Social propriety is a wonderful thing. One can feel the heaving of sighs and nervous perspiration echoing through a din devoid of noise but full of it all the same. I used to wonder whether the stagnant ebb of a done day meant relaxation and comfort. Oh dear, I was much too wrong. There is a saying that food and love comprise of a hearth and propriety the wisps that hover just above it, like an octopus’s tentacles. The tentacles whip back and forth, keeping the utter desolation of atmospheric air at bay; or much so, the law and order that maintains the land we know to be fair and kind. Observing as ashes weft in the heat of flame, we ride on the wisps. Then, hearing the stoking of fire, we abandon our pursuits, and float back. Conformity is the impetus that compels our return. It is wondrous, this compulsion to conform. To obey propriety, in our minds, is to appreciate the whims of life and examine the immutability of social interactions while adhering to expectation.            

Those who seek to galvanize themselves through steady stimulation of lawlessness, to rise from their pathetic upbringing and make an office away from our social edifice, are the wanderers; the ashes that stay afloat, either detached from others, or confused themselves. The expulsion from conformed citizenry to censorship of rules.   

I couldn’t realize it at first, but I had never once pictured myself as a wanderer. Sure, Guam had seen me relaxing on its sun-kissed beaches; Hawaii had enthralled me with its ceremonial dances; and Texas, oh Texas, had seen me galloping giddily like a cowboy off on his last ride. I had a fine time, to be sure of it. Utter surety made me tired of it all; all that adventuring and gallivanting. Oh yes, I had a fine time. But all things must end. Why yes, isn’t that the rule of life? Until death kicks the tree down, you must enjoy the fruits of life. Old age is a delicate label. It is where wisdom thrives and evanescence looms, where ailments will rope you into the abyss or Cerberus will bite your sleeping throat, dragging you into the dark. The lollipops of life are sugary, to be sure. Savor them and their sticks all you want. But decay is inevitable, so you must make the most of it. 

The plan I have, after seventy-five years of fun and lollipops, social studiousness and whimsical pursuits, is modest. Live prosperously in the hills of Australia hovering in dew green mist below titanic mountains and swing from a straw hammock while Burt snoozes under a nearby tree. Admittedly, Tolkien’s work had its fair share of influence on my youthful mind, with all its talk about Shire-folk and whatnot. But we are all subject to such influence from time to time.

I live in a New York borough, where there is a persistence of loudness and clamor. The nuances of social propriety run fluidly here and there, and all this I watch from the first floor of Charleston Building. I have a wonderful apartment in the building; rich and embellished with all accounts of affluence. After finishing my bachelors from Yale, I chanced city life and traveled to Columbia to pursue my doctorate. Economics and history are wonderful avenues. One teaches the lifeblood of modern livelihood and ostentatious happiness while the other cautions not to repeat the pathetic, criminalistic behaviors of the past. Both degrees, hanging on velvet-studded frames in the tea room, add an atmosphere of scholarly repute that complements nicely with the awkwardness of small-talk. 

One day in my living room, after setting aside a travel guide of Australia, I hear a knock at the door and a soft voice. 

“Mr. Reginald?”

I pause before speaking.

“Why, yes? Who happens to be there?”

The voice responds again. 

“Can I bother you with a touch of tea? And perhaps a bit of talk?”

I rest my head on my hand and rub my forehead. The old have no time for patience.

“But what is your name?”

After a pause.

“Catur, sir. Georges Catur.”

“And on what intent has you in place of the quietness that was just moments ago, outside my door?”

A cough.

“Pressing matters presses us all, I’m afraid.”

I sit up.

“What?”

I scamper across the hall and reach the door. Once I do, I peer into the hole [quite useless for it positions yourself to get your head blown open] and, still wary, pull the door open ever so slightly. A man of most respectable demeanor, wearing a rogue tweed coat complete with a golden pocket watch and those one-eyed lenses so ubiquitously worn by the haughty, stands stiffly outside. After this quick appraisal, I open the door and ask gruffly. 

“Well, bide my time all you want, Mr. Catur, but what has demanded my attention?”

A muscle near Catur’s mouth twitches imperceptibly as he opens his mouth. 

“You’re an economist, I suppose?”

“Yes, but what concerns is that of yours. Irrelevant, I say.”

“No, sir. I inquired because your opinion is of urgent importance. You see…well, I presume I would be a much better guest if I were to sit down and talk to you. Stiff joints, you see?”

I take a glance at Catur’s legs, and then at his face. His countenance gleaned to me a man of between forty and fifty years of age. Slowly, I respond. 

“Yes, of course. Come in and soothe your legs, Mr. Catur, in my tea room.”

“Thank you, sir. I believe what I have to share with you is of much importance.”

Catur nods his head [I expected nothing short of such courtesy] and walks in. 

I turn around and motion for him to follow me down a left hallway.

“And, be mindful of the wood, Mr. Catur. I just had them polished. Very fine polisher. Often gets the feet slippery.”

“You mustn't worry, Mr. Reginald.”

I smile rigidly.

We reach the tea room and sit down. I call for Misty, my maid.

“Misty, dear. Could you be so kind as to pour some tea for us. Black will do for me…and you, Mr. Catur?”

“I’m partial to green tea, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Black and green, Misty. And be hasteful. Tea is best sipped under conversation.”

Misty scuttles in, her young face smiling shyly at Mr. Catur. 

“Yes sir. I’ll be on it.”

Once Misty exits the tea room, I direct my attention to Catur. 

“Well, what ‘pressing matter’ would you wish to speak of?”

Catur clears his throat before launching forth.

“I presume you have some collection as to the Mast? This borough’s monetary bastion? The Fed’s primary subsidiary?”

“Why ye- Thank you Misty. You can leave the cups right here on the table.”

Misty reenters the room and sets the cups down, then quickly exits. I hear her climbing up the stairs. Turning my attention back to Catur, I answer. 

“Yes, I happen to know of the Mast. Why did you mention it?”

“Well, you see, it has been overturned. All its holdings are gone. Funds, charitable donations, all gone Just one week ago!”

I raise my eyebrows. 

“And where does that concern me?”

Catur adjusts his collar and shifts in his seat.

“Well, you are an economist, I suppose?”

“WAS,” I correct. “Those days are long past gone.”

Catur waves his hand across the room. 

“Oh come on, Reginald. You surely undermine your own capability. You are the last good breed of economists. All others have either run off with money or are too full of cupidity to mask their pathetic performances of leeching money from big-time corporations! We need you.”

I cock my head.

“We?”

“The Big-Time Clock. The arbiter of the Pacific. We believe the scoundrels who took off with the money to be somewhere close to -”

I raise my hand.

“I’m dearly sorry, Mr. Catur, but I won’t trouble myself with such dealings and depravity. I haven’t got that long, you know, before I pass on. And I would like to enjoy life before it kicks the bucket under me.”

Before Catur can answer, I get up and shepherd him to the door, and with a little “off you go,” send him on his way.

Life is fleeting, I’m sure you’ve heard. An old man’s tale is one of lingering sorrow and regret. Much of it, you know. And over time, that sorrow, the death of loved ones, of sisters, of brothers, burdens us until we too fall and fail. Much of my youth was spent, aside from bouts of pleasure, as an econometric analyst at Mast. Industrial fervor then was crafted along the lines of haste and clamor. ‘98 I remember as clear as day. 

The end of the Spanish American War had New York in an uproar. “Land, coal,” people were shouting, along with all sorts of greedy expressions I found [and still do] unbecoming to man, yet still, quite frankly, in propriety. I too took part in celebration down and up Main Street, in my sharp black hat and coat, clapping my hands with youthful vigor. Work was a steady beat of drums then. Oh yes, especially then. The financial panic years earlier, the end of war, and opening of rich, bountiful lands in Latin America and Canadian provinces, was a burst of energy for New York’s fiscal impetus. A rapid beating of the drums ensued, erring from conventional bounds. Fellow economists hustled and clamored up to the Mast, as though bosom friends sharing in intimacy following a long stretch of time. I was at the time, thirty years of age, fresh into the respectable thrum of the upper class that seemed to pervade everywhere. I had just been promoted to chief financial officer at Mast for my, as the board put it, “unyielding honesty and calming decency.” A thriving officer of the economy, it was then when I purchased my housing in Charleston. Love was too far off for me. None of it really appealed to me, I suppose, in the way it made others lust. A brief bout of the popular word ‘dating’ only confirmed it. Apologies cannot overcome long, angry sessions with women over matters of work.  It simply cannot, I say. The two are incompatible.

There is a time in life, no, a point. Yes. A specific point where we examine our livelihoods. A youthful child, even a young man, will not care for the peril of death. No such person bothers themselves with such dreariness then. But the years creep on. Have you ever heard of the story of a man cursed to push a rock up a mountain? Our existence concerns the toils and struggles to lift the rock up the mountain. Theoretically, this can go on forever. Immortality. But nature has erected an impassable precipice [with slight variations in placing for everyone, of course] where the rock we push will no longer roll upwards. Here, death gives a cruel smile and kicks the rock down to the mountain. And so we are reborn into a bird, rock, tadpole, building; into whatever our atoms turn into according to the scientific pishposh swirling around. 

It was this that compelled me to push Catur away. The days far ahead, and far too short, beckoned. I owed myself to them. And so, after I saw Mr. Catur out the door, I turned and walked to the living room. Burt, my German Shepherd dog came up to my feet from the bedroom and then settled himself on the sofa.  From the table, I picked up the travel guide I had set aside, sat down, flipped it open, crossed my legs, and resumed my quest for those titanic mountains in a sea of dew green mist.

—

I wake up to birds chirping amicably outside my double-paned window, with the sunlight gently warming my bed. After going about my daily morning routine, I walk into the living room. Seeing the travel guide on the tabletop, I think of yesterday’s meeting with Mr. Catur. Quite a desperate lad, I think, to show up at my doorstep and ask such a thing. 

Slowly, I walk to a nearby closet, pick out a brown coat, select a black cane, and then head out. 

Just outside Charleston, I take stock of the street. Then, I begin to stroll. It is early morning, so there isn’t much of a crowd. In the distance, smoke churns from the industrial factories full of young laborers, hopeful of days ahead. smile and then begin to walk to a nearby bakery. Once inside, I greet the owner.

“Hello Mr. Bahlt.”

Mr. Bahlt, a middle-aged, tall, Indian man, standing at the register, responds.

“Why hello, Mr. Reginald. How is your health suiting you?”

I wave my hand.

“Well, well, Mr. Bahlt, not to worry.”

“Alright, sir. You happen to want the usual again, I’m sure?”

“Yes, please.”

Mr. Bahlt nods.

“I’ll have Joe get it from the back.”

I nod.

Mr. Bahlt motions for me to come to the counter. I oblige.

“How’s your leg treating you?” he asks.

I sigh and look down at my cane.

“Fine, fine. A bit of ache in the knee joints and sole, but otherwise, nothing a healthy cane can’t fix.”

“Good, good…And how is Burt faring?”

I smile.

“Oh Burt. Well, he is faring fine. Probably concerning himself with some crisp crumbs.”

Mr. Bahlt laughs.

“Good, I’m glad to see you healthy…You and your dog.”

A wiry man enters the room from the back and whispers something in Mr. Bahlt’s ear. Then, after a moment, Mr. Bahlt responds.

“Oh, thank you Joe for informing me.”

He then turns to me.

“It seems the poppy-chocolate bread has run out, I’m afraid, Mr. Reginald. Would you care to bother yourself with anything else?”

I cock my head.

“Something else? Hmm, I think not; not in propriety, I think. Why, what happened to the bread?”

Joe leans and whispers something else into Mr. Bahlt’s ear. Then, Joe exits the room. Mr. Bahlt frowns and turns to me.

“Told me there was a lack of circulation. Money, I’m sure he said, and its poor circulation. Wonder why that is. Two weeks ago, I paid him his paycheck just fine. Seemed pleased after that.”

I raise my hand.

“Did you say two weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

I conjure up an image of a desperate Catur telling me of the robbery in the Mast. Then, after a moment, I speak.

“That’s interesting, truly. I heard that the Mast was robbed just a week ago. Are you perhaps aware of that?”

Confused, Mr. Bahlt responds.

“Why, no. The Mast, robbed? I should’ve heard about it. In fact, if that’s the case, why hasn’t the news been stirring up a racket?”

I shrug.

“Can’t say for sure, but surely they’re trying to keep this under the wraps.”

“Then how did you tread upon this?”

After a pause.

“An informant from Big Clock came up to my door yesterday and told me this. Said he wanted my help in catching the robbers.”

“Oh…well, then. I suppose you’ll have to assent with him. You’d want your poppy-chocolate bread back, I suppose?”

I smile.

“Why yes. That is what I would like. But, like I told him, my days of such mental practice are gone. I am not the same man I used to be.”

Mr. Bahlt grimly smiles.

“Yes, you are true. But why did he come to you then, I suppose?”

I finger my cane.

“He said I was the last of the good breed of economists left in this aging world.”

Mr. Bahlt sighs.

“I believe you, Mr. Reginald. It’s hard to believe it, but these are changing times. You’ve lived through two wars, three now, if you count the horrors in Germany, France, and Britain. Quite difficult to distance yourself from them.” 

I rub my head and close my eyes.

“It is an old man’s burden, my friend. I'll consider it. But your answer may be a firm no.”

Mr. Bahlt sighs.

“It never hurts to think a bit, does it, Mr. Reginald. Now, would you interest yourself in the special for today: pumpkin cherry pie?”

I laugh softly.

“No, Mr. Bahlt. I’m afraid not. This body cannot keep up with such conveniences you young men cherish for yourselves.” 

Mr. Bahlt smiles.

“No problem, Mr. Reginald. Have a nice rest of your morning.”

I grasp my cane tighter as I prepare to depart.

“And same to you, Mr. Bahlt.”

After I depart the bakery, I turn and, with all haste a man of my age can muster, walk to the Mast [Just a block off Charleston, so no bus or trolley needed]. After ten minutes or so, I arrive in front of the Mast. It is quite gigantic everytime I cross paths with it, despite having worked there for twenty or so years. Some things never get old, I believe. They are blessed with longevity, or at least the spirits and memories of them are, for the building in front of me was bare, dry, and empty. It carried the spirit of an alley modest families would want to avoid.  I scrutinize the Mast more closely, and after a second, notice a sign plastered weakly on the door. It read, “Closed for maintenance. All stoppages or shortages in coinage are temporary and will be resolved in a few weeks time.” 

“Pfft,” I mutter in an undertone. 

What game was the Mast playing at? Greed, duplicity? I shake my head and then begin towards Charleston. A half hour later, I arrive at my door, but before I can slide my key into the hole, I hear soft voices coming from inside the apartment. My eyes widen. A robbery!? Larceny? Kidnapping? Then, in the midst of my thoughts, the talking halts and the door is thrown open. In front of me stands Catur and a young man I did not recognize. I quickly step back in terror, waving my cane widly in front of me. 

“Ay, get back, you fools. Thieves!”

Catur and the young man glance at each other, and after a moment, Catur steps forward, gently pushing the cane aside.

“Mr. Reginald, I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. We aren’t thieves. We came to see you, you see. After my abrupt departure yesterday, I couldn’t say everything I wanted to, so I chanced on another visit today, bringing with me Julius.

He gestures towards the young man before continuing. 

“ I found your door unlocked, ever so slightly. Concerned, as I often am with the elderly, I went to see if you were fine. After a bit of search, we surmised that you had left, seeing as your coat had left its hanger. So we planned on waiting for you until you arrived. And now we are here, at this moment, so all is well, I suppose. Now, come on in. This is, of course, your apartment.”

Catur smiles jovially and he and Julius both stand aside to let me in. After a moment's hesitation, I walk through the threshold and quickly swiveled to face the two men. 

“What is your purpose here, again? Bothering me in the first lights of day?”

It was Julius who speaks first, rather harshly and rudely.

“We have no time for expla-”

Catur raises his hand.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reginald, for my partner’s harshness. Quite impatient, he is, along with the new generation emerging thinking they know better.”

Sensing a relaxed mood, I pipe up in the awkward silence. 

“Well, no problem. I remember I too was very rebellious all those years ago. Anyways, Mr. Catur [I made a point of addressing him directly], what bothersome tribulation has you here today?”

Mr. Catur clears his throat. 

“You see, the Mast has been shut down, and we haven’t the faintest clue as to why?"

“I’ll have you know that I happened to walk past the Mast today and saw a sign. One that told a lie.”

Mr. Catur’s eyes widen. 

“A lie? What lie do you speak of?”

“Well, it had etched on it that the slowdown in circulation was due to temporary shortage. I didn’t know what to make of it myself, to be honest.” 

“What a shock. This looks like a cover-up, don’t you th- Julius, start taking notes.”

Mr. Catur snaps his fingers in front of Julius’s apathetic face, which quickly snorts awake and glares at Mr. Catur.

“Right away, SIR,” he responds.

Julius takes out a notepad from his pocket as well as a pencil. Then, he begins to studiously jot down notes.

After a moment, Mr. Catur turns away from Julius and faces me. 

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Reginald. What could this mean? Oh yes, a cover-up! A cover-up. Something sinister is at play, pulling the strings of the Mast. It has the public fooled, but something just doesn’t add up, don’t you think?”

After a moment's hesitation, I respond.

“Why yes, I suppose there is. But I’m afraid you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

With finality, I begin to close the door, but Catur shoves his foot in between the wall and door. 

“Sir, if you could please listen to us,” Catur grunts. “We need you.”

I suddenly yank open the door.

“For what!” I yell. “Can’t you leave an old man at peace?!”

We both stand there, panting like dogs. Julius observes placidly a few feet away, pencil scratching away. 

I am the first to speak.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Catur. I, ahem, lost myself there.”

Catur takes out a handkerchief and wipes his brow.

“Oh dear. No, it is me who is sorry. I, I don’t seem to understand the perils of others.”

I incline my head.

“Ah, well, the only peril is the dryness of old age. It saps the energy and parches the spirit. A listless tune of sorrow and slowing heartbeat.  Truly, I am sorry. Wha-what were you going to say?”

Mr. Catur flashes a grim smile.

“Oh well, would it be bothersome to come in and discuss, in plain, recent events, under a bit of tea?”

I let out a smile. 

“I would quite like some company, Mr Catur. And I suppose Mr. Julius will be joining us…Oh, who am I kidding. Both of you, come on in!”

And once again, I allowed Mr. Catur into my apartment. Those titanic mountains would have to wait a bit longer. And the dew green grass could sway some more till Burt chewed them off. 

It is strange, really, how quickly an old man’s mind can mend. Don’t those young chaps always say the old are rigid, hardy, stubborn fools who can’t look past their own nose? Alas, it is such the case in the steady flow of propriety. Long-held beliefs seldom change, and I think not ever, for there is an inherency in every spirit, either to be a wanderer, to not be one, or to become one. I suppose, for my case, I was back in it, to reclaim, if anything, my youth and enjoy one last triumph.