Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

Tom sat next to Hopkins. Even before the plane took off, Hopkins opened his briefcase, took out a thick report in pale-blue covers, and started to read. When the plane’s engines roared, and they taxied toward the runway, he glanced up briefly. “This might interest you, Tom,” he said, leaned over, and took another report from his briefcase. “This is something Bill Ogden roughed out. on our plan for a subsidiary company to put programs on film — it’s still just in the tentative planning stage, of course.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, accepting the document. As the plane rushed down the runway and lunged into the air, he opened the report. “On the basis of all available data, which is as yet incomplete, there might be considerable advantage in organizing an affiliated company, rather than trying to do the job directly ourselves,” he read. He glanced out the window of the plane. Already they were at an altitude of about a thousand feet. He flexed his shoulder muscles, unconsciously trying to see if the parachute harness were strapped tight enough, then realized what he was doing, and smiled at himself. Sitting back, he tried to concentrate on Ogden’s report.

After reading for two hours, Hopkins placed his briefcase on his lap and started writing memoranda with a pencil. He worked steadily throughout the long trip. When the plane finally landed in Hollywood, Tom felt tired, but Hopkins seemed energetic as ever. “We’re right on time,” he said with satisfaction, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go to the hotel and wash up. Then we’ve got some meetings scheduled.”

At the hotel a suite of large rooms had been reserved for Hopkins with an adjoining private room and bath for Tom. It was late, but Hopkins didn’t mention dinner. They left their bags and hurried to the executive offices of the United Broadcasting Corporation’s Hollywood building. Hopkins introduced Tom to a succession of men, all of whom talked fast and with apparent urgency about matters Tom could hardly understand at all. He was glad when they went into a private dining room adjoining one of the offices and sat down around a long table. In all, there were eight men present, and they all kept talking to Hopkins at once. A pretty waitress brought cocktails.

“I’ll tell you, Ralph,” a tall but rather paunchy man with the oddly apt name of Potkin said. “Like it or not, live shows are going out. In another ten years, the whole television business will be right here. You ought to be thinking in terms of moving your whole operation. If you don’t, it’s not going to be long before the tail out here starts wagging the dog in New York.”

“I’m not convinced of that yet,” Hopkins said. “And that’s not the only consideration involved in setting up a subsidiary company. There are some legal angles to this. ”

On and on the conversation went. It was nine o’clock in the evening before it was over. “Come on over to my house for a drink,” Potkin said.

“No,” Hopkins replied. “I’m a little tired. I think I’d better go back to the hotel and get some rest. Want to come, Tom?”

“Sure,” Tom said.

A taxi took them to the hotel. In the elevator Hopkins said, “Want to stop in for a nightcap before you turn in?”

“That would be fine,” Tom replied.

When they entered Hopkins’ suite, Tom saw that someone in the company’s Hollywood office had made all the arrangements he had made at Atlantic City the month before. On a table was a large vase of long-stemmed roses, and in the bedroom was an electric refrigerator and a cabinet holding a small bar. Tom suspected suddenly that Hopkins had never asked for such elaborate fixings, that they were all the idea of Ogden or someone else trying to please him, and that Hopkins was simply too polite to object. He wished he could find out, but there didn’t seem to be any way to ask. Hopkins fixed two glasses of bourbon on the rocks and sprawled out on a sofa the way he had the night he and Tom had talked in his apartment. To his increasing discomfort, Tom found that Hopkins was staring at him again. There was the same mixture of tiredness and kindness on his face, the same steady gaze. Tom sipped his drink nervously.

“Well, what do you think?” Hopkins asked suddenly.

“About what?”

“About this whole operation we’ve been talking about. Do you think we ought to set up a separate but affiliated organization?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “There’s so much involved. ”

“Of course — we can’t make a decision yet. How would you like to move out here and work on this end of things for a year or so?”

“What?” Tom asked in astonishment.

“You could work with Potkin. He’s right about one thing — this end of the business is going to get increasingly important. If you put in a year or two on it, I think you might pick up a lot that would be useful when you came back to New York.”

Several thoughts immediately flamed up in Tom’s mind. This is his way of getting rid of me, he suddenly knew — this personal assistant business is making him as uncomfortable as it’s made me. But he’s still trying to do something for me — now he just wants to do it at a distance, by remote control. It’s a great opportunity, he thought, but what would happen to our housing project? He was suddenly filled with the confusion of moving, putting his grandmother’s house on the market to sell the quickest way possible, and looking for a place to live in Hollywood. Out of this welter of impressions came one word: no. He didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Gosh, that’s a pretty big step. ”

“Don’t you like the idea?”

Wait a minute, Tom thought. If I say no, he’s going to wonder what the devil to do with me in New York. I’ll be upsetting his whole scheme. If I buck him, he’s liable to turn on me. This is like petting a tiger. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “I’d like to have a little time to think it over.”

“Don’t you want to learn the business?” Hopkins asked quietly, but with obvious import.

“Of course. ” Tom began. Then he paused and took a sip of his drink. The hell with it, he thought. There’s no point in pretending. I’ve played it straight with him so far, and I might as well keep on. Anyway, he’s a guy who can’t be fooled. He glanced up and saw that Hopkins was smiling at him with great friendliness. Here goes nothing, Tom thought, and the words came with a rush. “Look, Ralph,” he said, using the first name unconsciously, “I don’t think I do want to learn the business. I don’t think I’m the kind of guy who should try to be a big executive. I’ll say it frankly: I don’t think I have the willingness to make the sacrifices. I don’t want to give up the time. I’m trying to be honest about this. I want the money. Nobody likes money better than I do. But I’m just not the kind of guy who can work evenings and week ends and all the rest of it forever. I guess there’s even more to it than that. I’m not the kind of person who can get all wrapped up in a job — I can’t get myself convinced that my work is the most important thing in the world. I’ve been through one war. Maybe another one’s coming. If one is, I want to be able to look back and figure I spent the time between wars with my family, the way it should have been spent. Regardless of war, I want to get the most out of the years I’ve got left. Maybe that sounds silly. It’s just that if I have to bury myself in a job every minute of my life, I don’t see any point to it. And I know that to do the kind of job you want me to do, I’d have to be willing to bury myself in it, and, well, I just don’t want to.”

He paused, out of breath, half afraid to look at Hopkins. And then it happened — Hopkins gave a funny, high, indescribable little laugh which rose in the air and was cut off immediately. It was a laugh Tom never forgot, and it was followed by a moment of complete silence. Then Hopkins said in a low voice, “I’m glad you’re honest. I’ve always appreciated that quality in you.”