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Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
Страница: 40 из 398What 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.
"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.