The Gilded Horizon

Jude Magnotti ‘26
EE Editor-In-Chief

The lights of the Manhattan gala flickered with a brittle, electric urgency, casting long, wavering shadows across the marble floor of the plaza. It was 1925, and the city was a shimmering beast of sound, echoing with the bright insistence of jazz and reeking with the smell of old bootlegged gin. James Martin, a once-thriving gentleman of 27 years, gazed across this scene of wonder as he nursed a drink and staved off the quiet yet impending sense of failure filling his lungs. His parents’ allowance was slowly running out, and he had given up trying to make connections at this newest party. Three years ago, he had fled the safety of his ancestors’ gilded domain in Indianapolis in search of a life on Wall Street that could supplement the now disappointing nature of his mediocre existence. He had once cherished the life he was running from, enthralled in the comfort of silk suits and enveloped in the atmosphere of lively bars. He had been a football star in High School, a water polo player at Yale, and had once enjoyed the company of some of the most wealthy and influential individuals in the world. Yet, somehow, the life he had once known no longer offered the same sense of nourishment it once did. It had become stale, hollow, like an embroidered yet empty box left too long in the cold embrace of a dusty closet. He had to make it by himself. There was no longer any option. He took a loan from his parents, insisting that he would pay it back once he became a millionaire and had created a new life. Yet, James’s desire to tackle the suffocating world of Wall Street was easier thought than executed. His boss worked him like a hound, constantly whipping him with the forceful weight of insults and the insistent smell of his Cuban cigar. Whenever James came close to acquiring a client, an older, more experienced, more ambitious employee stole them away. With no clients, no connections, and only a measly 1-bedroom cardboard box of a room to call home, James became stagnant in the tremendous whirlwind of life’s crushing grip. Just then, as he leaned against the stone comfort of the nearest pillar, he heard a familiar yet somehow foreign voice call out to him, “James? Is that you I see? Or just a very tired Hoosier?” He chuckled a specious laugh as James glared in bewilderment at the seemingly wealthy man in front of him. He had a gleaming smile, with a spark in his eyes emanating of mystery and electricity. He donned a three-piece silk suit, embroidered with expensive cuff links and decorated with the bothersome light of an extravagant yellow jacket laced with gold buttons. His hair majestically flowed in the soft breeze of the wind, and his face appeared untarnished by any blemishes or imperfections the eye could see. Everything about him suggested wealth, yet, for some reason, James couldn’t help but think that his appearance held no indication of the world he was attempting to appear in. Despite this, the display was a far more impressive sight than that of James’s soaked, stained brick-red vest. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we are familiar with each other. Did you go to Yale with me?” James replied to the strange man, “Ah! I should have known; it has been quite a while. It’s me, James! Robert Wilson. We knew each other in school back out West. I have a bottle of brandy here. Why don’t we have a drink?” All of a sudden, James began to recognize the man standing in front of him. If it was even the same man at all. Robert had been a poor boy at James’s private school growing up, his mother barely able to pay his tuition. He had been quiet, short, and possessed no semblance of mannerisms or customs that one would expect from a private school child. His family’s absence of money often led to Robert wearing the same tattered uniform to school every day, as bullies, including James, teased him and excluded him from their activities. He left Indiana when he graduated, swearing that one day he would have enough money to buy the school that tortured him all those years. For all intents and purposes, it seemed that he had somehow miraculously achieved this feat. He was no longer the lowly child that James enjoyed teasing. Instead, he was an eloquent, strongly spoken, and outrageously proper gentleman with not a single flaw in his appearance or presentation. Still, James couldn’t for the life of him fathom how this could be, or why Robert approached him in the first place after all these years. With that being said, James found himself lonely in the company of Manhattan lights and wasn’t about to turn down polite talk and a free drink, “So how have you been, my good man? From the look of your vest, I would guess the drink got one too many over on you.” He chuckled. There it was again. That same friendly yet somehow hesitant laugh, “Robert,” James stampered, his eyes tracing the gold buttons along his jacket, “You look…prosperous.” A small glint disappeared from Robert’s eye. He slouched and rubbed his hands together nervously before recovering his upright yet false posture, “Prosperous,” Robert repeated, a thin, wavering smile touching his lips, “A delicate word for a rather vulgar reality, don’t you think?” He sternly opened the bottle of brandy as he weakly poured two drinks for himself and James. Slowly, he began pacing the floor with a drink in hand as James stood there still in amazement, yet weighed down by an unidentifiable feeling of uneasiness, “I don’t know what you mean, Robert. From the looks of things, it would seem you’re doing better than any man in Manhattan.” Robert slowly brought the drink back down from his pursed lips, “You would think that, wouldn’t you, my good man?” James remained puzzled as Robert downed the rest of his glass and slowly made his way over to the symmetrical pillars of the gala’s balcony. He had grown since James last saw him. Now standing well over six feet, his long legs put an unbalanced weight into the force of his elegant yet awkward walk, “You see, James, believe it or not, but for the past 9 years I have been involved in very much the same trade as you. I arrived as a humble protege, such as yourself, and in that time, I have made more money than I could possibly count.” James felt a sudden, sharp pang of both envy and anger course through his heart. Three years he had spent putting everything he had into gaining a foothold in this world, and here was this boy from the dirt of the Western frontier who had already conquered it? Robert was a titan, a success story written in the ink of the roaring 20’s. He had no reason to be as ungrateful as he was. For the next while, Robert continued to dismissively discuss his many exploits, as James further grew in annoyance, “If I may say so, Robert,” James began to mutter out, “It seems you have everything any man could ever want. Why do you still feel as if it’s not enough?” Come to think of it, James wasn’t entirely sure how Robert knew that he was a stockbroker, or that he was in New York in the first place. “It’s never that simple, my good man.” He murmured while fiddling with a gold cigarette lighter, “Never.” By this point, Robert’s facade was slowly beginning to wear off. His hands trembled as he hesitantly struggled to light his cigarette, and his voice began to falter under the harsh display of the wealthy Manhattan village, “They don’t want me, James. They never have and they never will.” Both James’s confusion and curiosity increased as he incredulously questioned the now slouching man, “What do you mean, god damn it. Who doesn’t want you?” Robert tried slowly to steady himself, “Everybody, my good man. The man smoking a cigar over there. The woman petting a cat in that chair. Even you, James. You all look down upon me.” James, now frustrated by Robert and his musings, dismissively brushes off the statement, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Rob-,” Robert brashly interrupts him, “Oh, but I do, James! Oh, how I do. You see, I’ve been following you for quite some time. I know about your parents’ loan. About your desire to make a living away from the trust fund you once coveted. It’s admirable, it really is. In fact, I envy your desire to. My wealth is built on rejection, not joy. But I should warn you, it’s never all it’s cracked up to be. No matter how hard you keep trying, no matter whether or not you succeed, it will never fulfill you the way you need it to. Once you’re here, there is nothing else left to outrun.” Robert’s insistence grows stronger and stronger as James continuously finds himself in surprise from his words, “Take me for example. My life is a performance, not a living. My clothes never fail to flash. My pocket watch never fails to shine. Yet, when I walk into that party, they can still smell the Indiana soil on my boots. It doesn’t matter how much money I make, how sumptuous I am; they will never accept me…no matter what. Trust me, my good man.” James, now in complete and utter shock, struggles to find the words to express how to respond to Robert, but it isn’t long before he speaks again, “You once had it all, and you should have stayed there. Stayed in that mansion in Indiana, and never came out to see the ugly truth. This life was never for you, and believe me, you don’t want it. Go back” Gradually, something begins to rise from the confusion in James. Not empathy, not understanding, but rage. His anger was like a candle burning out at both ends, quiet at first, but now ready to scorch anyone or anything in his path. Slowly, Robert began to break ice contact and turn out to the frigid air and bright stars of a cold January night. Now, well over a few sips into his brandy, James became tired of holding back, “Why did you really approach me, Robert? Have you come to lecture me about my life? To laugh in my face for being a failure? To feed this weird obsession you have with me??” James’s fury only intensified as he further lashed out at Robert, still not making eye contact, “Come on! Gloat, why don’t you! You won at life; I lost. Just laugh it up. Y’know, besies your money, you’re pathetic, you really are. Any man would give their life to be where you are, and yet you whine about your problems and lecture me on MY life! You should be grateful for what you’ve accomplished! Well, guess what, you’re right about one thing. They’ll never accept you. Not that man with the cigar, not that woman with the cat, and most certainly not ME! You’re just a bad egg from the wrong side who got lucky and hit big on Wall Street,” Robert stood there still looking out, motionless, failing to make eye contact “You approach me with your yellow jacket and golden cigarette lighter and expect me to believe this farce? Ha! Not even the poor beggars back in Indiana would take you back now. You’re a fraud, and that’s all you’ll ever be. Now look at me. LOOK AT ME!” Robert’s shaking stopped. He slowly turned his head away from the rhythmic tremors of the city and directly towards James. His eyes no longer contained the same electric spark they had when they first began the conversation. They were empty with the pale stillness of a man long confined to the depths of rejection and failure. The last of the light began to leave as the illuminating glimmer of whatever was once there began to melt away with the icy chill of James’s words. Slowly, James own eyes began to fill with fear and guilt as he fruitlessly tried to pat Robert on the shoulder and forget the impact of what he had just said, “Hey, uh, Robert. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all those things. I’m afraid I might be just a little drunk.” Robert firmly and slowly peeled James’s hand from his shoulder and looked back out to the now horrifying presentation of lights and music in Manhattan Square for the last time. Without a word, he silently walked past James back towards the exit from which he came. Abruptly, he turned around and vocalized one last question to him, “I want to ask you something, my good man. If I’m not rich enough, and I’m not poor enough…then what am I?” James did not have an answer. Robert quietly sighed and held his head lower than he ever had before. The two men stood there, two hands of an antique clock tracking the seconds across stretches of tension, trapped in the fragile balance of two sides of the American Dream. Both striving for the same thing but never intersecting, never touching, and forever parallel… except for this moment. Gently, Robert backed away from James, away from the glimmering luminescence of society, disappearing into the eerie blackness of a life long forgotten. James stood there for a minute, unable to move a muscle or invoke any sort of action. As he finally began to move again, he accidentally knocked Robert’s empty brandy glass to the floor. It fell with the brittle honesty of a truth he had hoped to suppress, of fragile hopes and dreams that were now nothing but splintered glass shards on the floor. Two days later, James sat at the miserable desk in which he made the mundane calls that sucked the meaning out of his life. As he waited once again for the stagnant line to ring, a newspaper arrived on his desk with the cold indifference of a routine day. Only, when James finally flipped to the very last page, the blurry headline plastered across the horrible piece of paper rang of nothing but grief and the sharp stab of a knife going through his heart. The paper read: Robert Wilson, wealthy stockbroker from Manhattan, found dead of self-inflicted gunshot wound. The floating words of the paper seemed to swallow the room, and for a moment, holding the paper in his hand felt heavier than any weight he had ever carried before, a thin sheet holding a vast empty absence on a barely visible last page. The man who had everything had decided that everything was, in the end, nothing at all. A few empty hours later, a pale James absently opened the door of the once colorfull blue car his parents gave him. He carelessly tossed a packed suitcase into the backseat as he looked up at the rainy, grey light of a New York City afternoon. He felt puzzled, uncertain, and most of all conflicted by the circumstances that had occurred in those few strange hours on that balcony. The Dream he had once chased had ended with Robert in a silent room with a desperate revolver and an aged glass of brandy. Without so much as a goodbye to the enveloping city that had chewed him up and spit him out, James began to turn on his car before he felt something drop from the clouds. It was a single, insignificant, rain drop that somehow seemed to glitter against the gritty background of the industrial city. As the cleansing rain began to fall, softening the building’s once hard edges, it seemed though even the bustling city of New York felt compelled to lower its voice. The rain fell harder and harder until it seemed that god himself was ripping open the sky, spilling its weight onto the city below in a relentless cascade, as though the heavens themselves could no longer bear the weight of this avalanche. Until, in one moment, a break in the treacherous clouds began to thin as a gleaming ray of light poured down from the sky, showering James and his car in the reluctant sunshine of hope. Pensivley, James turned the key to his car and began his somber journey to a place not even he knew how to find. As he drove along the highway away from the city that had once inspired him with such awe, he gazed back at the picture-esc glow of the sun against the backdrop of New York’s majestic sky line. Robert lingered for one final moment in his thoughts before fading into memory, as James drove on towards the blinding vision of a clearing sky, leaving the Gilded Horizon of the setting sun to its own shimmering, hollow devices…