Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (26 page)

“Tom always looks at the dark side of everything!” Betsy said impatiently. “Tommy, sometimes I think you just look for reasons why nothing can ever get done.”

“You got to gamble,” Bugala said. “Hell, everything’s a gamble! It’s the guys who take the chances who make the dough! If I hadn’t been willing to gamble, I’d still be on a pick and shovel gang!”

“I’m willing to gamble,” Tom said. “I just want to make sure we’ve got the odds on our side.”

Bugala laughed and stood up. “We’ll make it work!” he said confidently. “Get in touch with me after you’ve talked to Judge Bernstein about the zoning.”

The next morning on the way to the train, Tom asked Betsy to circle around by the waterfront, where the old yacht club had been, so he could look at the house Hopkins had built. Involuntarily, Betsy stepped on the brakes when they saw it. Hopkins’ house was low, long and enormous. The old yacht club wharf had been removed, and in its place was a carefully buttressed sea wall and an elaborate artificial harbor, in which a tall white yawl was anchored. One wing of the house reached out over the edge of the harbor. At least twelve acres of green lawn separated the house from the road. Betsy whistled. “You mean you work for
that
guy?” she said.

T
HAT SAME MORNING
Ralph Hopkins awoke in his Park Avenue apartment at precisely seven o’clock. He had been working on his speech about mental health until after midnight, and as soon as he opened his eyes, his thoughts were full of it again. The latest draft written by Ogden wasn’t right, and Hopkins was beginning to wonder whether he was ever going to be able to devise a speech on mental health he wanted to give. Maybe the whole idea of starting a mental-health committee was a mistake. Glancing at his wrist watch, he saw it was quarter after seven. No time to worry about the speech now, he thought–there was a busy day ahead. He jumped lightly out of bed, stepped briskly across his small, simply furnished bedroom, and slid open a door leading to a large tiled shower room. Stripping off his white silk pajamas, he stepped into a booth and pulled a curtain. He turned an elaborate chromium dial on the wall in front of him, and hot water shot against him at a high velocity from a dozen nozzles placed in the booth above and on all sides of him. Gradually Hopkins turned the dial until the water was lukewarm–the doctor
had forbidden him to take cold showers. He stood there in the lukewarm water for thirty seconds before turning the shower off and stepped out of the booth. From a special slot in the wall he drew an enormous, warm turkish towel. Wrapping himself in this, he walked to the other side of the room and stepped on a set of scales which had been built into the floor. He weighed a hundred and thirty-eight pounds, including the towel. That was three pounds too much, he figured, and made a mental note to cut down on his eating. It was stupid to get fat, he thought–half his friends were eating themselves into their graves.

After he had brushed his teeth and shaved, Hopkins went into his dressing room, where his valet had laid out his clothes. The valet was not there–Hopkins liked to have his clothes laid out for him, but hated to have people fussing about him. He dressed himself.

At quarter to eight Hopkins walked downstairs to the living room of his apartment, just as his personal secretary, Miss MacDonald, the elderly gray-haired woman Tom had observed in Hopkins’ outer office, was arriving. She always began her working day at a quarter to eight in Hopkins’ apartment and went to the office with him.

“Good morning, Miss MacDonald,” he said cheerily. “What have you got on the docket for me today?”

“Mr. Albert Pierce is coming in to have breakfast with you,” she said. “Mr. Pierce owns three television stations in Texas and two in Oklahoma. He has some programming suggestions he wants to discuss with you–remember his letters?”

“Yes,” Hopkins said.

The breakfast business appointment was routine; it had been routine for ten years. So many people wanted to see Hopkins that it was necessary to fit them in wherever possible. First there were all the people who wanted to see him on company business–production people, research men, the top entertainers who had to be flattered, advertising executives with big contracts, the owners of affiliated stations, promotion men, publicity experts, sponsors, writers who were great artists and had never written for television, but now were going to. There were also bankers, real-estate men, investment experts, and lawyers who, under Hopkins’ guidance, administered the holdings of the United Broadcasting Corporation. And in addition to all these people who wanted to see Hopkins, there were executives of the many corporations of which he was a director, and the men and
women connected with the good works of which he was a trustee. Hopkins was a trustee of two universities, five hospitals, three public libraries, one fund for orphaned children, two foundations for the advancement of the arts and sciences, a home for the blind, a haven for crippled children, and a snug harbor for retired seamen. In addition to that, he was a member of committees and commissions studying, variously, conditions in South India, Public Health in the United States, Racial Segregation, Higher Standards for Advertising, the Parking Problem in New York City, Farm Subsidies, Safety on the Highways, Freedom of the Press, Atomic Energy, the House Rules of the City Club, and a Code of Decency for Comic Books.

“After Mr. Pierce, Dr. Andrews is coming up–it’s time for your quarterly check-up,” Miss MacDonald said.

Hopkins frowned slightly. It was only common sense to have a quarterly check-up, but he detested it. “All right, what next?” he asked.

“Because of Dr. Andrews, I haven’t scheduled you for anything at the office before ten o’clock this morning. At that time Mr. Hebbard wants a conference with you–he’s got some new cost estimates and time schedules. At eleven there’s a board meeting, lasting through lunch. . . .”

She was interrupted by the doorbell. Hopkins opened the door. Albert Pierce, a large potbellied man wearing a wide cream-colored sombrero, walked in.

“Hello!” Hopkins said, shaking his hand heartily. “So good of you to come so early. I had hoped to have lunch with you, but my board is meeting today, and you know how it is! I
certainly
appreciate this chance to see you!”

The big man beamed. “Right nice of you to put yourself out for me!” he said.

Miss MacDonald slipped out a side door, and Hopkins led Pierce to the dining room. A waitress served Pierce a bowl of fresh fruit, waffles, and sausage patties. Hopkins had only a bowl of dry cereal with skim milk and a cup of black coffee. “I wish I had your appetite!” he said to his guest. “It’s this city air that takes it away from a man!”

Throughout the meal Pierce expounded his views on television programs, which consisted mostly of the thought that more
old-fashioned
shows, such as square dances, rodeos, and hymn sings, would
be welcomed by rural audiences. Hopkins agreed with him heartily. At a quarter of nine, the doorbell rang again, and Hopkins jumped up to answer it. That was one of the advantages in not having a servant open the door–it gave Hopkins an opportunity to conclude interviews without being impolite. Dr. Andrews, an urbane man with prematurely white hair, walked in, carrying a small black bag. “
Thank
you for coming up,” Hopkins said. “I’ll be with you in a few moments. Mr. Pierce, this is Dr. Andrews–
don’t
go, Mr. Pierce–I had hoped to chat with you longer. Well, if you
have
to go, I understand. I
certainly
do appreciate your advice on the programs, and you can be sure it will have effect!”

When Pierce had left, Hopkins and the doctor sat down in the living room. “How have you been feeling?” the doctor asked.

“Fine–better than ever!”

“Trouble getting to sleep?”

“Not a bit!”

The doctor opened his bag and took out a stethoscope. Hopkins took off his coat and opened his shirt. The doctor listened to his heart intently for several seconds. “It sounds pretty good,” he said finally. “Had any more dizziness lately?”

“Not a trace of it!”

“Difficulty breathing?”

“No.”

The doctor put his stethoscope back in his bag and took out his equipment for measuring blood pressure. Hopkins rolled up his sleeve and looked out the window at the green lawn on the roof while the doctor strapped the device to his arm. There was an interval of silence. “It’s up a little,” the doctor said finally. “Not badly–nothing to worry about.”

“That’s good,” Hopkins said, relieved.

“It’s a warning, though,” the doctor continued. “I guess there’s no use in my repeating it: you ought to slow down.”

“I’ve been getting plenty of rest,” Hopkins said.

“I’ll say it to satisfy my own conscience,” the doctor continued. “You ought to take a long vacation–a couple of months, just lying in the sun. You ought to get yourself a hobby, something to help you relax.”

Hopkins looked at him intently, but said nothing.

“You ought to cut way down on your schedule,” the doctor went
on. “Start getting into your office about ten-thirty or eleven and leaving about three or four in the afternoon–there’s no reason why a man in your position can’t do that. In the long run, you’d be ensuring yourself more working hours. And cut out all these outside activities of yours–take it easy for a few years. You’ve got to slow down!”

“Are you advising me to retire, Doctor?” Hopkins asked dryly.

“No–I’d be satisfied if you just followed a normal, human routine!”

“I will,” Hopkins said courteously. “I certainly appreciate your advice, Doctor, and I’ll take it. Thanks
so
much for coming up so early this morning!”

When the doctor had gone, Miss MacDonald called for Hopkins’ car, a black Cadillac five years old, driven by an aging Negro chauffeur. They started driving toward the United Broadcasting building. Before they had gone three blocks the car got caught in a bad traffic jam and could barely crawl. Hopkins put his head back on the soft gray upholstery and closed his eyes. “You’ve got to slow down!” the doctor had said. It seemed to Hopkins that people had been telling him that all his life.

It had started when he was a boy in public school. He had been editor of the school paper, and though he had been too small to excel at athletics, he had been manager of the football and basketball teams. He had stood at the top of his class scholastically, and whenever there had been a dance or a school play, he had always been chairman of the arrangements committee. “You’ve got to slow down!” the teachers had told him. “Take it easy, boy–you’ll wear yourself out!”

At Princeton, where he had gone on a scholarship, it had been more of the same. He had headed the debating team, managed the football team, and engaged in a dozen other activities in addition to maintaining an almost straight A average in his studies. “You’ve got to slow down!” his faculty adviser had told him. “Take it easy!”

But he had not slowed down. Summers he had worked at all kinds of jobs, always astonishing his employers with his energy. After college had come a brief stint in the Army, a period during which his friends had kidded him about wanting to be a general. Upon being released from service in 1919, he had worked for a few years at a brokerage house before going to the United Broadcasting Corporation, which had just been started. A year later he had met Helen
Perry, who had at the time been a fashionable beauty in New York. He had pursued her with all the zeal he always devoted to anything he wanted, and on June 3, 1921, he had married her. Up to that time, Hopkins had never had a failure in his life.

“You’ve got to slow down!” Helen had started saying, even before they were married, but unlike the teachers and faculty advisers, she had not let it go at that. As she discovered that it was Hopkins’ habit to spend most of his evenings and week ends at his office, she had become first annoyed, then indignant, and, finally, hurt and bewildered.

“Life isn’t worth living like this,” she had said. “I never see you! You’ve got to slow down!”

He had tried. Especially when their first child, Robert, had come, during the second year of their marriage, he had tried. He had come home every evening at six o’clock and conscientiously played with the baby and sat talking with his wife, and he had been genuinely appalled to find that the baby made him nervous, and that while he was talking to his wife, it was almost impossible for him to sit quietly. He had felt impelled to get up and pace up and down the room, jingling his change in his pockets and glancing at the clock. For the first time in his life he had started to drink heavily during those long evenings at home. Gradually he had started staying late at the office again–by that time he had already had a fairly important job at the United Broadcasting Corporation. Helen had remonstrated with him. There had been recriminations, high-pitched arguments, and threats of divorce.

All right, it’s a problem, he had said to himself after a particularly bitter scene–it’s a problem that must be met head on, like all other problems. To Helen he had said, in a quiet voice, “I don’t want to have any more scenes–they wear us both out. I’m prepared to admit that whatever is wrong is entirely my fault. I am preoccupied with my work–I’ve been that way all my life, and it is nothing for which you should blame yourself.”

She had gone pale. “Do you want a divorce?” she had asked.

“No,” he had said. “Do you?”

“No.”

They had never talked about divorce again, but she had begun to refer to his preoccupation with work as a disease. “You’ve got to do something about it,” she had said, and had suggested a psychiatrist.