Philip M. was an ambitious young man of higher-than-average aptitude. He was of medium height and build, and his handshake was firm but not overly so. Certain women thought his face handsome, while most men found it neither insolent nor punchable. He had been raised to chew with his mouth closed.
For all this, Philip M. had a problem that imperiled his professional advancement. He could not speak his real thoughts. If anyone learned what Phillip M. was thinking at any given moment—his musings and cogitations, his many in-jokes with himself, even his real-time perception of events—at the office, it would be a catastrophe. Lawsuits would quote verbatim whatever Philip M. blurted out, plunging the company for which he was performing conscientious work into a witches’ brew of litigation and infamy. As an employee of said company, or any such company, Philip M. would be finished.
So, speaking his thoughts was right out. The question became, then, what to say. At his small square table one evening, Philip M. wrote out in longhand a list of clichés. He did not want to hang around the well-appointed break room, nursing a coffee and gazing noiselessly at people like a lurker. He was a valuable member of the team, but that would weird everyone out. Soon they would come to hate him. No, he had to speak!
Subjects he could opine on—or, “opine” on—at the office included professional sports and the weather. He could join in mild trash-talk against other departments. He could praise or blame the nearby restaurants at which he purchased food to go. He could express excitement, passion even, about a popular new program on TV. Employing great caution and tact, he could tell a short “funny story”—though the much funnier stories in his real thoughts could not be hinted at with so much as a smirk: an ill-concealed smirk would spell disaster. He could express a preference for certain consumer brands, subject to change, for a brand could become evil or heroic overnight. It was a lot to keep abreast of, and, when it came to mental effort, he had a habit of prioritizing his actual work. As a last resort, in exhaustion or desperation, he could nod.
Ambitious Philip M.—currently on his way up, or least not down—became in this way a practitioner of ketman, a term popularized by a Polish dissident in the 1950s, who drew on the work of a 19th century French diplomat, who in turn drew on Persian culture. Ketman meant paying lip service to the reigning orthodoxy while harboring secret blasphemous thoughts; it was a way of getting by, escaping notice. The Pole had laid out several flavors of ketman—aesthetic, metaphysical, professional, ethical, and so on —but for Philip M., who had never heard of ketman, it was an instinctive ass-covering maneuver and not especially exotic, though there was something un-American about it.
In this calculating, somewhat cowed manner, Philip M. moved up the ranks. Over the next few years, he grew his list of serviceable topics until he could converse with anyone and leave a vague pleasant impression. His capabilities improved, his value to the company increased. He rose frictionlessly like a human helium balloon. Still, he continued to be pestered by his own mutinous thoughts, the kind that could not be expressed. His inoffensive, rather handsome face began to age a little.
Around this time, the company enlisted Philip M. to interview job candidates. He was to suss out whether applicants fit into the company’s culture, which was understood to be tolerant and high-minded. At the platitudinous chit-chat this task required, Philip M. was known to excel.
One morning just shy of eleven, the sunlight slanting through the blinds to make a blazing pattern on the wall of Philip M.’s office, a woman appeared in the doorway, holding a blue company folder and a purse. Her name was Bridget Y., and she had been dispatched by HR for an interview. Philip M. riffled through some papers on his desk and found a list of her accomplishments to date as she sat down.
The job interview, in its low-key way, began. Bridget Y. was a college-educated young woman of higher-than-average attractiveness. She was of medium height and build, and her demeanor was assured but not overly so. Many men thought her face beautiful, while most women found her neither haughty nor false and so tolerated it well enough. She had been raised to sit in a chair gracefully, her ankles crossed.
In her soft voice, Bridget Y. expressed enthusiasm for the job. She described her ambitions and plans, which dovetailed with the company’s needs. Her conversation revealed no sharp edges or idiosyncracies, no red flags. Her education and prior work were adequate preparation for the role she sought, and she appeared bright, humble, and eager to learn.
Philip M. made a note in longhand. He regarded her across the desk. Nothing remained to do, but he felt reluctant to send her on her way. Soon, they would be colleagues on cordial terms, his rogue real thoughts sealed off from her forever.
Philip M. looked into her eyes. Steadily, Bridget Y. looked back. He thought he saw something there, some glint, and now he said the words that legal had told them never to say:
“Would you mind shutting the door?”
Bridget Y. rose, shut the door, and sat back down.
“Do you really want to work here? Because you seem like a nice girl, and this place…” He shook his head, having already said too much. Being straightforward at work felt weird, almost dirty.
Bridget Y. sighed. She said she didn’t know, and that, honestly, she just liked to garden. She enjoyed watching her plants grow and drinking tea. But what were you going to do? She half-shrugged with a rueful complicated smile, which lasted only a moment before she got her face under control. Philip M. noticed that, seemingly unaware, she was twisting the blue folder in her hands, this way and that.
Suddenly, it occurred to Philip M. that, just as he could not express his thoughts, this young woman might not be at liberty to express her feelings. His view of her seemed to expand into a third, richer dimension, at which moment her situation seemed apparent. This pleasant, intelligent girl had dutifully done everything that had been asked of her. And now, papers in hand, she rapped at the door of his exclusive, life-sapping world, just as she had been told to do.
A tickle of feeling stirred in Philip M., so unfamiliar it took him a moment to place it. It was curiosity, mostly. What might happen if…? There was an element of protectiveness, even what might be called affection. He found he wanted her to drink tea in her garden, speak her mind. He did not want to watch her join the team and contort herself into, well, him.
“Do you like the beach?” he now heard himself saying.
“Yes, if it’s not too windy,” answered Bridget Y.
“I agree. I think it’s probably all right today.”
“It’s a nice day,” said Bridget Y. “I was just outside. Barely a breeze.”
“It’s almost lunch. We could get sandwiches to go.”
“I have a blanket in my car,” said Bridget Y.
“You really are extremely well-prepared,” said Philip M. From his comfortable, many-jointed chair, he surveyed the small kingdom of his office. Here it all was. For a moment, he felt elegiac, wistful. What could he take away? His mug?
He did not really need his mug.
As a last safeguard before acting, Philip M. consulted his thoughts. They were a raucous chorus and tended to talk a lot of shit, but they were now strangely subdued.
What doth it profit a man, thought Philip M. This was the line his mind spit out, though he could not have told you what the rest was, who said it, or what.
The girl was looking at him, head quizzically cocked.
Philip M. stood up, walked to his office door, and opened it wide. He held his palm in the direction of the doorway and said, “After you.”
In one graceful motion, Bridget Y. bent down, picked up her purse, and stood.
Philip M. noticed she was holding the blue folder to her chest.
“Leave it,” said Philip.
Bridget tossed it on the chair.
I was certainly hoping it would end as it should and it did. ❤️
Hurrah for Philip M.!