Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

by Sloan Wilson

  “All right, I’ll give the answer you want,” Tom said. “I’d advise him to start a national committee on mental health, or some other public-service thing, and I’d publicize hell out of it.”

  “Precisely,” Bill replied, finishing his drink and ordering another one. “You would follow the newest maxim of the public-relations boys: ‘If you want good publicity, do something good!’ It’s all very profound. Want another drink?”

  “I think I’d better stay sober,” Tom said. “And I also think there’s something wrong in your theory.”

  “You’re going to be a good public-relations man!” Bill said admiringly. “You’re defending him already!”

  “Nuts!” Tom replied. “I just want to take all the possibilities into account. You say he’s doing this because he wants publicity–yet all his life, he’s apparently detested publicity. Certainly he could have had it long before now if he’d wanted it. Why has he waited all this time, and what’s made him change?”

  “All right, all right, there may be more to all this than meets the eye,” Bill said. “Maybe he personally doesn’t want publicity. But maybe the board of directors is worried about the bad name the company’s getting by making the television shows just as bad as the radio programs. There’s been a rumor going around lately that United Broadcasting is just trying to make money and is half-hearted about improving people’s minds. One thing the company could do is actually to improve the programs, but it would be cheaper to tell all the company’s top executives, and particularly the president, to go out and acquire a reputation for doing good. After all, Hopkins will always be identified as the president of the United Broadcasting Corporation, and if he’s doing something good, and kind of intellectual, that would be about the least expensive way the company could get respectable.”

  “Maybe,” Tom said.

  “Or perhaps it’s more complicated,” Bill continued. “Hopkins has had a taste of power inside the company. Maybe he likes it and wants more. He can’t get any more inside the company. So it’s just possible that he’s made up his mind to go into politics. He’d have to do some public-service thing first–right now he’d be political poison. But after he was known all over the country as the man who started the very successful mental-health committee, who knows? You may be the first campaign man in the Hopkins-for-President drive!”

  “Haven’t we left one possibility out?” Tom asked.

  “What?”

  “That he might be sincere. That he might want to do some good. That after concentrating on his personal fortune all these years, he may have come to the point where he wants to do something for the public welfare, with no strings attached.”

  “It’s possible,” Bill said doubtfully. “But it would be awfully dull if it were true!”

  “Do you really know him?” Tom asked. “Do you really know what kind of a guy he is?”

  “Hell,” Bill said. “I’ve been working for this damn outfit for four years, and I’ve never laid eyes on the guy. There are all kinds of stories about him–they used to say he had two children and had been home twice in the last twenty years. I think his son was killed during the war–anyway, nobody talks about that any more. They say he needs less sleep than Edison did. They say he’s got his whole filing system memorized, practically, and can quote from any important letter or contract in it. Some say he’s got a little blond girl on Park Avenue. Some say he’s sleeping with some actress who flies in from Hollywood once a month. I’ve even heard it said that he’s queer. But nobody who passes that stuff around really knows him. The only people I know who actually work with him are Walker and Ogden, and of course they never talk about him. To tell the honest truth, I have no idea in the world what kind of man he is, except he must be pretty damn smart to be where he is.”

  “He ought to be interesting to work for,” Tom said.

  “Maybe,” Bill replied, “but I ought to tell you one more thing: everybody says he’s tough as hell. If you can’t do what he wants, he’ll fire you without batting an eye. I don’t know that’s true, mind you, but it’s what everybody says.”

  “Sounds fair enough, if you can do what he wants,” Tom said. “If you do it real well, is he quick with the raises?”

  “I don’t know. You’d be surprised how a company this size can pinch pennies–they even got an order out the other day cautioning us all to put our office lights out when we weren’t using them and asking us to quit stealing pencils. But I’d say it’s always a good bet to work for a man making two hundred thousand a year. At least you’ve got a long way to go before you start competing with the boss!”

  “If I can get the job, I think I’ll take it,” Tom said.

  Bill finished his drink and lit a cigarette. “If you don’t, you’re crazy,” he said.

  6

  TOM THOUGHT Betsy would be excited when she heard he had a luncheon date with the president of United Broadcasting, but as soon as he stepped into his house that night he knew something was wrong. The house looked as though a herd of wild horses had stampeded through it. Soiled laundry was scattered about the living room. In the kitchen a mixture of dirty luncheon and breakfast dishes littered the table and counters.

  “Betsy!” he called from the living room. “Where are you?”

  “Up here,” she said in a weak voice.

  He raced up the stairs and found her lying fully clothed on the bed. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I feel awful,” she replied. “It hit me right after you left this morning, but I didn’t want to call you up and bother you. Go see if the kids are all right.”

  He stepped into the room the three children shared. The beds were unmade, and a tangle of clothes and toys littered the floor. The three children were crouched over a glass of water paint. Pete was naked, and Barbara and Janey wore only underclothes. All three showed the ravages of chicken pox on both their faces and bodies, but they glanced up at Tom cheerfully.

  “Momma’s sick,” Janey said delightedly. “We’ve been taking care of her.”

  “You’re not very well yourself,” Tom said. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  “We’re painting!” Janey said indignantly.

  Tom went through some drawers and got them pajamas. He helped them put the pajamas on and tucked them into bed before returning to Betsy.

  “I went to sleep,” Betsy said. “I was trying to keep an eye on them, but I went to sleep. They’ve really been angels–I told them I wasn’t feeling well, and they’ve been talking in whispers all day.”

  Tom felt her forehead and found it was dry and hot. He searched through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and returned carrying a thermometer.

  “You’re sure that’s the one you’re supposed to put in your mouth?” Betsy asked suspiciously.

  “Sure,” he said. “Stick it under your tongue.”

  While they were waiting the required two minutes, Janey suddenly called in a loud clear voice, “Daddy, is Momma going to die?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, if she does die,” Janey continued speculatively, “who will take care of us?”

  “She’s not going to die!” Tom said.

  “But if she did . . .”

  “I’m not going to!” Betsy blurted, trying to keep her lips closed around the thermometer.

  “Anyway,” Janey said, “I guess Grandmother would take care of us, wouldn’t she?”

  “Don’t worry about me, kids,” Betsy said. “I’m going to be fine.” She held the thermometer up to the light.

  “What is it?” Tom asked.

  “A hundred and three.”

  “Have you ever had chicken pox?”

  “Oh, God!” she said. “Of course, I must have had it! All children get it!”

  “Do you remember having it?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I just assumed . . .”

  “We better call the doctor,” he said.

  He telephoned Dr. Grantland. He always disliked calli
ng him, because although Dr. Grantland was only about forty-five years old, he suffered from rheumatism and asthma, and it always seemed a shame to bother him. After the telephone had buzzed for a long while, the doctor answered wheezily.

  “Do you want me to come over?” he asked after Tom had described Betsy’s symptoms.

  “If it isn’t too much trouble,” Tom said.

  The doctor wheezed alarmingly before saying bravely, “All right, all right. I guess I can make it.”

  While they were waiting for the doctor, Tom told Betsy he had a luncheon engagement with Hopkins, “Who’s he?” she asked.

  “The president of United Broadcasting.”

  “That’s nice,” she said weakly. “Oh, Tommy, my head hurts!”

  “What are we going to have for supper?” Barbara called. “Mother just gave us soup for lunch and we’re hungry!”

  “I’ll get you supper in a few minutes,” Tom said. “The doctor is coming to see Mother.”

  “Is he going to give her a needle?” Janey asked enthusiastically.

  “I don’t know.”

  “If he does, can we watch?”

  “No!” Tom said. “You stay in bed.”

  “I can’t stand it,” Betsy said. “Chicken pox! Why didn’t I get it when I was a child?”

  “You won’t be very sick,” Tom said.

  “I will too! And I know why I didn’t get it when I was a child–because Mother took such damn good care of me. She never let me play with other children because she was afraid I’d catch something.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t watch her get the needle,” Janey called. “She always watches when the doctor gives it to us!”

  “Quiet!” Tom said. “I’m going downstairs and pick up a little before the doctor comes.”

  He threw the dirty laundry down the cellar stairs, then went to the kitchen and mixed himself a Martini. Before he had finished it, the doorbell rang, and Dr. Grantland was there.

  “Oh dear,” he said as Tom let him in, “I think this asthma of mine is getting worse every day.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Tom said. “Betsy’s upstairs. Can I carry your bag for you?”

  “No,” he said bravely. “I can manage.”

  Tom followed him upstairs. The doctor sat down on a chair beside the bed, opened his bag, and took out a nebulizer with which he sprayed his own throat. “Ah,” he said gratefully. “That certainly helps.”

  “My head hurts and I have a temperature of a hundred and three and I feel awful,” Betsy said. “Tom thinks I have chicken pox.”

  “Have you ever had it before?” the doctor asked.

  At that moment the three children came into the room, their scabbed faces wreathed in smiles. “Are you going to give her a needle?” Janey asked.

  “Heavens!” the doctor said, and started to wheeze. “You certainly have been exposed!”

  “I guess I never had chicken pox,” Betsy said grumpily. “Mother always kept me away from other children, and I never got anything.”

  “Remove your upper clothing,” the doctor said.

  “Are you going to give her a needle?” Janey repeated.

  “Go back to bed!” Betsy ordered. “This minute!”

  “I’ll stay in your room with you and tell you a story,” Tom said to the children. “Get in there now, and I’ll be right in.”

  The children withdrew to their own room. Tom ducked downstairs, grabbed his drink, and joined them.

  “Tell us about Bubbley,” Barbara said.

  Long ago he had made up a story about a little dog named Bubbley who swallowed a cake of soap and blew bubbles when he barked. Barbara always wanted it recited over and over again in precisely the same words he had used the first time.

  “There was this little dog named Bubbley,” he began wearily, after taking a long sip from his glass.

  “No!” Barbara said. “Once upon a time there was a little dog named Bubbley.”

  “All right,” he said irritably. “Don’t interrupt.”

  “Well, tell it right!” Barbara said.

  Pete, who was only four years old, looked at his father solemnly with his thumb in his mouth. “I hate the story about Bubbley,” he said quietly to himself.

  “You keep still!” Barbara said venomously to him.

  “One day he swallowed a cake of soap,” Tom said. “And ever after that . . .”

  Before he had finished the story, the door opened, and Dr. Grant-land came in. “I guess she’s got chicken pox all right,” he said. “Could you give me a glass of water?”

  “Sure,” Tom said, “but before you go, could you take a look at the kids?”

  The doctor glanced at the children with distaste. “I’m not a pediatrician,” he said.

  “I know,” Tom replied. “We had a pediatrician look at them two days ago, but I thought that since you were here . . .”

  “I only look at children in emergencies,” the doctor said. “All my patients have to be twelve years old or more.”

  “I’ll get you a glass of water,” Tom said.

  The doctor followed him downstairs. When Tom gave him a glass of water, he slipped a pill into his mouth and swallowed it.

  “Thank you,” he said gravely. “Now about Mrs. Rath. All we can do is let this thing run its course. Here are some prescriptions which will help a little, but there’s not a great deal we can do. Make sure she gets plenty of rest. She should stay in bed for a week, maybe more.”

  “I’ll try to find someone to look after the kids,” Tom said.

  Two hours later, when the children had had their supper and the house was cleaned up, Tom started telephoning to find a woman to act as housekeeper. No one he knew was available, but an elderly woman named Mrs. Manter who was recommended by a friend said that as a special favor she would come for sixty dollars a week, provided Tom would call for her in his car not earlier than nine in the morning and take her home not later than six in the afternoon. That would mean he would not be able to get to work until eleven in the morning and would have to leave the office at four o’clock in the afternoon, and it would also mean that the family budget would have to be scrapped, but there was no choice. He hoped Dick Haver wouldn’t think he was just taking it easy because he expected to get a new job.

  The next morning Mrs. Manter turned out to be a stern-faced farm woman about sixty-five years old who weighed at least two hundred pounds and had a voice without any volume control.

  “I’m awfully glad you could come,” Tom said when he picked her up. “You know how it is when the woman of a family gets sick and there are sick children to be cared for.”

  “DON’T TELL ME!” she thundered, “I HAD EIGHT KIDS MYSELF, AND ONCE WHEN THEY WAS ALL DOWN WITH MEASLES, I BROKE MY LEG!”

  “Why, that’s terrible,” Tom said.

  “MY HUSBAND WAS AWAY,” she said so loudly that he immediately made up his mind she was deaf and couldn’t hear herself.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?” he yelled.

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO SPEAK SO LOUDLY!” she shouted back. “I can hear! I just put my knee on a chair and tied it that way. Found I could get around the house quite well, dragging the chair with me.”

  Tom drove her quickly to his house, introduced her to Betsy, who looked dazed, and rushed for the train.

  7

  WHEN HE GOT TO HIS OFFICE he explained to Dick Haver why he was going to have to keep the hours of the semiretired during the next two weeks.

  “That’s all right, Tom,” Dick said pleasantly. “I understand. By the way, some of the people over at United Broadcasting called me up the other day to ask about you. Anything definite developed there yet?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind what to do,” Tom said, figuring he’d better leave an opportunity to say he didn’t want to go to United Broadcasting if Hopkins ended by not wanting to hire him.

  “We’d like to keep you here if we could,” Dick said, “but I don’t want to try to influence you too much. There are a f
ew things you might want to take into account when you make your decision, however.”

  “I certainly would appreciate any advice. . . .”

  “If you stay here, you can expect fairly steady small salary increases,” Dick said. “If you go there, you might make a great deal in a short while, and on the other hand, you might find yourself without a job. It’s extremely unlikely you’ll remain in your present financial position for long if you go to United Broadcasting–you’ll either go up or down. . . .”

  “It’s hard to figure,” Tom said tentatively.

  “I happen to know Mr. Hopkins,” Dick said.

  So they told him all about the job, Tom thought. Probably he knows more about it than I do–a whole lot more.

  “He’s a fine man,” Dick continued. “He’s one of the few authentic business geniuses in New York today. If you get a chance to work with him, it will be a great privilege.”

  “That’s what I think,” Tom said.

  “On the other hand,” Dick went on thoughtfully, “I understand that they don’t really want you to work for United Broadcasting–they want you for some private project Ralph Hopkins is dreaming up. There are some dangers for you there. . . .”

  Dick paused. “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

  “He might get sick of his project and abandon it–a man like Ralph Hopkins is always starting things, trying them out, and discarding the ones that don’t work. If that happened, he might drop you–or he might let you try out at United Broadcasting. But the important thing for you to remember is that when you start work on a private project for a man like Hopkins, you don’t have any clearly defined ladder to climb. You’re just going to have to play it by ear, hoping Hopkins will not lose interest. You won’t have any real profession–your profession will be pleasing Hopkins. And if you fail in that, the experience you’ve had with Hopkins won’t necessarily prepare you for a very good job anywhere else.”

  “I can see that,” Tom said.