But Arthur Baron wants the call reports. Arthur Baron has no other way of keeping familiar with what the salesmen are up to (or say they are) and a no more reliable source of knowledge on which to base his own decisions and reports, even though he is certainly aware that most of the knowledge on which he bases his decisions and prepares his own reports is composed of lies.
I try to keep out of it and expel an air of innocence and sympathetic understanding to all concerned. I would rather sit here in my office writing, doodling, flirting on the telephone with Jane, or talking to a good girl named Penny I've known a long time, or classifying people in the company and constructing my Happiness Charts, than get mixed up in this one. I don't care about the call reports and don't have to. The matter is trivial; yet, it seems to be one of those trivial matters that might destroy a person or two, and I don't see how I can gain favor with one person in this situation without losing favor with another. So, prudently, I contrive to keep as far away from it as I can, although I will manage to mention every now and then to a salesman I happen to be with on some other business that Kagle, Brown, or Arthur Baron has been asking about his call reports and that it is extremely urgent they be handed in as soon as possible for prompt study and evaluation. (I don't manage to mention — and never would — that I think they're a waste of everybody's time but mine.)
In this and other small ways I do what I can to be of help to Kagle (and Brown) (and Arthur Baron). I give him advice and I bring him gossip and news and portents from other parts of the company that I think will be of value or concern to him.
"What do you hear?" he wants to know.
"About what?"
"You know."
"What do you mean?"
"Jesus Christ," he complains, "you used to be truthful with me. Now I can't even trust you, either."
"What are you talking about?"
"I hear that I'm out and Brown's in, and that you probably know all about it. I was tipped off in Denver."
"You're full of shit."
"I like your honesty."
"I like yours."
Kagle grins mechanically, sardonically, and moves with his slight limp across the carpet of his office to close the door. I smile back at him and settle smugly into his brown leather armchair. I always feel very secure and very superior when I'm sitting inside someone's office with the door closed and other people, perhaps Kagle or Green or Brown, are doing all the worrying on the outside about what's going on inside. Kagle has a large, lush corner office in which he seems out of place. He looks nervous and tries to smile as he comes back and sits down behind his desk.
"Seriously, you hear everything," he says to me. "Haven't you heard anything?"
"About what?"
"About me."
"No."
"The grapevine says I'm finished. They're going to listen to Green and Horace White and get rid of me. Brown's got the job."
"Who told you that?"
"I can't name names. But I was tipped off by people in Denver who passed it along to me in strictest confidence. It's true. You can take my word for it."
"You're full of shit again."
"No, I'm not."
"There's nobody in our Denver office who would know something like that or tip you off about it if they did."
"Only about the Denver part. The rest is true."
"You tell terrible lies," I say. "You tell the worst lies of anybody in the whole business. I don't see how you ever made it as a salesman."
Kagle grins for an instant to acknowledge my humor and then turns glum again.
"Brown tells you things," he says. "Hasn't he given any hints?"
"No." I shake my head. (Everybody seems to think I know everything. "You know everything," Brown said to me. "What's going on?" "I didn't even know there was anything going on," I answered. Jane asked: "What's going on? Are they really getting rid of the whole Art Department?" "I wouldn't let them get rid of you, honey," I answered. "Even if I had to pay your salary myself.")
I shake my head again. "And it's probably not true. They'd never put Brown in. He fights with everybody."
"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.