The New Penguin Book of American Short Stories, from Washington Irving to Lydia Davis by Kasia Boddy

Author:Kasia Boddy [Boddy, Kasia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
ISBN: 9780141194431
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2011-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

The Lost Decade

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

All sorts of people came into the offices of the news-weekly and Orrison Brown had all sorts of relations with them. Outside of office hours he was ‘one of the editors’ – during work time he was simply a curly-haired man who a year before had edited the Dartmouth ‘Jack-o-Lantern’1 and was now only too glad to take the undesirable assignments around the office, from straightening out illegible copy to playing call-boy without the title.

He had seen this visitor go into the editor’s office – a pale, tall man of forty with blond statuesque hair and a manner that was neither shy, nor timid, nor otherworldly like a monk, but something of all three. The name on his card, Louis Trimble, evoked some vague memory, but having nothing to start on Orrison did not puzzle over it – until a buzzer sounded on his desk, and previous experience warned him that Mr Trimble was to be his first course at lunch.

‘Mr Trimble – Mr Brown,’ said the Source of all luncheon money. ‘Orrison – Mr Trimble’s been away a long time. Or he feels it’s a long time – almost twelve years. Some people would consider themselves lucky to’ve missed the last decade.’

‘That’s so,’ said Orrison.

‘I can’t lunch today,’ continued his chief. ‘Take him to Voisins or “21”2 or anywhere he’d like. Mr Trimble feels there’re lots of things he hasn’t seen.’

Trimble demurred politely.

‘Oh, I can get around.’

‘I know it, old boy. Nobody knew this place like you did once – and if Brown tries to explain the horseless carriage just send him back here to me. And you’ll be back yourself by four, won’t you?’

Orrison got his hat.

‘You’ve been away ten years?’ he asked while they went down in the elevator.

‘They’d begun the Empire State Building,’ said Trimble. ‘What does that add up to?’

‘About 1928. But as the chief said, you’ve been lucky to miss a lot.’ As a feeler he added, ‘Probably had more interesting things to look at.’

‘Can’t say I have.’

They reached the street, and the way Trimble’s face tightened at the roar of traffic made Orrison take one more guess.

‘You’ve been out of civilization?’

‘In a sense.’ The words were spoken in such a measured way that Orrison concluded this man wouldn’t talk unless he wanted to – and simultaneously wondered if he could have possibly spent the thirties in a prison or an insane asylum.

‘This is the famous “21,” ’ he said. ‘Do you think you’d rather eat somewhere else?’

Trimble paused, looking carefully at the brownstone house.

‘I can remember when the name “21” got to be famous,’ he said, ‘about the same year as Moriarty’s.’3 Then he continued almost apologetically, ‘I thought we might walk up Fifth Avenue about five minutes and eat wherever we happened to be. Some place with young people to look at.’

Orrison gave him a quick glance and once again thought of bars and grey walls and bars; he wondered if his duties included introducing Mr Trimble to complaisant girls.

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