The Boy Has Told Dad of His Latest Pet “Peeve”
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have a lot of fun before we open each of your letters, speculating on whether or not you’re going to tell us of some unusual accomplishment, or air a pet peeve. So far, the peeves you’ve aired have been so imaginary that we have enjoyed them just as much as your successes, so don’t harbor the thought that we’d attempt to discourage your letter-writing style for a moment. In fact, Mother thinks that my chief enjoyment these days is giving you advice in answer to the problems you mention and I guess she’s not so far off, at that—Mother never is, you know.
So you’re all “het up” and about ready to quit over the fact that the boss has put a “District Manager” or “General Man” over you, eh? You’re not going to stand for all this “supervision;” if you’re not capable of running your branch and working direct with Chicago, you want to know it—eh? And especially, do you want ’em to know that you’re every bit as capable as the fellow they picked out as your so-called superior—and just where do they get all these new-fangled notions about supervision. Of course, Mr. So and So is a nice fellow personally, but you just don’t intend to be bossed by anyone except the General Sales Manager himself and this and that, and this and that, and this and that!!! Whew! Gee! but our cat’s got a long tail.
You know, Red, really you furnish me a lot of amusement. All I have to do to thoroughly enjoy myself after reading a letter like yours is to light up an old jimmy-pipe, get in the old arm chair, close my eyes and live over again the old days when you were a little shaver about nine years old. Whenever that white-headed brother of yours would get into a game of marbles or a checker game with you and Junior would begin to get a little the best of you, you’d throw one of those red-headed, temperamental fits of yours, kick over the checker-board, throw away your marbles, toss that vermillion mane in the air, chew up a couple of lead pencils and swear by all the by-laws of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer that you’d be tetotally dod-buttered and ding-busted if you’d ever play a game with him again.
The amusing part about it, Red, was that it was only a brain storm that I used to attribute to your general fiery disposition, for in less than five minutes you’d forgotten all the vindictive utterances and were playing with the brother again just as sweet and happy as you please.
Yes, it was funny, Boy, and I used to get many a good laugh, but Red, when you put one of ’em on paper at your age, I’ll have to admit the only way I get a laugh is to try to think of you as a kid. As a kid, it was truly laughable, but for a fellow as big and as old as you are now—LONG PANTS—hair on your upper lip and wearing a vest n’everything—on the level Red, you’re as funny as an epileptic fit—you’re pitiful!
Now listen, Old Top, before you make up your mind to walk out and leave the company lying on its back gasping—just sit down a minute and let’s talk this over. You’ve got all the confidence in the world in the “Big Boss” haven’t you? You think pretty well of his judgment and wouldn’t put yours up as being superior to it for a minute, now would you? Of course not! Now just let this thought ooze into that corrugated cast-iron brain of yours—your company isn’t running a peanut stand any more—they might have been small enough one day when the Boss himself could put up the window-shades and sweep out the office every night, but that time has passed, Boy, that day is gone.
Admitting that, doesn’t it occur to you that the Boss has to have a little help in running the business? No one ever made a success of any business if he didn’t attend to it; if he didn’t know what was going on all the time. You’d think anyone a lunatic who expected you to sell all the goods handled through your branch, deliver them yourself and do all the billing. You’d say it just couldn’t be done, which is true and then you’d go on and sketch how you’d organize a force to do all of it with your help, of course, and you’d know what’s going on every minute.
All right—now doesn’t it dawn on you that you are expecting the Big Boss to be as ridiculous as the suggestion about your doing all the work in your branch, when you voice those one-quarter of one per cent sentiments, criticising him for calling in help to handle a far more complex problem than your little unit?
The General Sales Manager of a company like yours, which does business in all parts of the world, has a pretty big task cut out for him. You may be a conscientious, intelligent, hard-working manager, but you’re human, Red, and being human, you’re not always one hundred per cent right and it’s his job to know all about you and the way you’re handling your business, all the time. You’re not foolish enough to think he can keep in as close touch as would be necessary to know all these things, with scores of branches, are you? Of course not! Well, all right then, just how is he going to do it? You know the answer just as well as I do—so granting that help is necessary and that he has to have someone to be his “eyes” in the field—who’s going to do it and what would YOU call the position? The answer is obvious—he must have “District Managers” and if you were the Boss just who would you pick as a District Manager? I know just what you’re going to say, so I’ll say it first. Of course, he could pick the oldest managers on the force—and their experience would make good District Managers of them—mind you, but that would be wishing an awful hard job on those old fellows who deserve to take it easier than they could on a District Manager’s job. The older managers have arrived at a place in life where they don’t want to spend fifteen nights out of thirty on a Pullman and you cannot blame ’em.
The District Manager’s title may sound awfully nice, but it’s no flowery bed of ease, Red, believe me. All right then, if that’s impractical, what is the answer? I’ll tell you—they pick men who have had a broad experience in the game; men who have had good reputations as good housekeepers; men who know how to analyze branch house expense as well as sales results; men who are so constituted that they can give REAL HELP to a manager who is intelligent enough to use the experience and advice that is thus afforded. It’s no reflection against your intelligence and ability to have one of ’em over you—why bless your old red-headed soul, the only man in this life who don’t need supervision, that I know of, is a wooden Indian in front of a cigar store. He’s bolted down—no brains—just a wooden man! Why even the officers of a company have supervision in the board of directors and back of the board are the stockholders, and boy, they’re some supervisors.
And Red, don’t let anyone of human intelligence overhear you question the ability of the man supervising—don’t you know when you do that, you’re questioning the judgment of the Big Boss himself and Boy, you mustn’t do that because you’re old enough to know better. Just put this in your pipe, Old Top, anybody nowadays who’s holding a job that requires ability, has got it tucked away around his system some place, I’ll admit that sometimes it’s pretty hard for a youngster to see, but it’s there, Boy, it’s there. Some day you’ll be a District Manager if you’ll just quit standing on your own foot.
After thinking over what I’ve said, if you still feel like you did when you wrote your letter, go ahead and send in your resignation—they’ll accept it and not pass any dividends either. I’m hoping however, that your letter was just a recurrence of one of your childish temperamental fits and if so, I’ll laugh at it just like I used to. If not, I suppose I’ll have to go down and try and find a job for you driving a hack, so please don’t make it hard for
Your loving,
“DAD.”