The pleasures of silence

On Monday, I spoke at length with my uncle about the surprising turn in my family's fortunes. He noticed that my collar was not well-pressed and asked in what ways I had been dishonest in my previous business dealings. As we sat in his office, he sipping a 20-year-old single malt Scotch from a crystal tumbler and me attempting to make my hands seem useful as I watched, he told me that business was not what it once was. He could no longer afford even the smallest of expenditures to assist distant members of his family.

"But, Mr. Rockwell," I insisted, perhaps too adamantly.

"But nothing, son. Remember you still have your skills as a bootblack. As you yourself have proven, hard, honest work and an inquiring mind are the surest paths to success. Besides, as I've told you, I simply do not have the capital worth sparing."

I was silent then. I nodded when spoken to. I listened as he told me, like he had so many times before, that I must keep my attendance at church, run my household sternly but fairly, endeavor to learn all that might be possible, and present myself as a gentleman ought.

He grew increasingly drunk as he spoke to me, refilling his glass multiple times, as if for emphasis.

Near the end of his half hour dissertation on the merits of business, I inquired, hesitatingly, whether one of his colleagues or a gentleman from his church might profit from my services as a bookkeeper.

He slammed down his glass with such force that its amber contents careened into a wave across the contracts and other sundry paperwork that covered his desk. I had, he told me, clearly not been listening. He would not recommend someone who had difficulty keeping their own books for such a position. He would not, he told me, deign to risk his reputation on a man who at such a point in his life could not maintain the crispness of his own collar. He did not, he told me, have time for such nonsense. At which point he refilled his glass.

Security escorted me out of the building. The guard, oddly enough, shook his head as he grabbed my arm.

"A bit too much of the sauce, eh?"

I have thought endlessly of Mr. Rockwell's advice since that unpleasant afternoon. I believe that he may be right. I have reinvented myself before. There is no reason that more hard work and determination will not allow me to do the same once again, no reason other than the diminished role that Mr. Rockwell must play in my successes this time.

I have not, as yet, told Ida. I am fearful of what I might say to her. She did not, after all, know of my meeting with Mr. Rockwell, so what need was there for my collar to be starched perfectly?Though she says nothing and bares our heavy burdens with the approximation of a smile, she must, surely, let her duties suffer, for how could she have imagined on that day when I fell to my knees with the gaudiest of diamonds in my palm that she would be expected to perform such tasks? We had, for so long, had the sort of staff to which she was accustomed.

For her sake, then, I must redouble my efforts to complete my novel, for therein lies the fame and fortune that might transform the slightest upturn of her delicate lips into that radiant smile which once made me blind with happiness.

A few peculiarities

Last night, Ida and I spent several hours seated, at a respectable distance, on the sofa in our sitting room watching television. As those miraculous light-filled images of personages far away in time and place flickered across the bulging screen, I could not help but glance occasionally at my dear wife's profile lit by the faint blue glow of our most prized contraption. The television program Leverage, upon which my wife frequently discourses during tea, aired a charming play on honesty and deception last eve. My wife watched with rapt attention, though I, alas, had difficulty following the machinations of those swashbuckling characters.

I was, I believe, much too taken by dear Ida's profile in that faint blue glow and the continuing calculations of my feeble mind regarding the madness that my novel has become. Indeed, after Ida had retired early to the boudoir, I spent several hours writing and managed to pen, in a most figurative manner, an ensuing chapter. It is a chapter, I fear, that reduces propriety and domestic stability to little more than a midsummer's dream. Furthermore, after having worked for what I deemed a suitable amount of time, I remained restless and concerned by the reception the work may be receiving elsewhere.

Such immediacy, I do not doubt, is a peril to the honing of finely wrought words and paragraphs. Yet, already, there is response. The public is speaking, though I oft may struggle to understand what they say or why they might say it. Take for example, this analysis. Apropos of nothing, the author evokes Marx and the working class, who in all frankness, remain largely absent from my tale of fallen petite bourgeoisie. Unlike the brief morality play Ida and I enjoyed within the context of Leverage, the means of production here are not quite so quantifiable as tapes. Moreover, there is a merger of capital and worker that I daresay Marx might never have envisioned. The dilemma then is merely in methods of distribution. The media, like the tapes on that television morality play, becomes central to the conundrum.

But perhaps there is something to what he's said? I must reflect further upon these troubling notions. I must continue my work without neglecting the attentions of dearest Ida.