Man in the Gray Flannel Suit Read Free

Betsy said one night. “Your job is plenty good enough. We’ve got three nice kids, and lots of people would be glad to have a house like this. We shouldn’t be so discontented all the time.”
    “Of course we shouldn’t!” Tom said.
    Their words sounded hollow. It was curious to believe that that house with the crack in the form of a question mark on the wall and the ink stains on the wallpaper was probably the end of their personal road. It was impossible to believe. Somehow something would have to happen.
    Tom thought about his house on that day early in June 1953, when a friend of his named Bill Hawthorne mentioned the possibility of a job at the United Broadcasting Corporation. Tom was having lunch with a group of acquaintances in The Golden Horseshoe, a small restaurant and bar near Rockefeller Center.
    “I hear we’ve got a new spot opening up in our public-relations department,” Bill, who wrote promotion for United Broadcasting, said. “I think any of you would be crazy to take it, mind you, but if you’re interested, there it is. . . .”
    Tom unfolded his long legs under the table and shifted his big body on his chair restlessly. “How much would it pay?” he asked casually.
    “I don’t know,” Bill said. “Anywhere from eight to twelve thousand, I’d guess, according to how good a hold-up man you are. If you try for it, ask fifteen. I’d like to see somebody stick the bastards good.”
    It was fashionable that summer to be cynical about one’s employers, and the promotion men were the most cynical of all.
    “You can have it,” Cliff Otis, a young copy writer for a large advertising agency, said. “I wouldn’t want to get into a rat race like that.”
    Tom glanced into his glass and said nothing. Maybe I could get ten thousand a year, he thought. If I could do that, Betsy and I might be able to buy a better house.

2
    W HEN T OM STEPPED OFF the train at Westport that night, he stood among a crowd of men and looked toward the corner of the station where Betsy usually waited for him. She was there, and involuntarily his pace quickened at the sight of her. After almost twelve years of marriage, he was still not quite used to his good fortune at having acquired such a pretty wife. Even with her light-brown hair somewhat tousled, as it was now, she looked wonderful to him. The slightly rumpled cotton house dress she was wearing innocently displayed her slim-waisted but full figure to advantage, and although she looked a little tired, her smile was bright and youthful as she waved to him. Because he felt it so genuinely, there was always a temptation for him to say to her, “How beautiful you are!” when hesaw her after being away for the day, but he didn’t, because long ago he had learned that she was perhaps the one woman in the world who didn’t like such compliments. “Don’t keep telling me I’m pretty,” she had said to him once with real impatience in her voice. “I’ve been told that ever since I was twelve years old. If you want to compliment me, tell me I’m something I’m not. Tell me that I’m a marvelous housekeeper, or that I don’t have a selfish bone in my body.”
    Now he hurried toward her. “Hi!” he said. “It’s good to get home. How did things go with you today?”
    “Not so well,” she replied ruefully. “Brace yourself.”
    “Why, what happened?” he said, and kissed her lightly.
    “Barbara’s got the chicken pox, and the washing machine broke down.”
    “Chicken pox!” Tom said. “Do they get very sick with that?”
    “No, but according to Dr. Spöck, it’s messy. The other two will probably get it. Poor Barbara feels awful. And I think we’re going to have to buy a new washing machine.”
    They climbed into their old Ford. On the way home they stopped at a drugstore, and Tom bought Barbara a toy lamb. Barbara was six and wanted nothing but toy lambs. When they got to Greentree Avenue, the little house looked more monotonous than ever, and