Asking for a Raise: (July 1917)

HAVE you ever asked for a raise in salary? If you have not, there is something coming to you in the way of a brand-new feeling: I mean the sensation you experience while approaching the boss on this quest. It is not just like seasickness; it is not exactly the same as dropping ten stories in an elevator; yet there are points of similarity to it in each of these. Walking into the dentist’s office with a tooth aching to be pulled approximates it as nearly as anything else, although in this case the pain is reversed: the boss is the one who has the pain, and you are the one to do the pulling.

As much depends upon your approach to the boss as does on your approach to the green, to use an expression of golf. You must not shoot too far; neither should you foozle and have to make an extra attempt. But go right in as if you belonged there. Never mind speaking about the weather as a self-starting device; say what is on your mind. He can find out about the atmospheric conditions by looking out the window.

When you go in on the green carpet the boss is very busy. He is frowning and looks decidedly squally. The thought comes over you that you will not say what you meant to; that this is not the time anyway, and besides he probably won’t give it to you and you will feel chagrined; and that you are an ass for coming in there at all. These are not separate thoughts, but one sickening, panicstricken lurch of your brain. It is lucky that the boss does not look up and see the expression on your face, because he would think that you had either lost your reason or been taken violently ill. As it turns out, he leads.

‘Well, Percival?’

He manages to put a fatherly tone into these two words. He also contrives to inject into them a something which tells you that he is about to refuse your request, if you have courage enough left to make it, and that he is going to feel hurt about the whole thing. You could feel sorry for him if you were not so busy feeling sorry for yourself. How he manages to do this is a mystery and a subject on which only a boss could write.

The panic-stricken feeling abates just enough for you to see a mental picture of General Putnam going down the long flight of stone steps after something very fierce (you cannot remember just what), Nathan Hale making his famous wish, Horatius at the bridge, or Washington crossing the Delaware. With these examples of heroic endeavor prodding you on, you say the words.

They are not the words that you have rehearsed; no, indeed. They are very extemporaneous. They are simple AngloSaxon words, not grammatically put together and totally different from any that you had planned to say. However, they are out and you do not feel like Atlas any longer.

A fleeting pain seems to pass through the boss, as if he had been secretly and suddenly stabbed. This wears away, only to be succeeded by a long, thoughtful look, suggesting that he has not only been hurt, but surprised. (The old rascal knew what you wanted when you came in.)

‘Well, you know, Percival, times are not what they should be. We’re under a big expense and the way things are — I don’t know. Let’s see, how long have you been with us?’

You tell him, and he swings in the swivel chair the employees gave him last Christmas and looks out the window. He seems to be pondering over the terrific expense the firm is laboring under. You had entertained an idea that the concern was highly prosperous. But all your brains have been left outside and you gravely accept the thought that the business is tottering on the brink of failure. There is something the matter with your heart, you find. Too much smoking, probably. If you have sense enough to keep quiet, he will make the next move.

‘Well, I guess it’s all right. You can tell Barker on the way out that I said you could have four dollars more after this.’

You beam. Words of thanks come in a jumble, and perhaps a mist steals over your eyes.

The boss deprecatingly raises his hand, growling, ‘Not at all, not at all.’ Then he turns to the burden he bears, which he somehow makes you feel has become four dollars more of a burden. You steal softly out, leaving him to the figures on the pad in front of him. They are the comparison of his golf score with that of Colonel Bogey, though you do not know that.

The door closes, and you take a couple of steps which no Russian dancer could even equal. You tell Barker, trying to keep your voice down where it belongs. Barker smiles. You do not know what that smile means, but you will know some day, when you are a Barker.

That evening you tell her. A thing like this must be told at just the right moment. The telling must not be delayed; neither should it be an abrupt overture to a pleasant evening. One thing is certain: you will tell it casually. Should you be smoking, you will flick the ash from your cigarette as a period to the sentence. If you are not smoking, you will brush an imaginary speck from your knee. These are the only two gestures possible. She will say, ‘No, really?’ And you answer, ‘Uh-huh.’ And what does it matter then whether you are going to be a Barker or a Boss?