Un Jour Dans La Vie

Part I

“One day we will be reunited and until then we all just will keep tapping our feet to the same harmonious rhythm.”

As soon as the train hit the city I lit a cigarette. The scent of the Manhattan air and the feeling of it gives me the chills that traverse down my spine, giving me a sense of anguish, a sense of dread, one that warrants the intoxication of a nice cigarette after returning back home after all these years. Staring outside the train car with a newspaper in my hands I neglectfully ignore the ashes that were dripping from my lit cigarette. I guess I was in a trance of sorts, my hands idly holding the newspaper, no other feeling to them other than the fact that they simply are just… there. The ash, after a few moments of neglectfulness, falls upon the newspaper and that trance was quickly extinguished when the fires started from the ash and paper. The stewardess rushes into the car with a fire extinguisher and quickly puts the fire out.

She sighs and sits next to me and followed up with a question “Do you mind loaning me a smoke?” The stewardess asked with a flirty tone.
Being the proper gentleman I am I politefully acknowledge and hand her one, my last one to be precise. The stewardess and I make small talk for about 10-15 minutes until she started to take notice of my (I assume) absence in interest.

“I hope she doesn’t get the feeling that I am being a pretentious pig, I just can’t express much joy when all I feel is dread after returning here after all these years, and under such grave circumstances. Despite how much I’d like to, I can’t explain this all to her; for if she hasn’t gone to heaven to get the call that god is dead and have to come back to earth for his reception, then I find her understanding of the situation to be quite hard”. I thought to myself.

She was a looker. That much was certainly true with her luscious brunette hair in curls, a radiant smile that was to die for and piercing blue eyes. Despite her beauty and sweetness I didn’t find myself in the mood to make small talk; much less a relationship. “I knew why I was here and that’s the only reason I am here.” I thought to myself; something of a reassurance to keep myself grounded.
The train arrives at the Grand Central Terminal and after a second or two of static buzzing overhead I heard something.

“Ladies and gentlemen we have reached our destination! Thank you for riding with us today and have a good day.” The conductor blared over the train’s intercom.
In comes the stewardess, flirtier than last time, to bid me a goodbye.
“I just wanted to say it was a pleasure to meet you and thank you again for the cigarette. Those help the days pass by like nothing else ever could. Well except for a possible date sometime?” She said to me a small smirk on her face.

I give her a glance, in amusement. This girl certainly is quite persistent, that much is clear. I tell her “Pleasure is all mines, darling. As for that date you requested I’m sure one of these fine gentlemen would look to take a doll like you out for a night on the town. I certainly would since it’s hard to say no to such a pretty face, but my reasons for being back in New York are, shall we say, leaving me with little room for enjoyment.”

“I understand… I think.” The stewardess said to me.

She was pretty but she didn’t seem to be the brightest ever. Afterward I give her a kiss on the cheek and say goodbye. I grab my hat and coat and step off of the train and walk off of the platform.

Shortly after a brisk walk out of the station I find myself on 42nd street. The buildings, the folks and even the streets feel more “alive” than they did when I was a kid. The city was always a metropolis, but now, with the industrialization of the United States, it feels more metropolitan and alive than it did when I was a young boy. This was a double edged sword as far as I was concerned. The memories I had here were wiped clean and replaced with a new template that’s primed and ready for the next dreamers.

I look in the windows of a small toy shop my father would take me to as a kid and I see myself, younger of course, playing with toys in the aisles and my father standing beside me with a warm smile across his face. Before I know it though that dream, that memory is swept away like a gust of wind rushed across it only to be greeted to bleak reality: a typewriter store. I was standing there, looking like a moron I assume, staring at goddamn typewriters. I shake the cobwebs from my mind and get a grasp of reality; even if that’s not what I wanted to do. I take off shortly after leaving the typewriter store and the memories I had there.

The streets are busting at the seams with life, men and women both walking down the streets in top hats and classy tuxedoes and dresses; all talking part of the endless self-indulgence of high class society, a life that I most certainly had more than my fair share of the phoniness and social pretentiousness. On the other side of the spectrum, that spectrum, in reality is a simple street; I see the third class vermin. They are what the 1st class considers the social disease, the bane of exquisite living since they are always there, asking for a handout, a hand to help them through their troubled times. I sympathize with these people. They looked down upon by even the most mundane of hood rats and are left to rot in the streets of New York. To top it all off the rich get disgusted when the poor ask for help. “Maybe if you didn’t flaunt the expensive taste you have, like a diamond necklace around your neck, then the homeless would be less inclined to make a beeline to the most apparent rich person in the vicinity.” I thought to myself in disgust. Despite how much that bothers me I know there is nothing that one man can do about it and so I digress and carry on.

Further along my stroll I see a man standing on milk crates shouting religious insanities. This man was a mess with his hair in knots, raggedy clothes and dirt ridden beard. This man was a clear member of the lower class vermin. This may be a contribution as to why the rich despise the poor but this manic is but a small percentage of humanity; much less the poor. I can understand that, I can’t see why the others can’t.

“god”, I say, “ sir, do you think these insane screams you make on the sides of 42nd mean anything more to him than those half-hearted greedy sermons that pastors give in those charity domains they call churches? What is your name?” I asked the homeless man.

“Jason teller is my name and believe me sir when I say I have heard the voice of god talk to me as clearly as the records playing on the phonographs they have playing down at the Ritz. You rich Manhattan folk are always so one sided and close minded. You don’t believe in god because you have everything you desire. You have money. You have high status social lives. You have nice home and trophy wives. What could you possibly want with religion? What is your name since I have the decency to give you mine.” Teller said.

“It’s you, the always open mouths, which give the poor a bad reputation. You hit the bottom of the barrel so what do you do? You look for clarity in a false idol, a superstition. You are entitled to whatever you believe, that I do not try to dispute but please don’t waste these working folks’ time with such nonsensical babblings. It’s funny you say such things, because it’s those very things us ‘Manhattan folk’ have that you and your blind followers crave. You use this religious front to try and secure your fame and fortune, your fifteen in fame. Instead asking for handouts with prayers that fall upon deaf ears, why not go and make a living, get that fancy house, nice wife and kids and get all the cold heartless cash in the world, see how happy you’ll be when your heart is just as cold as the cash you’ll be holding. My name, Mister Teller, is Renoir, Branden Renoir. Now if you don’t mind I have to meet my friend for some drinks up the ways and I am not one for late entrances, I am sorry that I must bid ado from the monotony of this chat, but, well, no I really am not. Take care of yourself, old man.” I furiously tell him.

He kept opening his mouth for what I can only assume was an attempt at a rebuttal but the only things were to come out of his mouth where babblings and the poison in which he so desperately preached. Part of me felt a sense of pride, the other despair. The joy being that I possibly made a blight on an already looked down upon face; that being the homeless, shut his trap and stop feeding the rich more reason to hate the poor even more than the already do. The despair thinking that all the rich snobs around me were praising me and heralding me as a savior - thinking that I am in support of the class segregation that plagues modern societies.

As the day settles into the midday I continually saw the faces of middle aged people, old, aging and doing nothing but killing time, waiting, waiting for that absolution. The faces were often wrinkled like a 16th century map, telling thousands of stories with each wrinkle but the past doesn’t suit these folks unquenchable desires to create more for themselves. Humanity, despite never wanting to admit it, always want more than what they have. They can have it all, sitting on the throne at the top of the world and when they see that last star off in the sky they reach for it, tip toeing on the edge and they fall. They always fall. It’s that greed that kills these people, or at least leaves them miserable. Never knowing what they have they gone on the dead man’s journey to capture that last star in the midnight sky. And until they get that, they will never be content.

A shoe polisher, about his early teens sits on a chair outside the bar and asks if he can shine my shoes for a couple bucks, he looked ill and his clothes were that of a peasant of these parts. Feeling pity for the kid, I agree and hand him a $10 bill and have a seat.

“You are looking mighty well today sir. How are you?” asked the young shoe polisher.

“Uhh... Good. Yeah, real good… say, son, what is your purpose for this charity work? What’s got you needing this money so badly for? Are you sick? Hungry?” I inquire.

“What? Oh no sir, nothing likes that, well I am hungry but not enough to ask for food. Oh gosh, I dropped the rag.” The boy announced in a shameful expression. He quickly got back to polishing the right shoe after finishing the left shoe. “It’s my ma, she’s sick, cancer. She has been to a doctor who said she probably has cancer, but they can’t be certain. I’m raising money to potentially get her the help she needs.” The boy said despairingly.
“Well, son, I wish I could help. I do feel sympathetic for you. I have lost a loved one due to such terrible causes, but please be aware, hope, in situations like this, only can last for so long and do so much. If her illness gotten to severe there is no hope, just do what you can to make her passing easier. Don’t spending your time out here cleaning other people’s shoes asking for a cheap handout.” I say as I get my coat unbuttoned and stand up “your mother wouldn’t want this for you, your efforts are going to be completely in vain, but I can respect the effort, no matter how futile.” I say to the young man.

“You… you’re a despicable human being” said the boy, tears pouring down his eyes and his voice crackling.

I look back and the boy sat in the chair, his hands in his eyes crying, his brown jockey hat on the knee of his trousers. He raises his hand slightly and opens his mouth only to be speaking silence. Whatever he had to say to the young boy has been lost forever. I glanced at my pocket watch and saw that I was going to be late if I didn’t get there now. I would’ve liked to apologize for my cynicism, my brutal honesty. I didn’t mean for it to come out quite the way it did but I am a cynical man. I rush down the street and head for the Ritz.
I arrived on the dot, and I am greeted by a doorman who alerts him to the no hats policy the establishment has. Not looking to come off as rude and in an attempt to ease my conscience of the prior incidents, I comply and take off my hat and jacket and ask him to carefully hang them up until his departure. The doorman takes them and fulfills his request. I take a quick look around and after a few moments of standing around I spot my old friend Marty, standing by the side doors down the steps. I walk toward him while he stands there with his arms open. I opened his arms and we proceeded to give each other a quick hug before heading through the doors to the bar.

“Take a seat, would you Branden? How have you been? My goodness, it’s been a dogs age since I’ve last seen you. You’re looking good. How’s the wife?” Marty asked.

“I have been doing quite well; I own a nice house out in Paris, France. Got the house that everyone wants, it’s absolutely elegant. Huge dining room; Mahogany in colour with a lot of paintings hanging up, very nice study and library, big bathroom, just something most people desire when looking for someplace to stay. The wife? You mean Jana? Ah yes, she divorced me when we arrived in Paris. She was fed up with everything I was doing. I left ESSEC Paris shortly after I arrived because business wasn’t the thing I wanted to do. I was spending time painting and working on exhibitions with this wonderful group of impressionist painters. Plus, I was having an affair with an Impressionist artist who went by the name of Mary. I haven’t seen her in ages. Last I heard she left for japan but I couldn’t be certain. I don’t know if Jana ever found out, but she acted as if she did. Those feelings might’ve been built and fueled only by her suspicion. Guess we’ll never know though.” I confess to Marty.

“Right, that’s quite Interesting.” He exclaimed “would you fancy a smoke and drink? America is in a prohibition of sorts, got us all on our knees begging for the hooch.” Marty asked.
“That’s what happens when the hypocrites become self-righteous, ehh?” I say to him with a quirky laugh.

“Amen Branden, Amen. What will you have to drink? It’s on me. Oh and here is that cigarette.” Marty said handing me a cigarette.

“I will have a martini, if you don’t mind bartender.” I requested as I lit my cigarette. Inhaling the smoke and following with the sweet exhale. The smoke running across my icy lips and warming them to good warmth while leaving them feeling a slight bit chapped.

“You know Branden, I know you’re happy with your current lifestyles, but, umm… someone else isn’t too happy. I’ve been talking to your uncle Francis. He hasn’t been too happy after receiving letters from ESSEC saying that you were willing to withdrawal yourself without receiving the deposit he paid for your acceptance into Harvard before you left. I am your friend, you know that, but Francis, he does have a point. That’s some shady business. But I’m not going to poke my nose into affairs that quite frankly don’t concern me. All I ask is that you talk to Francis after the viewing to discuss this. Most certainly not before because you guys will have a hell of a huge blowout if you do and you’ll ruin the viewing if these problems spill over to that.” Marty said in a concerned voice.

“Marty, just keep to yourself, alright? I appreciate your concern but we’re all grown adults. I don’t need you giving me some advice on how to be a man. You just pay keep yourself out of my affairs. I’ll talk to the old man today since I have to stay at his place until Friday when I head back home. That’s only, what, 3 days? It won’t be that bad. If he can’t accept what I’m doing well, he better man up and keep this to himself at the viewing, it is his little brother in that casket so he has to have some respect, right?” I ask.

The tone of the dinner went downhill. We discussed small things but it was all rather trivial and mundane. All of that stuff that doesn’t interest me – small talk. If I am going to engage in conversation I need something that interests me, if not just something that has merit and discussion value. If you’re going to make small talk then you’re better off not talking to me at all.
“Well Marty, thanks for the meet and drink. I needed that. I will see you tomorrow at the viewing but now, I got to go see Francis. If you want you can wait with me for a cab but you’re probably too busy with that beautiful wife and kid of yours to waste such time with an old friend on doing something so trivial.” I announced as I stood up and walk to the doors to get my coat and hat.