Charley was stoic to the changing world. He learned from reading history, no matter the tide, he and his would go unscathed. Certain positions in life were stable, built upon solid foundations for which no shift could crack.
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He felt the flow, at the age of 54 spent plenty of time entrenched by life, and because of this, had become well accustomed to its way.
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“You hear,” he said to his assistant, a small and young man named Bruce, who, like many before him, was pale but a brown nose, and wore thick rimmed glasses, and paid close attention, writing notes, studying success. Bruce was writing notes when Charley spoke to him then.
“You hear,” Charley continued in the typical, long winded tone of old men telling stories, “the younger generation is more lost than any before it.”
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“I do hear that a lot,” Bruce said, “why do you think that is?”
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A smile grew upon Charley’s narrow lips, as if a trap he had placed had been tripped, titillating his intelligence. “There are,” he said, focusing his oral instrument upon the ending consonant of each word, a solo trumpeting introduction to a well orchestrated philosophical exchange. He paused before finishing his sentence, rose from his desk and turned to the tall windows behind him. He rested his arms behind his back, clasping his hands together like a man walking a child, a finger in hand. Distracted by the busy city below, Charley spoke absent of his previous passion, yet now with more seriousness than ever before.
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“There are many theories,” he said, watching autumn paint banality yellow and orange and brown and red. “I read an opinion piece a few weeks ago… In the times I believe, by a well credentialed psychologist named Dr.Karamazov. The piece’s title was, The dissolution of Womanhood, Motherhood, and the American family. And it had some very interesting ideas on why young people are so lost.”
Bruce looked up from his notebook. The pale sun escaping the great clouds above traveled at extreme speeds and crashed fantastically into the lenses in Bruce’s glasses. The white light soaped the glass, making Bruce appear to have no eyes at all, just white and the reflections of his surroundings. It was fall and about to rain hard, the weather report predicted hours and hours ago.
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“What did the article say,” Bruce asked, removing his glasses to clean them with a small cloth he kept in his shirt pocket.
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His eyes, Charley thought, seeing them naked, were small, too close together, set-in and sickly. Under the soft yellow light installed above, a shadow grew of the hunching young man and Charley thought of when he was an assistant. Bitter sweet, the years felt so far away. He was lost, too, he thought, but not to the extent he sees in the present day. The blind leading the blind, he now trusted the words more than ever before.
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An old, wrinkling hand, like a rusted anchor clasps the sea floor, wrapped thoughtfully around Charley’s chin, reminding him it was his turn to speak. A 54 year old set of lips were wetted by a similarly aged tongue, and moments later a warm resonate tone, the shape and texture of a foxpelt, played like a well armed instrument.
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“You see,” Charley began, “some time ago, there was a shift in the eye of society, a change in perspective. We began to reevaluate traditions, ones so long held their purpose perhaps was lost to the masses. One in particular interested Dr. K: The tradition of family.”
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“Sparing you the argument, as much of it I found to be bland conjuncture, his points were thrice: For humans to maximize happiness, standard roles which proliferate success, should be maintained and guarded; Men and women are different, bearing strengths and weaknesses equally, but in different aspects of life, and therefore, should pair in the pursuit of happiness; Hierarchies are a natural aspect of life, and should be respected for they are an observation of natural order, and not man made.”
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“Interesting,” Bruce said, folding and placing the small, well-used cloth back into his plaid-shirt pocket. Its smell was subtle but perceivable to the delicate mind when patting the pocket twice, a habit he had since a boy. He was 23, a college drop-out. He had gone to community college, studied business. He lived with the love of his life, a woman by the name of Suesy Suasan, and they cared for pets in their small apartment. A cat and a dog- the impossible duo- but somehow, they made it work.
Bruce knew his kitchen was dirty, but that was okay, it would be cleaned, and he would cook Suesy dinner. There were tomatoes in the fridge, some cream… He would make her spaghetti.
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“I would,” Bruce said, “be interested in what Dr.K’s home life was like”.
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Charley drew in life deeply, disturbing the white hairs protruding his nostrils like uncut grass in the windy rain, “awful,” he said. “He was married twice, both of which ended horrifically in suicide, leaving four boys with no mother, and a depressed drunk of a father”. He saw Bruce consider the history in mournful silence, communicating the inner function of his mind in brow alone; their movement akin to train coupling rods rolling up and down, up and down . He saw his assistant’s lips quiver with anticipated speech, then ease again, as if nothing were to be said.
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Before another word could be said, Charley received a call on his cell phone. He reached into his right pants pocket with his right hand, and used his left to halt Bruce, waving briefly. Bruce understood and went back to his notes.
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The caller was Mr. Wankman, the owner of Wankman Inc., the company Charley and Bruce were employed by.
To Wankman, Charley was his Bruce.
He called Charley often to check on business, to ask about so and so. He had little joy in life despite being rich. His family hated him because he was a decrepit bastard who hated change. For Mr.Wankman, the world was a reflection upon oily water.
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“Hello,” Charley said, turning his back to Bruce.
“Did you see my email,” Wankman asked.
“Uhm,” Charley walked quickly to his desk seat, sat, activated his computer with a fury of clicks, “Which one are you talking about?”
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Bruce watched selfishly as his boss read through his email. Charley looked nervous. He looked old, and unkempt. His desk was a disparaging mess. A tower of old newspapers claimed its lower left quadrant beside the computer keyboard. In slow rotation, four cups of coffee, each in different stages of depravity, occupied the inner right section of his desk, all leaving their mark upon the wooden surface. A stack of files and loose documents mounded the remaining space, leaving only small pockets of usable surface.
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Wankman’s voice was shrill. He was a concise and frustrated man, who spoke too loudly over the phone. “The one I just sent you, Charley… The newest one.”
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Charley eased when he saw he had not neglected his work; the email was sent only minutes before Mr.Wankman had called.
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“Oooh,” Charley said with submissive acknowledgement, “this email! I must have just missed it Mr.Wankman… Let me read over it real quick and call you back.”
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“Alright. Call me back.” Mr.Wankman hung up. It was four o’clock. It was getting dark outside, filling the large office with warm rays of orange and bitter sweet feelings of the day’s end. Clouds populated the sky, getting darker and darker, making it hard for Bruce to see the birds from his desk.
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He knew his shift was nearing its end. It was Friday. A change of season made it hard for everyone to focus. Too many thoughts of death and life and how cold it will soon be.
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“You may leave,” Charley said, making no effort to look away from his computer, “if you’d like, you may leave early. It’s Friday, afterall”.
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Bruce thanked him and left.
Charley finished his work hours later, to the satisfaction of his boss, and resigned tired and hungry.
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and then Add to home screen.