Something Happened

"Then you have heard something," Kagle exclaims.

"No, I haven't."

"Who would they put in?"

"Nobody. Andy, why don't you stop all this horseshit and buckle down to your job if you're so really worried? If you're really so worried, why don't you start doing the things you're supposed to do?"

"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 begi

"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.

"Joh

"But everybody knows it.»

"So?"

". so I guess it doesn't matter."

"A diplomat, Joh

"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."