The Shirk Ethic

By * John Skow

HOW TO RETIRE AT 41: Or Dropping Out of the Rat Race Without Going Down the Drain

by L. RUST HILLS

247 pages. Doubleday. $6.95.

The dust jacket of this amiable manual for layabouts asks of the prospective reader, "Why should you let Rust Hills tell you how to run your life?" But anyone acquainted with Hills' previous book, How to Do Things Right: The Revelations of a Fussy Man, knows that the author, far from being interested in running the reader's life, refuses even to run his own. Instead he walks it, as if it were an elderly dog. That is his pride, and he has earned it. As he explains, he was the fiction editor of Esquire and then of the Saturday Evening Post for several years, acquiring a modest but satisfying reputation as an acute and discerning lunch-haver. An editor who can have lunch well is secure in his profession, but about eight years ago Hills threw it all up (his profession, that is), and retired to fester in Connecticut. He was, of course, 41.

That is pretty good going. This reviewer, now 41 himself, can say so with authority. Hills festers better, though, so let's listen to him. What he says, stripped of its fussy charm, is more or less this: sure you can retire at 41, if you have the endurance and cold nerve to swim against the current.

What's this? Cold nerve? Endurance? Retirement is supposed to be drifting, isn't it? Loafing and inviting the soul? That's not what Hills found, and his report has the leaden ring of truth. The trouble is, while the upper class, where it still exists, is born to leisure, and the lower class is in sporadic danger of having leisure thrust upon it, the poor old middleclass, middle-aged man is a creature of work. He is his work and is so acknowledged by those he meets at cocktail parties: "Ah, you're a fiction editor," or "Ah, you're a wire man for the White House." If the workadaddy (Tom Wolfe's useful word) capriciously retires, most of his is-ness leaks away.

It is not simply that he has flown his pigeonhole. He is also, probably, less interesting because he has stopped doing what he was good at and is now spending his time doing what he is not so hot at (fixing up his country place, "pursuing" what Hills calls with dis taste, "interests," or making his spongy body perform whatever sports are still possible).

"Work is Useless." Hills at first re sponded briskly to the threat of disintegration. In the first place, he rose early ("busy day ahead") and did many errands according to a schedule, as elaborately as possible. He also practiced a form of positive thinking: "Almost all work is useless and meaningless," he tells himself, "and therefore the virtuous man will avoid working." To water these tender young suppositions further, so they can grow into a healthy prejudice, he quoted the opening lines of The Prisoner of Zenda: "'I wonder when in the world you're going to do anything, Rudolf?' said my brother's wife. 'My dear Rose,' I answered, laying down my egg spoon, 'why in the world should I do anything?'" Soon Hills began disintegrating. His Rust Hills personality split into three parts--the Fussy Man who made lists, an amiable boob named Larry Placebound, who charged about the country doing marginal journalistic assignments, and a troll called LOMLIC, which stands for Lonely Old Man Lives in Country. Not surprisingly, Hills' wife, stepchildren and dog appear to have left him during this period.

In the end, Hills was saved by love, and by copping out. The love part is perfectly straightforward: he found either a new wife or (his references are discreet to a fault) a new dog. The copping out is a little harder to understand, because what Hills did, as far as the reader can figure it out, was to become a full-time freelance writer. This, in an era of declining markets, is very similar to becoming a professional buffalo hunter, and it is definitely not the road to mental health.

Still, Hills is doing nicely with his new hobby. His stuff is perfect summer reading, especially for readers deluded enough to wish their vacations could be perpetually extended.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.