Something Happened (8 page)

“What am I supposed to do?”

“The things you’re supposed to do. Stop trying to be such a good guy to all the people who work for you. You ain’t succeeding, and nobody wants you to be. You’re a member of management now. Your sales force is your enemy, not your buddy, and you’re supposed to be theirs and drive them like slaves. Brown is right.”

“I don’t like Brown.”

“He knows his business. Make Ed Phelps retire.”

“No.”

“That’s what Horace White wants you to do.”

“Phelps is an old man now. He wants to stay.”

“That’s why you have to force him out.”

“His son was divorced last year. His daughter-in-law just took his granddaughter away to Seattle. He might never see the little girl again.”

“That’s all very sad.”

“How much does it cost the company to keep him on, even if he doesn’t do anything?”

“Very little.”

“Then why should I make him retire?”

(Kagle is right, here, and I like him enormously for his determination to let Phelps stay. Phelps is old and will soon be dead, anyway, or too sick to continue.)

“Because he’s past the official retirement age. And Horace White wants you to.”

“I don’t like Horace White.” Kagle observes softly, irrelevantly. “And he doesn’t like me.”

“He knows his business also,” I point out.

“How can I tell it to Ed Phelps?” Kagle wants to know. “What could I say to him? Will you do it for me? It’s not so easy, is it?”

“Get Brown to do it,” I suggest.

“No.”

“It’s part of
your
job, not mine.”

“But it’s not so easy, is it?”

“That’s why they pay you so much.”

“I don’t get so much,” he digresses almost automatically, “what with taxes and all.”

“Yes, you do. And stop traveling all the time. Nobody likes that. What the hell were you doing in Denver all this week when there’s nothing going on there and you’re supposed to be here organizing the next convention and working on your sales projections?”

“I’ve got Ed Phelps working on the convention.”

“A lot he’ll do.”

“And my sales projections are always wrong.”

“So what? At least they’re done.”

“What else?”

“Play more golf. Talk to Red Parker and buy a blue blazer. Buy better suits. Wear a jacket in the office and keep your shirt collar buttoned and your necktie up tight around your neck where it belongs. Jesus, look at you right now. You’re supposed to be a distinguished white-collar executive.”

“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” he jokes.

“Don’t you.”

“I’ve got a good sales record,” he argues.

“Have you got a good sports jacket,” I demand.

“Jesus Christ, what does a good sports jacket matter?”

“More than your good sales record. Nobody wears jackets with round leather patches on the elbows to the office, unless it’s on a weekend. Get black shoes for your blue and gray suits. And stop driving into the city in your station wagon.”

“Okay,” he gives in with a gloomy, chastised smile and exhales a long, low whistle of mock surprise and resignation. “You win.” He gets up slowly and moves toward the coat rack in the corner of his office for his jacket. “I promise. I’ll get a blue blazer.”

It will be too big—I can see it in advance—and
hang over his shoulders and sag sloppily around his chest, and he will probably get his worsted blue blazer just about the time the rest of us have switched to mohair or shantung or back to madras, plaids, and seersucker. It is already too late for him, I suspect; I suspect it is no longer in his power (if it ever was in his power) to change himself to everyone’s satisfaction. For the moment, though (while I am still with him), he makes an effort: he buttons his shirt collar, and slides tight to his neck the knot of his tie, and puts on his jacket. It is a terrible jacket of coarse, imitation tweed, with oval suede patches at the elbows.

“Better?” he wants to know.

“Not much.”

“I’ll throw out these brown shoes.”

“That will help.”

“How’s Green treating you these days?” he asks casually.

“Pretty good,” I reply. “Why?”

“If you were in my department,” he offers with a cagey, more confident air, and the beginnings of a mischievous smile, “I would let you make as many speeches as you want to at the next convention. The salesmen are always very interested in the work you’re doing for them and what you have to say.”

“So long,” I answer. “I’ll see you around.”

We both laugh, because we each know what the other wants and where the fears and sore spots are. Kagle knows I want to keep my job and be allowed to make a speech at the next company convention. (God dammit—it would be an honor and an act of recognition, even if it is only three minutes, and I’ve earned it and I want it, and that’s all!) And I know that Kagle wants my help in defending himself against Green (and Brown) (and Black) (and White) (and Arthur Baron, as well).

“You’ll let me know if you do hear anything, won’t you?” he asks, as we walk to the door.

“Of course I will,” I assure him.

“But don’t ask questions,” he cautions with a dark, moody snicker. “You might give them the idea.”

We laugh.

And we are both still chuckling when Kagle opens the door of his office and we find my secretary outside talking to his secretary.

“Oh, Mr. Slocum,” she sings out cheerily, because that is her way, and I wish I were rid of her. “Mr. Baron wants to see you right away.”

Kagle pulls me to the side. “What does he want?” he asks with alarm.

“How should I know?”

“Go see him.”

“What did you think I was going to do?”

“And come and tell me if he says anything about getting rid of me.”

“Sure.”

“You will, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. For Christ sakes, Andy, can’t you trust me?”

“Where are
you
going?” Green wants to know, as I pass him in the corridor on my way to Arthur Baron’s office.

“Arthur Baron wants to see me.”

Green skids to a stop with a horrified glare; and it’s all I can do not to laugh in his face.

“What does he want with
you
?” Green wants to know.

“I haven’t any idea.”

“You’d better go see him.”

“I thought of doing that.”

“Don’t be so God-damned sarcastic,” Green snaps back at me angrily, and I lower my eyes, abashed and humbled by his vehemence. “I’m not even sure I trust
you
, either.”

“I’m sorry. Jack,” I mumble. “I didn’t intend that to sound rude.”

“You come see me as soon as you’ve finished talking to him,” he orders. “I want to know what he says. I want to know if I’m being fired or not.”

“What was Kagle talking to you about?” Brown asks when I bump into him.

“He wanted to know what you were up to while he was away in Denver.”

“I was correcting his mistakes and protecting his
God-damned job, that was what I was up to,” Brown retorts.

“That’s just what I told him.”

“You’re a liar,” Brown tells me pleasantly.

“Johnny, that’s what they pay me for.”

“But everybody knows it …”

“So?”

“… so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“A diplomat, Johnny. Not a liar.”

“Yeah, a diplomat,” Brown agrees with a gruff and hearty laugh. “You lying son of a bitch.”

“I was just coming to see you,” Jane says to me. “I want to show you this layout.”

I stare brazenly at her tits. “I can see your layout.” She starts to giggle and blush deliciously, but I turn serious. “Not now, Jane. I have to go see Arthur Baron.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Slocum,” Arthur Baron’s secretary says to me. “How are you?”

“You look fine today.”

The door to Arthur Baron’s office is closed, and I don’t know how to cope with it, whether to turn the knob and go right in or knock diffidently and wait to be asked. But Arthur Baron’s twenty-eight-year-old secretary, who is fond of me and having trouble with her husband (he’s probably queer), nods encouragingly and motions me to go right through. I turn the knob gingerly and open the door. Arthur Baron sits alone at his desk and greets me with a smile. He rises and comes forward slowly to shake my hand. He is always very cordial to me (and everyone) and always very gentle and considerate. Yet I am always afraid of him. He’s got the whammy on me, I guess (just as everyone I’ve ever worked for in my whole life has had the whammy on me), and I guess he always will.

“Hello, Bob,” he says.

“Hi, Art.”

“Come in.” He closes the door noiselessly.

“Sure.”

“How are you, Bob?”

“Fine, Art. You?”

“I want you to begin preparing yourself,” he tells me, “to replace Andy Kagle.”

“Kagle?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Not Green?”

“No.” Arthur Baron smiles, knowledgeable and reassuring. “We don’t really think you’re ready for Green’s job yet.”

There is a polite irony here, for we both know that Kagle’s job is bigger and more important than Green’s, and that Green would be subordinate to Kagle if Kagle were of stronger character. The proposition stuns me, and for a few bewildered seconds I have absolutely no idea what to say or do or what expression to keep on my face. Arthur Baron watches me steadily and waits.

“I’ve never done any real selling,” I say finally, very meekly.

“We won’t want you to do any,” he replies. “We want you to manage. You’re loyal and intelligent and you’ve got good character and good work habits. You seem to have a good understanding of policy and strategy, and you get along well with all kinds of people. You’re diplomatic. You’re perceptive and sensitive, and you seem to be a good administrator. Is that enough to encourage you?”

“Kagle’s a good man, Art,” I say.

“He’s a good salesman, Bob,” Arthur replies, emphasizing the distinction. “And you’ll probably be allowed to keep him on as a salesman if we decide to make the change and you decide you want to.”

“I know I’d want to.”

“We’ll probably let you keep him as an assistant even, or as a consultant on special projects with people he’d be good with. But he hasn’t been a good manager, and we don’t think he’s going to be able to get better. Kagle doesn’t go along with the rest of us on too many things, and that’s very important in his job. He lies a lot. Horace White wants me to get rid of him just because he does tell lies to us. He still travels
too much, although I’ve told him I want him to spend more time here. He dresses terribly. He still wears brown shoes. That shouldn’t count, I know; but it does count, and he ought to know that by now. He doesn’t send in my call reports.”

“Most of the stuff on the call reports isn’t true.”

“I know that. But I have to have them anyway for my own work.”

“Brown is in charge of that,” I have to point out.

“He doesn’t control Brown.”

“That isn’t easy.”

“He’s afraid of him.”

“So am I,” I admit.

“And so am I,” he admits. “But I would control him or get rid of him if he worked for me. Would you?”

“Brown is married to Black’s niece.”

“I wouldn’t let that matter. We wouldn’t let Black interfere if it came to doing something about Brown.”

“Would you let me fire him?”

“If you decided you really wanted to, although we’d prefer to transfer him. Kagle could have had him fired, but by now Brown has a better grasp of specifics than he has. Kagle never wants to fire anybody, even the ones who are drunks or dishonest or useless in other ways. He won’t fire Parker or retire Phelps, and he doesn’t cooperate with Green. And he still discriminates in the people he hires, although he’s been warned about that, too.”

“It’s a very big job,” I say.

“We think you might be able to handle it.”

“If I couldn’t?”

“Let’s not think about that now.”

“I have to,” I say with a grin.

He grins back sympathetically. “We’d find another good job for you somewhere else in the company if you found you wanted to stay here, unless you did something disgraceful or dishonest, and I’m sure that wouldn’t happen. You don’t have to decide now. This is just an idea of mine, and it’s anything but definite, so please keep it secret. But we are trying to look ahead, and we’d like to know what we’re
going to do by convention time. So give it some serious thought, will you, and let me know if you would take it if we did decide to move Kagle out and give it to you. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to—I promise you that—and you won’t be penalized if you don’t.” He smiles again as he stands up and continues in a lighter tone. “You’ll still get your raise this year and a good cash bonus. But we think you should. And you might just as well begin preparing yourself while you make up your mind.”

“What should I do?”

“Keep close to Kagle and the salesmen and try to find out even more about everything that’s happening. Decide what realistic goals to establish and what changes you would have to make to achieve them if we did put you in charge.”

“I like Andy Kagle.”

“So do I.”

“He’s been very good to me.”

“It isn’t your fault. We’d move him out anyway. He’ll probably be happier working for you on special projects. Will you think about it?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You’ll keep this quiet, won’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Bob.”

“Thank you, Art.”

“What did Arthur Baron want?” Green demands, the instant I’m out in the corridor.

“Nothing,” I answer.

“Did he say anything?”

“No.”

“Anything about me, I mean.”

“No.”

“Well, what did he say? He must have wanted to see you about something.”

“He wants me to put some jokes in a speech his son has to make at school.”

“Is that all?” Green snorts with contempt, satisfied. “I could do that,” he sneers. “Better than you.”

Up yours, I think in reply, because I know I could squash him to the ground and make him crawl like a caterpillar if I ever do find myself in Kagle’s job. But he does believe me, doesn’t he?

“What did Arthur Baron want?” Johnny Brown asks.

“He wants me to put some jokes in a speech his son has to make at school.”