The Lonely Old Man: Part VI

                        Start of Tale #2    

The Tenth Avenue snow was furious at the sight of me. It shouted in my ears and forced itself into angry little dervishes that skipped around my feet and across the pavement. The taxi had cost more than I expected, but I brought extra for thievery like that. To be frank, my pockets were very well lined since my mother’s father had died. When everyone fought in Europe, he was at home making money in the riveter industry. I’d say he hired ol’ Rosie and painted that canvas himself.

Anyway, the money he left was enough to fill my account and send me to Columbia. When Chet decided to show off his fancy West Side apartment, I was living a cab ride away. He sent a note through a mutual friend, begging me to attend his party for old times’ sake. So I took the cab from my own apartment and suffered two melodramatic stories from the driver. Don’t get me wrong—I despise parties. But I’d much rather drink myself blind out of boredom than sit in a rancid taxicab and listen to crazy Joe whine about his estranged former wife.

Chet’s flat covered nearly a quarter of the sixth floor. It had everything: parlor, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, full bath and shower, and an east-facing balcony with decorative rails. I left my shoes in the tiny foyer and stepped gingerly into the parlor. It was furnished very modernly—that is, modern as modern could be in 1951. Large, cushioned sofas sat against the wall to my left, with polished coffee tables and brass lamps flanking each one. Doorless walkways led to the dining room on the left and the kitchen on the right, both connecting in a bar next to the balcony door.

I knew most everyone in the place. Some had preceded me from the university, others lived with their parents in northern Manhattan, while still others traveled from New Jersey and Philadelphia. Those from abroad had already found a hotel for what night was left after the party. As a whole, it was a wealthy, entitled group of 20-somethings who, as most at that age, felt drawn to empty excitement and the taste of alcohol.

Granted, I was no different. But throughout my tenure at the university, I had myself fully convinced that I was somehow different; aloof, unique, and mysterious. I tried to convince the people around me that I knew something they did not. Quite successfully, I might add.

Almost immediately after entering the room, I was approached by two girls my age. The first was the mutual friend through which I had been invited. She was a nervous blonde gal who never seemed to finish her sentences. She had an unfortunately long face with a look of constant panic. “I’m glad you made it,” she said, flashing a smile and then swallowing it. “I was beginning to worry that...”

I nodded hesitantly and glanced at the other girl. Her name was Alice, and I had spoken with her many times before. She was tall, dark haired, very beautiful, and very, very rich. If not for her sharp wit and sense of humor, she would have been the epitome of those whom I tend to avoid.

“You’re not dressed like a beat,” she observed.

“Not this time,” I said, straightening my tie.

She smiled.

The nervous blonde gal began to say something, but was distracted by the arrival of more guests behind me. Stepping out of the way, I again turned my attention to Alice. She was recovering from a dainty coughing fit.

“How are your lungs holding up, Miss Walker?”

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Only as well as your liver.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Always the optimist, aren't you.”

It was my turn to smile.

“We’re both going to die young, you know,” she said matter-of-factly. “I bet everyone in this room will go insane by next year and hang themselves. Don’t you think?”

I shrugged and didn't reply, for I could see Chet approaching to my left. He greeted me with a loud shout, a great hug, and his trademark silly grin. Alice stepped back patiently.

I had always liked Chet. While many of us from old Canton left the farming life—often to places of wealth and prestige—Chet remained his jolly, genuine self. He got a kick out of everything remotely funny or interesting. I still remember the late parties where he’d laugh until his face turned as red as his hair. He was the type of fellow who could fill a flat with people from two rival schools—simply because they all liked Chet.  

“I knew you would come, I just knew it!” he was saying.

“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.