One August, Chapter Five.
August sits on an unassuming bench in the park watching the leaves of green as they part from the limbs of the trees, cast aside like the lovers of the world, like the little moments of life that passed by that never quite took hold of the safety of the memory of men and of women, he had always known that there was something profound to say about it all but he never bothered with it, he left that for more artful, more willing souls, and now he no longer has the time although he has the patience. And as always he wonders what it was the world thought of him, what passersby would think of him to their selves as they ambled by, would they ever have a sense of him or was he just another little old man waiting for the inevitable which finds us all in the end. Time, how it had once been an enemy to August Ashby, now it was only the space between breaths, funny how that happened. He was no longer the idealistic if not a little naïve young man that he once had been. And he thinks to himself in moments, “but wasn’t that the point?”
Spring in the city always was a time of great exploration for him. With his hands in his pockets he would take to the sidewalks and hobble along at a lackadaisical pace, never in the rush that seemed inherent in the people that brushed past. There was something about the tall buildings and the wonder of how such things came to be, he would often find himself reconstructing their construction, the sweat of the workers as they erected monoliths that would be around long after they passed on, churches, brownstones, all of it, so gaudy in the face of time, and yet – so beautiful. August walked along with his chin high although he never was aware of it, never realized what it meant to walk with one’s eyes cast above. He walked until he came to a place that he was familiar with and he crossed the street amid the rush of traffic until he came to the pathway of concrete squares of the pathway that would take him into a small but lovely little forest of trees which dotted the landscape beside City Hall. And finally he came to rest near the river that ran through the city itself and rested on a bench. Once he had watched a father flying a kite with his two young children here, he, August, had never seen them again but somehow that memory always gently lifted to the surface of his thoughts whenever he would find himself here. For some reason, to him, it had always signified what this place had come to mean to him.
A few moments had passed before he realized that he was running his fingers over the bare skin along his ring finger. It made him think of Catherine. Of how she had said yes to him, it made him think of the silences that they shared when he would catch her staring at him in that way that made the world go away as though suddenly there had been quiet amid the thrash of the rush of the night. He thought of the long conversations they would have as they lied in bed together, how she would talk so excitedly and so vehemently about the importance of art, about the madness of politics, of the places they would go. And it was that, the fact that in time she didn’t even seem to realize that it had gone from the places she would go to them, together.
Of course their parting had taken its toll on him. That morning when he awoke to find the ring on the counter and the note that it rested on. He needn’t even to read it to know what it said. And somehow it made sense to him as he simply lay on his back and folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. It had to be that way. It was as though the world had corrected itself, how could he ever hope to be with a girl like that. And yes there was a quietly creeping of sadness that followed but although he would never admit it to himself, he felt relief. Strange is the mind.
And so it was, he pushed himself into his work. He made the commute to work each day and slipped out of the office late at night and stopped for coffee and something to eat in the little deli that came to be a part of his routine before buying a paper at the newsstand and then he would retreat to the silence of his apartment, read the paper carefully before folding back into place, turn out the lights and fall into bed, sleep, awake and begin the cycle anew. There was an odd comfort to it all, an inexplicable numbness to the monotony, the necessary monotony to live such a way. And he would smile politely and nod whenever he would find himself in banal but nevertheless amusing conversations with his peers. In time he even began to ignore the sound of her voice when it would slip into his thoughts, that little voice that would chide him for all of this. But as it stood he began to see his place amid the workplace begin to rise. Suddenly he had found a place for himself. He was August, the quiet little clerk that would always be found amid stacks of papers and books, and he wasn’t shy enough to be thought of as mousy, nor social enough to be thought of as much more than a wallflower. He was simply August, the man that was somewhat serious in temperament that would never turn down a chance to help his peers or to work into the late hours of the night. But it was this work ethic that began to see that his duties became increased until he had found that he would be promoted from clerk to a head of a small but respectable research team. It was only those moments when he was turning down invitations from silly Albert, now a partner, to go out on the town that he thought of his college days and the life as he knew it then, suddenly even the boyhood days of Windily were a distant memory. No, there were laws and sanctions to sift through, balances to check, work to be done, and little silences to forget.
“I swear old boy, those wrinkles in your clothes are finding their way to your bones,” mused Albert after having ordered.
“Just been busy is all, I’m afraid spending time in the pits and the library means a great deal of sitting,” offered August.
“That would account for that little slouch you’ve been cultivating,” says Albert.
“And that suit. Is that new? Looks new, and nary a break in the crease, well done,” August replies.
“Why these old rags, of course they’re new, and as for the crease, it takes years of practice and a bit of starch to look so lazy yet important, it’s all about appearances on the top floors, you know that,” says Albert.
As August loosens his tie a little more and adjusts the cuffs on his sleeves where they are rolled up he offers his friend a loose smile. It had been some time now since he had time to visit with his colleague and dear friend. August would feel a little self-conscious about his matted clothing in this restaurant with its throngs of upwardly mobile movers and shakers but for the moment all he can focus on is that dull throb that permeates his days whenever the numbness becomes a little too much. As he rubs the blur out of his vision he can’t help but yawn.
“Oh my, try to look a little bit alive, August, and as though you have some manners,” quips Albert.
“I’m much too tired for manners at the moment, and what is this place anyhow, we’ve been waiting for our meal for about an hour now, I swear with whatever ungodly amount of coin you’re footing for all this you’d think we’d at least have our appetizers by now,” manages August.
“Well, I’ll have you know that I’m paying twice whatever ungodly amount you’re thinking of and that the service, while terrible, will be made up for once we’ve sampled the porterhouse,” says Albert.
“It baffles me, all this, you know with what I’ve heard and seen with my own eyes, they say that the market is collapsing and that there are people living hand to mouth and yet, here we are, what does that say about us, Albert, what does it mean, I mean truly,” says August.
“It says that we’re adept, my boy. That wherever there are gains to be had, there are those that lose, it’s the way of the world, now, you could say that this is unfair, but, it has always been the way of life, those that can, do, those that can’t, won’t,” offers Albert.
“Charming, Albert, I mean really,” answers August.
“Look, August, I understand that you have this naivety about you, which is completely understandable considering your roots, but you have to understand that you do not rise in this world without stepping on the backs of others, this is true of us all. I mean, look at this way, you are a regular workhorse, and without your efforts us higher-ups would look foolish and inept, ill-informed, but we don’t on a day to day basis because of whatever it is that you do, and what were we talking about, oh yes, I rise because of you, I step on your back and you, in turn, have your own little underlings that fetch you what you need, and it works,” says Albert, trailing off as he eyes a waitress.
“Yes, brilliant, except that I fetch what I need for myself,” shoots August.
“And that’s your choice, why else would you think we have interns for, they’re there for your abuse, should you choose to squander what little power you have to lord over them, that is your choice, my good man,” says Albert.
“I’d rather see to it myself lest I have to wait and do it over again anyhow,” says August.
“And that is precisely why I’ve been banding your name about for the opening we have atop of the ivory tower,” mutters Albert.
“I really wish you wouldn’t, I’m comfortable where I am, besides, I have a system in place and it took some time to get it performing at its best, and there’s so much glad handing and the like where you are, you know that I’m not good at that,” says August.
“Yes, but you could be; and you don’t really think that we are in our lofty positions without those that actually put the work, do you? Of course not, and you are that man, Mr. Ashby. But all work aside, how have you been?” asks Albert.
“Well, the Schuman report is coming along nicely, I’ve looked into the tax breaks and some of the outlook looks promising…”says August.
“No, my boy, I mean how have you been since the bit of business with what’s her name?” ask Albert as his voice softens a touch.
“You don’t have to do that, in fact, I insist that you don’t, you know her name, you can say it without worrying about me going to pieces, I’m fine, Albert,” answers August.
“You know, I do worry, August, and my own idiocy aside, you are my greatest friend and you can tell me things,” offers Albert.
“There’s nothing to tell, I work, I go home, I work and I go home and I don’t have time for much else, in fact, I prefer it that way,” murmurs August.
“But that’s precisely what I mean, old boy. You know that there is more to life than that little nook you’ve notched out for yourself at work and at home. Ah, what I mean is that you’re never going to fill that void of yours by shoveling work into it,” Albert says as his fingers fidget on the table.
“Yes, but it is a distraction nevertheless. And what is it that you want me to tell you, Albert. That I miss her and that she keeps showing up in everything, that I can’t listen to a piece of music without thinking of her and where she’s gone? That it’s been a year and that I still sleep on my side of the bed,” says August while his eyes shift slightly, gazing off somewhere unknown.
“August, it’s been almost two years,” says Albert meekly.
“Two years, wow, two years, I don’t know, Albert, I’m sad, Albert, I can think of anything else to say other than that I am sad,” says August.
“I know, August, I know. How about we leave this awful place and we do what all good men do when they are sad?” asks Albert.
“And that is?” says August.
“We drink, and then we drink a little more, we drink until we pass through that dreadful, pleasant, sadness until we find someplace a little warmer and out of the rain,” offers Albert.
“You know, I was going to politely decline whatever foolishness you were going to spring upon me after dinner, but, I think I’m going to take you up on this,” says August.
“And there it is, old boy, tonight will be nothing more than drink and jazz, music and misery, and we’ll forget about all the mundane, if only for a little while on borrowed time,” says Albert.
August turns the ring on his finger as he has for years. He watches the steady rush of the river. He thinks of the peaks and the valleys of what it means to love and to live and to live with love. The thoughts of Catherine still permeate his thoughts, are ever-present, and although it often leads him to the melancholy medley of musings of the things he has learned thus far, and how he still has questions and probably more than when he started his life, long ago, as a boy nestled in the arms of an old man that never understood the world and in turn the world never understood, and he wonders, but what it is that he wonders is and probably never will be made clear.
