An African-American novel probes the interior of corporate America and reveals malice and mistrust behind the smiles, handshakes, and pats on the back. Reprint. Tour.
New to the corporate world and mostly wary, I first read Company Man by then debut author, Brent Wade, upon its release. Perhaps I’d find a mirror or at the very least, a guide on how to maneuver.
What I found instead, was trauma.
William Covington, Billy or Bill, depending upon the setting, environment and just as important, who’s around, is an executive who’s made it. He has the car to show for it, the svelte and aspiring wife, the house in the suburbs, and the patronage of the company president.
Yet he’s tormented by inner demons, one of which is his dead grandmother’s voice that occasionally warns him of his “n****erishness,” and so he too, remains wary, trying to balance a world not of his own making.
Company Man is a tale of identity. It is one man’s attempt at appeasement; to those who may struggle to see him as a role model and those to whom he must cater to keep the illusion going. The problem is that it’s not an illusion to him. To Billy, perception is reality.
Speaking of trauma, the story begins with Billy in a hospital bed, now paralyzed from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He spends his days recounting the events that have led him here in epistolary form to Paul, his childhood friend.
Modeled after Ellison’s classic, Invisible Man, a monumental task in itself, Company Man, in retrospect, is a flawed novel. Nevertheless, at the time of its release, it spoke to me as compellingly as Invisible Man, even more so because it was contemporary – a book of my youth. Of my time.
I mean, look how far we’ve come.
Invisible Man was published in 1952; Company Man some 40 years later; and look how far we’ve come, right?