Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (31 page)

Only a few days after that he had bought a mandolin in a little music store they had happened to pass while walking home from a restaurant, and he had spent many afternoons lying in Maria’s room strumming it idly, not really trying to play it, but finding great relaxation in the feel of the smooth steel strings under his fingers. Maria had loved it–her father had played the mandolin, she had said. The mandolin had been one of the things Tom had left her, along with the jeepload of canned goods and twelve cartons of cigarettes.

Now, lying alone in his hotel room in Atlantic City, Tom involuntarily glanced at his watch, with the same old sweep hand emptily ticking off the minutes. It was just youth, he thought, and the war, which, if it did nothing else, taught the value of time. Somebody should make me and Betsy check in at a transportation desk every morning and give us just one more day–that might teach us not to waste time. How different Betsy and Maria are, he thought. Betsy’s parents had not died–instead of dying, they had retired to a modern bungalow in California, from which they sent their daughter pictures of themselves smiling and picking oranges. Nobody whom Betsy loved had ever died or left her for long. Ever since she was twelve years old, Betsy had been told she was beautiful–she did not like to hear it any more. I wonder if anyone tells Maria she is beautiful now, he thought. I wonder what kind of word Caesar will bring me about Maria after Gina writes her family in Rome. I wonder what Maria will do if Caesar tells her where I am, and that I look rich.

T
HE FIRST THING
Tom did when he got back to his office the next day was to call Hopkins on the interoffice communication box.

“Glad you’re back!” Hopkins said cheerily, as though Tom had just returned from a voyage around the world. “Have a good trip?”

“Fine,” Tom said. “Did you want to see me?”

“Yes,” Hopkins replied. “I’ll send a girl down with the latest draft of my speech for Atlantic City. Let’s have lunch tomorrow, and you can tell me what you think of it. Would one o’clock be all right?”

So that’s all he wanted, Tom thought. He said, “Fine! I’ll meet you in your office tomorrow at one.”

An hour later an exceptionally pretty office girl arrived and with a dazzling smile handed Tom a large manila envelope from Hopkins. Tom opened it and extracted the speech, which had grown and changed since he had worked on it. “It’s a real pleasure to be here this evening,” he read. “I tremendously appreciate this opportunity to discuss with this distinguished gathering what I believe to be the most crucial problem facing the world today.” Having made this point, the speech went on–in fact, it went on and on and on for thirty pages, saying over and over again in different ways that mental health is important. The last ten pages were devoted to the thought that mental-health problems affect the economy of the nation. “Our wealth depends on mental health,” this section concluded. “Yes, our wealth depends on mental health!”

Tom put the speech down, feeling slightly ill. Good Lord, he thought, they’re going to sell mental health the way they sell cigarettes! He left the speech on his desk, walked over to the window, and stared out over the city. Standing there, he shrugged his shoulders in an oddly hopeless way.

“Let’s have lunch tomorrow, and you can tell me what you think of it,” Hopkins had said.

“
Well, of course I’m just talking off the top of my head, but I think
this draft has some fine things in it, and, on the other hand, I have some reservations,
” Tom imagined himself saying. That was the way it was done–always feel the boss out to find what he thinks before committing yourself. Tell the man what he wants to hear.

“
I’m sorry, but I think this speech is absurd. It’s an endless repetition of the obvious fact that mental health is important. You’ve said that over and over again and finally turned it into a cheap advertising slogan. If you want to form a mental-health committee, why don’t you find out what needs to be done and offer to help do it?
”

A few years ago I would have said that, Tom thought. Be honest, be yourself. If the man asks you what you think of his speech, tell him. Don’t be afraid. Give him your frank opinion.

That sounds so easy when you’re young, Tom thought. It sounds so easy before you learn that your frank opinion often leads directly to the street. What if Hopkins really likes this speech?

Tom shrugged again. The thing to remember is this, he thought: Hopkins would want me to be honest. But when you come right down to it, why does he hire me? To help him do what he wants to do–obviously that’s why any man hires another. And if he finds that I disagree with everything he wants to do, what good am I to him? I should quit if I don’t like what he does, but I want to eat, and so, like a half million other guys in gray flannel suits, I’ll always pretend to agree, until I get big enough to be honest without being hurt. That’s not being crooked, it’s just being smart.

But it doesn’t make you feel very good, Tom thought. It makes you feel lousy. For the third time, he shrugged. How strangely it all works out, he thought. The pretty girl smiles as she hands me the innocuous manila envelope with the speech. I’ll go with my boss for luncheon to a nice restaurant somewhere, with music playing in the background, perhaps, and people laughing all around, and the waiters will bow, and my boss will be polite, and I’ll be tactful, and there in such delicate surroundings, I’ll not be rude enough to say a stupid speech is stupid. How smoothly one becomes, not a cheat, exactly, not really a liar, just a man who’ll say anything for pay.

Tom remained by the window a long while, looking down at the cars crawling along the streets below. It was queer to be suspended motionless so far above the city. It was almost as though his parachute had got stuck in mid-air, halfway between the plane and the ground.

That night when Tom went home he put the speech back in the manila envelope and on impulse took it with him. Betsy and the children met him at the station in South Bay. “What’s that?” Janey said, eying the big envelope. “Is it a present for us?”

“No,” Tom said, and handed the envelope to Betsy. “This is Hopkins’ speech. I’d like you to read it and tell me what you think of it. Hopkins wants me to have lunch with him and give him my opinion on it tomorrow.”

“I’ll look at it after dinner,” Betsy said, and casually put the envelope down on the front seat of the car.

“Mother has a surprise for you,” Barbara said. “She got it for you today.”

“Hush!” Betsy said. “How is it going to be a surprise if you talk about it?”

“I can hardly wait to find out what it is,” Tom said, and, realizing he had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t kissed Betsy, leaned over and patted her on the shoulder. “It’s good to get home,” he said.

She turned toward him with a quick, vivid smile. “It’s not much of a surprise, really,” she said. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

The surprise turned out to be a large leather armchair with a matching hassock for Tom to put his feet on. Betsy had put a small table by it, with a box of cigarettes, matches, and an ash tray. She had also placed an ice bucket there, two glasses, and the mixings for cocktails. “You looked so tired when you got back from Atlantic City last night,” she said. “I figured you ought to have a place where you can just sink down and rest when you get home. I’m going to try to organize things so we have a half hour of quiet before supper. Kids, go upstairs, the way you promised you would!”

Janey grinned, and with unusual obedience led the others up the stairs. “I put ginger ale up there for them,” Betsy said. “They’re going to have a quiet period in their room, while we have ours down here. We’re going to try to do it that way for a half hour every night.”

“That’s wonderful,” Tom said. “It’s a marvelous chair.” He sat down in it gratefully, put his feet up on the hassock, and lit a cigarette. Betsy mixed the cocktails and handed him one. He took a sip and said, “Did you bring that speech in from the car?”

“Yes. It’s on the hall table. Why?”

“I’m anxious to see what you think of it.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll go get it.”

She sat in a chair across the room from Tom and took the speech from the envelope. He watched her face while she read it. Her expression was serene. At first she read slowly, but soon began to flip rapidly through the pages. Tom poured himself another drink. “What do you think of it so far?” he asked.

“Did you write this?”

“I helped. Do you like it?”

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I don’t know much about the subject. My opinion wouldn’t mean much.”

“Come on. What do you think of it?”

“It’s kind of boring,” she said. “Maybe it’s just me, but I find it pretty hard to keep my mind on it. It seems to keep saying the same thing over and over again.”

Tom laughed. “Any other comments?”

“To be honest, some of it sounds pretty silly,” Betsy said. “Is this what Hopkins wanted you to write?”

“I didn’t really write it,” Tom said. “I think Ogden did most of it, or maybe Hopkins himself. And now Hopkins wants me to tell him what I think of it.”

“What are you going to say?”

Tom laughed again. “There’s a standard operating procedure for this sort of thing,” he said. “It’s a little like reading fortunes. You make a lot of highly qualified contradictory statements and keep your eyes on the man’s face to see which ones please him. That way you can feel your way along, and if you’re clever, you can always end up by telling him exactly what he wants to hear.”

“Is that what they do?” Betsy asked. She didn’t laugh.

“That’s what they do. For instance, I’ll begin by saying, ‘I think there are some
wonderful
things about this speech. . . .’ If Hopkins seems pleased, I’ll finish the sentence by saying, ‘and I have only the most minor improvements to suggest.’ But if he seems a little surprised at the word
wonderful,
I’ll end the sentence with, but as a whole, I don’t think it comes off at all, and I think major revisions are necessary.

“Is that what you’re going to do?” Betsy asked. She wasn’t even smiling.

“As I say, it’s standard operating procedure,” Tom replied. “The first thing the young executive must learn.”

“I think it’s a little sickening,” Betsy said bluntly.

“Damn it, have a sense of humor. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me. I’m just interested in knowing the answers to a few questions. What do you really think of that speech?”

“I think it’s terrible,” Tom said. “My business education, you see, is not complete. In a few years I’ll be able to suspend judgment entirely until I learn what Hopkins thinks, and then I’ll really and truly feel the way he does. That way I won’t have to be dishonest any more.”

Betsy put the speech neatly back in its envelope, handed it to Tom, and without a word went to the kitchen.

“Betsy!” he said. “Come back. I want to talk to you.”

“I’m getting dinner,” she said.

“What’s the matter? It’s not time for dinner yet.”

“I’ve got some things that have to be put on the stove.”

He went to the kitchen and found her filling a kettle with water. “You’re angry with me,” he said. “Can’t you take a joke?”

“I don’t think you were joking.”

“Of course I was. I was knocking myself out with humor.”

“What are you going to tell Hopkins tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Why’s that so important all of a sudden?”

She put the kettle on the stove and turned toward him suddenly. “I didn’t like the look of you sitting there in that big chair talking so damn smugly and cynically!” she said. “You looked disgusting! You looked like just the kind of guy you always used to hate. The guy with all the answers. The guy who has no respect for himself or anyone else!”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly. “Do you want me to go in there tomorrow and tell Hopkins I think his speech is a farce?”

“I don’t care what you tell him, but I don’t like the idea of your becoming a cheap cynical yes-man and being so self-satisfied and analytical about it. You never used to be like that.”

“All right,” Tom said. “I’ll tell him I think his speech is absurd. And he’ll decide I’m a nice honest guy who just happens to be no use to him at all.”

“How do you know? Maybe he doesn’t like the speech either.”

“Sure, it might turn out that way. I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance if I
play it straight, but if I feel my way along, I have a ninety per cent chance of giving him what he wants.”

“Maybe he just wants an honest opinion.”

“That sounds real nice,” Tom said bitterly. “You don’t know how guys like Hopkins are.”

“No, I don’t,” she said.

“You haven’t even met him.”

“No, I haven’t. What’s he ever done to convince you he’s dishonest?”

“I didn’t say he is dishonest.”

“He is if you have to agree with him all the time to keep your job.”

“That’s not true. A guy who disagreed with him most of the time simply wouldn’t be useful to him.”

“Not if you were right and he was wrong–if it were that way, you could be damn useful by disagreeing. There’s no two ways about it: either you think that he’d fire you for disagreeing, even if you were right, or you’re not sure you’re right. Either you’ve got no confidence in him, or none in yourself. Which is it?”