hopeless. She said nothing.

“School is fun when you get used to it,” Tom said hesitantly. Still Janey said nothing.