What Can a Young Man Do? A New Generation Looks for Jobs

I

LET me start with the story of two bond salesmen. They worked for a firm which once had a national reputation. That was several years ago. Each morning the two bond salesmen came downtown to a great office, where the salesmen’s desks were lined up in column of squads. Their day began with a salesmen’s meeting in the sales manager’s office; then each set out on the day’s circuit, armed with a funny story and a brief case full of offering circulars.

Business was good in those days. The company paid liberal commissions; from time to time there was a bonus; and occasionally there was a chance for a participation ‘from the inside.’ Our bond salesmen had pleasant homes in the country. They belonged to the same Country Club. Their wives were in the same bridge set. All in all, they were well content.

It is a long time since the last sales meeting was held in that office. In the interval, the two friends have seen desperate times. For a long while they came to town each day and went the rounds of the surviving bond houses, seeking jobs. But always they were turned aside with the same answer.

Finally, they realized that even trips to town were an extravagance. With taxes, grocery bills, and insurance premiums mounting high, commuters’ tickets became an important item in the budget. So they withdrew to their homes in the country, and took to their own devices.

One of them had always been a good amateur photographer. Now, he took to photography as a business. The other drew upon his savings, and purchased a country store at a crossroads outside the town.

I have visited them both since then, and it has been a telling lesson in selfrespect. Their ready-made jobs were gone. Their monthly pay checks were things of the past. But for all that, there was no repining. In relation to their current living expenses, they felt themselves as well off as they had ever been — and beyond that, they were immeasurably happier. They were in business for themselves now, and they had taken on stature with the change.

I found the photographer in the front room of his little house, converted now into an office and studio. He was mounting some pictures he had just taken for an ocean steamship company. The print in his hand showed an ocean liner coming into dock, with a squad of little tugs heaving her into line. The puffs of smoke from their funnels formed themselves into a pattern against her side. My friend stepped back and cocked an eye at it.

‘I thought I was in big business before,’ he said, ‘but I never got the thrill of it until now. Look at that. Can’t you feel those tugboats fighting for breath! That’s something you don’t see on a ticker tape.’

A few miles out on a country road I found the storekeeper. His trade came jointly from the country people and the ‘city folks,’ but it has pleased him to preserve the aspect and spirit of a general store. The long front porch glistened with the bright red and green of new farm implements, and the counters held piles of straw hats, canvas gloves, and ‘Bulldog’ suspenders. I found my friend sitting on a stool in the little office adjoining the main store.

‘I’m glad you came to-day,’ he said. ‘I think it will interest you. To-day is Farm Day. We have them Wednesdays and Saturdays. The farm people bring in things to sell. It goes over big with the city people, and it gives the farmers a little extra cash to spend.’

Outside came the sound of wheels and a ‘Whoa, Bessie!’ We looked out to see a farm wagon before the store. On the seat was a Mennonite woman, with black bonnet, and shawl demurely drawn around her shoulders. Beside her were two boys, their cheeks scrubbed and shining for the adventure of a trip to town. My friend ran out to help them, and in a few minutes their wares were set out on a long table running down the centre of the store — a pile of green corn, a jug of buttermilk, three chocolate layer cakes.

In quick succession, other wagons drove in, and then the cars of the city folks. When I left, my friend was deep in talk of crops and the next town meeting. And there was a satisfaction in his eyes that could not have been equaled if he had just formed a syndicate to float a new chain-store system with a hundred outlets.

II

Now perhaps it is a dangerous thing to build a way of life on the experience of two individuals, but to theirs I can add my own, and the experience of a hundred other young men faced with the joint problem of living and earning a living. I believe that any reader who will take the trouble can name as many more.

Add us together, and we are legion. We are the young men, just in our thirties, who went out into the world to seek our fortunes between 1925 and 1930. We went to work under the premises and principles of the New Era. Now the New Era is over. What are we to do with ourselves?

Fifteen years ago, there was much talk of a shell-shocked generation of young men who had come home from the war, and the problem of their adjustment to a peaceful life. Now, we have another generation and a new problem — the shell-shocked young men who have been buffeted by the depression, and who are now painfully seeking to discover what it is all about.

To understand our dilemma, it is necessary to remember the set of beliefs with which we were equipped when we first embarked on life.

In those days, Big Business was the nation’s god — and his prophets were Merle Thorpe, B. C. Forbes, and the United States Department of Commerce. It was the time of mergers, mass production, common stocks, and installment selling. And, in all things, only the Biggest was the Best.

At school and college, we studied then essentially the same things that were studied ten years before, and that are being studied to-day. We took courses in history, literature, and art. We spoke, as always, of Goodness, Beauty, and Truth. But at the same time there was a curious infiltration of ideas from the outside world. We came to feel that business was the most important of all human endeavors, and that business men were the men of destiny. Even our instructors followed the financial journals, and shared in the awe of large and practical affairs.

In my own case, indeed, it was a college professor of history who expressed in words my vague beliefs.

‘You must consider the life cycles of the great professions,’ he said. ‘Look back in history, and you will see that at different times different callings were the centres of force. They offered positions of power, and pulled the great men of the time to them. At first, it was the soldiers who were at the centres of force — Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Genghis Khan. Do you know a single military man now who can compare with them? Great men exist to-day, but they are not in the army.’

So he swept down the centuries, and spoke of the Old Testament prophets, the churchmen of the early Christian era, the explorers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and the statesmen of Victoria’s time — Palmerston, Gladstone, Disraeli, Lincoln, Bismarck, Cavour.

The logic was irresistible. Now, of course, the centre of force was business. ‘In modern business,’ he said, ‘you have the centre of power of our times, and men of power are inevitably drawn to it.’

There was a doctrine which appealed strongly to young and impressionable minds. Particularly when it was confirmed by every evidence from the outside world. In the perspective of those days, the great banker and the industrialist overshadowed the teacher, the preacher, the writer, and the statesman like giants among pygmies.

So, among us, business became glamorous, not only for those whose sole ambition was keyed to a salary of $10,000 a year, but for the young idealists as well. Other callings were puny and pitiful, but in business one was at the centre of power. One could become a strong and dominant force for good. Other callings were well enough, but business was the master of them all. After all, did not the clergyman take orders from a vestry of business men, the teacher from a board of millionaire trustees, the statesman from a lobby of manufacturers, and the writer from the capitalists whose ‘autobiographies’ he was composing?

It is easy, is it not, to see how our minds worked? For us, in those days, there was very little choice. Our college, like all the rest, maintained the machinery of vocational guidance. During the senior year, meetings were held and leaders in all the callings told us about their fields of work. But, for the most part, they were sad affairs. Save for the meetings about business, there was no heart in them. Our enthusiasm was saved for the times when we were addressed by the business leaders. It was then we felt that we had been led to a high place, to see in all its fullness the world which would one day belong to us. In business were to be found power and wealth, and the mastery which goes with them.

So into business we went. A few, it is true, stayed behind to study medicine, ministry, the law, or to prepare for academic careers. But the rest of us regarded them with a mixture of pity and contempt. It was well enough for them to study such things if they chose, but, after all, we knew that the business man could hire every one of them to work for him at any time if he wanted to. We were going into business. We were the men of destiny.

III

Now, some years later, many of us are out of business. In certain ironic cases, we are sitting on the side lines while those classmates who remained behind to study law are acting as receivers for our former companies.

At this time, the thing of interest is to examine and revise our New Era values. Our ships have gone off the course. Some of them are now on the shoals. Where did we go wrong in our calculations? Perhaps, if we can answer that question, it will be of some help to our younger brothers who are now graduating from college and will shortly set sail for themselves.

Our chief error, I think, was this: in forming our judgments, we had confused size with strength; we had thought that bigness in itself meant power.

On this point it was easy for young men to deceive themselves. There is no denying the thrill of seeing your letters typed on the stationery of a nationally known corporation. It is fun to look up the company in Moody’s and see its assets reckoned in hundreds of millions. There is a sort of exhilaration that comes from contemplating the very size of your organization, the number of employees, the total units of production, the millions of yearly revenues. Before you know it, you are thinking of it as ‘your company,’ however humble your job may be. You have become identified with it, and your ego is exalted accordingly. Among the men, after dinner, you welcome the chance to speak in an offhand manner of what ‘we’ are doing in the way of speeding up production, or increasing capacity, and are conscious that you appear strong and masterful.

The sense of power! That is what led us on. To be sure, each of us, at every step, was conscious of restraints and restrictions. There were superiors to be consulted, O.K.’s to be obtained. But always we felt that one stage higher up — along with the next promotion — we should come out above the timber line, and find ourselves with power and authority. So we kept on plugging. I shudder now to think of the heart’s blood which was shed by a million young men in giant corporations as they spurred themselves on to follow that gleam!

Now we know better. We know that the proprietor of a small-town weekly has more real power than the managing editor of any daily newspaper in a nation-wide chain. We know that the owner of a crossroads garage has more true freedom and independence than the president of the largest motor company in the country. But it took us long hard years to learn.

The companies to which we flocked in the boom days were the big ones. Only the Biggest were the Best. Their names were the leaders on the Big Board — power companies, oil companies, chain stores, railroads. As I review them now, I can still feel their glamour. All of the companies are nation-wide in their scope. Their services bear directly on the comfort and well-being of millions of people. They are a tremendous force in the life of the nation.

There is no denying all this, nor am I trying to do so. But I am urging every young man to look realistically upon these big companies, and to consider them in relation to himself as an individual. The question he must ask of himself is this: Will a lifetime spent in their service provide the freedom and fulfillment which are essential to a young man of energy, ambition, and intelligence?

So much nonsense has been talked about the romance of big business that it is time for a quiet examination of realities. Consider any one of the giant companies. Strip off the successive layers of authority, like the layers of an onion. See if you can arrive at any centre of force and power.

At the outer rim are the operators — the men who run the filling stations, operate the power plants, man the assembly lines, or stand behind the counters at the chain stores. There is no question of freedom here, of course. Every movement is rigidly prescribed by company regulations, whether it be the act of wiping off your windshield at the gas station or announcing the day’s ‘special’ at the chain store. Behind the operators are the district managers, again strictly subject to rules and regulations. Ask any one of them to adopt a new policy or approve a tendollar charge purchase, and see how quickly you are referred to the division office. At the division office you will find essentially the same thing. If there is no printed ruling covering your particular errand, you will find yourself passed on gently but firmly to the general office in New York or Chicago. Go now to the general office and you will work your way through a succession of junior officials, each resolutely refusing to make a new decision without the approval of his immediate superior.

Thus, at last, you reach the office of the president, and here comes the most surprising part of your investigation. Nine times out of ten, you will find the president as powerless as any of his employees. The very size of his enterprise has made him helpless. The investment is so huge that he simply does not dare to take chances or make experiments. Policy has to be based on a rough and immediate sort of expediency. Dividends must be earned, and everything is secondary to that end. Even in 1929, business leaders must have foreseen that wages would have to be raised and prices or rates lowered in order to preserve the purchasing power on which our national economy depended. But always there was the thought: ‘We’ll take it up later. Let’s wait a few months. We want to make a good showing in our next statement of quarterly earnings.’ After that quarter, there was always the next looming up ahead. So we drifted impotently on.

I once heard of a passage at arms between two leaders of business, both nationally known, which illustrates sadly the helplessness of those in charge of large affairs. Wrote the first: ‘During the past few years, your salesmen have been coming to the annual conventions of our industry. They have taken the biggest suites in the hotel and provided whiskey so plentifully that it has all but demoralized our conventions. Won’t you issue instructions to your salesmen that expenses for such entertainment will no longer be approved on their expense accounts at the coming convention?’

‘I wish that I could comply with your request,’ came the reply. ‘But the salesmen assure me that the present method of entertaining is essential if they are to book the necessary volume of business this year. Our present schedules of production are such that we cannot stand a falling off in sales, even by a fraction of one per cent. Why don’t we let the matter ride for this year? Then we can go over it again well in advance of next year’s convention.’

IV

There is a single saying that sums up in five words the spirit of most big companies: ‘Don’t stick your neck out!’ It is the code and the Ten Commandments for every young man who takes over a corporate job. It should be emblazoned on every office wall. Of course, there are exceptions. Occasionally a new idea, a departure from precedent, a revolt against rule, will bring recognition. But not often. It is a pretty risky business. And the young man is well advised who studies his manual of organization like the Bible, memorizes all rules and regulations, makes no move without consulting his superiors, and on all things obtains the long list of initialed O.K.’s which constitutes business salvation.

In other words, large-scale business operations have passed beyond the pioneering stage which called for the impress of individual personalities. They have become formalized, mechanized, institutionalized. To-day they are really glorified branches of the civil service — without the security of tenure that goes with a government job.

To say this sounds almost unAmerican. We have been brought up on the belief that private business in America means ‘individual initiative’ and ‘freedom of opportunity for all.’ We have been taught to shudder at the very thought of government ownership and ‘the dead hand of bureaucracy.’ Witness the fact that eager young graduates from Harvard, Yale, or Princeton would laugh outright at the notion of going into the United States Post Office Department for a life career. Yet they sign up cheerfully for jobs in the great oil companies, power companies, telephone and telegraph systems, and chain-store companies, which are run on precisely the same bureaucratic principle.

Or at least they did. I like to think that there is a change ahead. I like to think that the million young men of my generation may have had something to do with it.

Only recently I saw the result of a questionnaire to Harvard freshmen on the choice of careers. Of 508 men who replied, 89 stated that they intended to enter the medical profession; 75, the law; 43, engineering; 38, teaching; and 31, or only 6 per cent of the group, had settled on business careers. The remaining 232 men were scattered among a dozen different callings — chemistry, journalism, politics, ministry, architecture, music, fine arts, scientific research.

Perhaps we are at last revising our national philosophy to bring it into closer accord with changed conditions. We are realizing that business is not the only centre of force. We are beginning to see it in its proper relation to the other elements which go to make up a civilized society.

Whether in law or in effect, the truth is that the huge companies are performing public functions, and increasingly they are coming under public control, with all which that implies. Ironically enough, it is business’s own doctrine of ‘ rugged individualism’ which is driving young men away from the great regimented corporations into small and personal adventures and enterprises.

There is still a place in our world for young men with the hearts and minds of pioneers. But that place is not often in the district and division offices of giant companies. To-day there is a new frontier, far more challenging to their energies and ambitions. On it are the small personal and local business ventures, such as those of our two bond salesmen. And, more important still, there are the schools, colleges, legislative chambers, — yes, and the churches, — which are calling out for men of courage and character. It is in these places, and along the borderlands of science, thought, and art, that young men of to-day can obtain freedom, fulfillment, and the proud sense of personal achievement in helping to build a sane and balanced society.