Day 161 – Is the American Dream a good model to follow

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The Mirage of Prosperity: Can We Still Believe in the American Dream?

For generations, the “American Dream” has served as the national North Star. It is the seductive promise that with enough grit, talent, and ambition, anyone—regardless of their station—can rise from obscurity to acclaim. It is a narrative of meritocracy, gold-paved streets, and the promise that the past does not dictate the future.

But is this dream a practical model to follow, or is it a gilded trap? To answer this, we must look at the literature that first dared to peek behind the curtain of the American success story.

More than a century ago, Theodore Dreiser’s naturalist masterpiece, Sister Carrie, dismantled the shiny exterior of the American Dream, revealing a hollow, often tragic reality beneath. By examining Carrie Meeber’s journey, we can better understand why the American Dream, as a moral or psychological model, may be fundamentally flawed.

The Illusion of Upward Mobility

In Sister Carrie, the protagonist arrives in Chicago with nothing but a longing for “something better.” She is the quintessential seeker of the American Dream. Through a series of transactional relationships, she climbs the social ladder, transitioning from a struggling factory worker to a celebrated Broadway actress.

On the surface, Carrie is a success story. She achieves the material comfort the Dream promises. Yet, Dreiser leaves us with a haunting image: Carrie, wealthy and famous, sitting in a rocking chair, perpetually unsatisfied.

Dreiser’s point is devastating: The American Dream is a process, not a destination. It functions on the psychology of “more.” It teaches us that contentment is a static state that must be avoided, because if you are content, you stop striving. As a model for living, it creates a treadmill where the finish line constantly recedes.

The Transactional Self

One of the most uncomfortable truths in Sister Carrie is the way the American Dream erodes human connection. In the novel, people are viewed as commodities—assets to be acquired or obstacles to be discarded. Carrie’s rise is facilitated by her abandonment of those who helped her, most notably the tragic figure of George Hurstwood.

When we adopt the American Dream as our primary model for life, we risk turning our relationships into utility-based arrangements. We ask, “What does this person offer me?” rather than “How can we grow together?” In a culture obsessed with the outcome of success, the quality of the human experience often becomes collateral damage.

The Myth of Meritocracy

The American Dream rests on the belief that if you fail, it is a personal moral failing. Conversely, if you succeed, it is purely because you “earned” it.

Dreiser’s work highlights the role of “blind, unmerited chance.” Carrie possesses a certain magnetism, but her success is as much about serendipity and the changing tides of urban life as it is about her own talent. When we buy into the Dream, we become blind to the systemic and accidental nature of success. This leads to a two-fold tragedy: we feel profound shame when we struggle, and we develop an unearned arrogance when we thrive.

Is the Dream Still Useful?

If Sister Carrie shows the dangers of a life driven solely by the pursuit of status and material gain, does the model have any merit today?

The American Dream can be a powerful engine when it’s defined as opportunity rather than acquisition. If we view it as the freedom to pursue our passions and contribute to society, it remains a noble pursuit. However, when it becomes a rigid model for identity—convincing us that we are only as valuable as our bank accounts or our job titles—it becomes a source of psychic misery.

The Lesson from the Rocking Chair

Dreiser’s Sister Carrie is a cautionary tale, not just about the dangers of consumerism, but about the dangers of living for the future at the expense of the present.

If we choose to follow the American Dream, we must do so with our eyes wide open. We must recognise that the “Dream” is often an artificial construct designed to keep the wheels of industry turning, rather than a blueprint for human happiness.

Perhaps the most “American” thing we can do today is to redefine the dream. Instead of chasing a title or a lifestyle that leaves us sitting in a rocking chair with an empty heart, maybe we should focus on a model of success that prioritizes integrity, community, and the quiet satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms—not the terms dictated by the market.

What do you think? Is the American Dream a source of inspiration or a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

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Day 160 – Writing Exercise – The day righted itself, as a waitress put a folded napkin under a wobbly table

…

We were struggling.

It was not as if it had happened overnight; it was the culmination of a series of events, some unfortunate, but all the result of circumstances beyond our control.

And it wasn’t as if we were living high in the hog, as my father called it, encompassing those he believed were spending more than they earned.

We were just ordinary people with ordinary jobs trying to stay afloat in an ordinary world.

Neither of us had the opportunity to get a tertiary education; our parents were just regular folk who struggled barely.  They had fared reasonably well through the financial crisis because they had no investments, shares, or savings.

They had just enough to see us through high school and teach us the two valuable rules that they hoped would see us through.  Do not get credit and do not spend money you don’t have.

And despite the temptation to keep up with others, we didn’t. We could have new furniture, we could go on lavish holidays, we could go out for dinners, but we didn’t.

And in the end, it didn’t really matter.

The factory where I worked could no longer compete with the cheap imports, and it didn’t matter that it had lasted 121 years, making the best furniture in the world; the cheap imports copied the designs and sold them for sixty per cent less.

They’d gone through restructures and staff cuts, even a degree of mechanisation, but it didn’t matter.  My job, and over a thousand others, just disappeared.

There was no other work, not in a city where forty five percent of the workforce were unemployment.

It took six weeks for the flow-on effect to hit everything else, and then Lucy’s job was cut, along with another ten per cent of those who still had jobs.

I heard it from a friend before Lucy got home.

She was devastated.  It was, she said, a good thing our parents were not alive to see what had happened to the city they honestly believed was God’s Green Earth.

Perhaps now it was time for Plan B.

….

When I got laid off, we sat at the table that had seen happier times, and at dinner with a strange sort of satisfaction that I had wanted to believe was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives.

That had been blunted by the discovery that there were no jobs, and if there were, there were over a hundred applicants.

A few weeks later, as the redundancy money was dwindling, Lucy spoke of the nearby silent rumours she and her friends passed around, that retail outlets were beginning to see a considerable drop in sales.

No need to say out loud what that meant.

That’s when I said we may have to bite the bullet and pay a visit to my Uncle Robert.

My father only had one brother, and I had only met him twice in my life, once when my father discovered he had terminal cancer, and the second, at my father’s funeral.

He was bombastic and condescending.

He did not understand why a brilliant and very clever man like my father would settle for mediocre.  He had up and left for the big city to make his fortune the day after he graduated.

It went against my grandparents’ request, and for that, they ostracised him.  We had met him at the funeral, and Lucy took an instant dislike to him.  It was not surprising.

It might have had something to do with calling our city a dump, and had intimated that if I came to my senses, to come and see him, and he would give me a real job.  I had no qualifications, but he had said all I needed was the Bannister name.

I declined then, but now, I might not have that luxury.  Lucy deserved better than what had happened.

And when she lost her job, with no new job to be found, the point where we said we would talk about it again had arrived.

…

I’d been out doing the rounds of the employment agencies, joining the other job seekers who had not given up hope, and found little encouragement.

It was worse for the men who had children, because their responsibilities were far harder than mine.  I came in and saw Lucy sitting at the table, most likely working out the budget.

When I sat down and looked at her, I could see the tears; some had dripped onto the top bill, the rent account.  We were at the point where it had become unaffordable, and the landlord was not accepting excuses.

We were only one of many all over who were in financial difficulty, and there were far too many people who were being forced into temporary accommodation or out onto the street.

We would be next.

I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “We have to leave.  We have some money left, enough to get us to Chicago, and I will go see Uncle Robert.  He promised to help us.  I called, and he is expecting us.”

She shook her head.  I knew she didn’t want to leave.  Everyone and everything she knew was here, and for the nothing of us it was going to be very difficult.  Going to the big city, where we didn’t know anyone or how people lived.

“We will be all on our own.”

“We will have jobs and a place to live.”

“How can we trust someone that we don’t know?”

I had, but that had been based on my father’s assessment, based on years of hate and misery from his brother as a child.  Nor, as I understood it, did he get along with his father, because as children we had not seen our grandparents, except at the funeral of my father.

To be honest, I had no idea what to expect, but one thing I did know.  If my uncle failed me, Lucy would never forgive me.

But the alternative was unbearable, that we would become destitute, and I would lose her.  I could not begin to imagine what my life would be like without her.

“How could we have trusted those who have let us down so badly. We have been abandoned by the very people who had said that if we got into trouble, they would help us.  They have not.”

“Because they are like us.”

“I know.  I get it.  But we can’t stay here.  You know as well as I do, we’ve reached the point of no return.”

“But everything we own, we have…”

“Means nothing.  All we really have is each other, Lucy.  Our love, our trust, and our hopes and dreams.  It’ll just be somewhere else.  This city is dying slowly, and people are leaving.  What’s done is done.”

She took a minute to consider the situation, perhaps find a way around the problem, but she had been put with her friends.  If there had been any ideas
Among them, she would have it to tell me.

“When?”

“Before the next rent is due.”

“Friday?”

“Thursday would be better. We are just going to have to leave? And hope we don’t have to make up lies to get away.  We simply don’t have enough without completely depleting our reserve.  And why wait another month for the inevitable?”

I hoped she could see the sense in it.  The only problem was simply walking away from everything.  There was a lot of time and effort put into making a life in that apartment.  It wasn’t the best of places, but it was our home and had been from the day we married.

So many memories.

She looked up and smiled wanly.  “Thursday.”

“Pack only what we can carry.  It won’t be a lot.  I’ll get tickets on the 11 o’clock special, a sleeper.  We can afford one last treat.”

“Your uncle is expecting us?”

“He is.”

…

Lucy chose to tell her friends that we were going away for a few days, visiting relatives in Chicago.  She said she could not bring herself to tell them that it might be forever, though I suspect a small part of her wanted to believe we were coming back.

For me, it was more difficult, and I just chose not to alert anyone to my plan.  I convinced myself it was a plan, but it was a move borne of desperation because of this failure. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

Fear of failing Lucy was my only concern.  She was doing everything I asked because she trusted me.  That trust would only go so far.

It was strange how quickly time flies when you’re about to do something drastic.  I thought it would drag, but no.  We were standing in the dining area, taking in a last look at the place that had been home for the last ten years.

The times we had laughed and cried, the parties and the agonies.  We’d never expected life to be easy, but we never expected it to be this hard.  We always believed no matter what, we’d muddle through, like our parents and their parents before them.

“Somehow I can’t feel anything,” Lucy said.  “It’s just four walls and, well, nothing.”

“I had expected that memories would be flooding back, but it’s like we were never here.”

“Maybe it was just a stage in a journey.”

Maybe it was.  Perhaps it was just both of us trying to think about the future and not let the past drag us down.

We both had a backpack and a suitcase with everything we wanted, enough for a few days.  We didn’t own anything expensive, other than our cell phones.

A last look, we walked out the door, closed it for the last time, and left the building.  The bus stopped outside the door and took us to the railway station.

The train was due in an hour and a half.  After getting the tickets, we would have a snack at the restaurant attached to the depot.

I had hoped Riley, the Station Master, would not be on, but it felt like an omen when I saw his smiling face in the ticket office.

He was unofficially voted the happiest man in town, always bright and cheery, the one smiling face surrounded by a world in turmoil.  He was probably one of the few with a permanent job.

My father had been one of his friends, and he had been a frequent visitor at Sunday lunches at my parents’ places.  Sometimes I would go visit, but our contact had become less frequent over time and especially after my father’s death.

“Richard, long time, no see.  How are you?”  He had conveniently ignored the fact that we had baggage.

“Good.”

“Lucy?” 

Lucy was not looking particularly happy, but he chose to ignore that too.

“I’m fine, Mr West.”

“How can I help you?”

“We’re going to Chicago for a few days.”

“Yes, I believe you are.”

“How…” Lucy said it before she could stop herself.

Like her, I wondered if the one person I trusted with the secret had talked.  Rumours travelled like wildfire, despite

“Funny story that.  A couple of days ago, I got a call from a lady by the name of Delilah McEwan.  She says she is calling on behalf of her boss, Robert Bannister.  Bannister, she says.  I know a Bannister, and lo and behold, it is the invisible brother.  Met him once at the funeral.  Larger than life and loud too.  Seems he understands you’re coming to Chicago, and would like me to book a sleeper, first class and all, for Richard and Lucille Bannister. No problem, I say, and it’s done.”

He went over to a large cabinet and pulled out an envelope, and came back with it, putting it on the counter between us.

“Tickets, a letter from Ms McEwan, inclusive of all meals and drinks if you so desire.  Perhaps the man is not as bad as we may cast him?”

“Perhaps not,” I said, after a few moments to get over the surprise.  I had not expected this.

Then he came closer and spoke in a lower tone.  “I’m guessing, given the nature of affairs here, you might not be coming back.  Not until things get better.  I’m not surprised.  There’s a steady stream of folk leaving, some old and dear friends, and it breaks my heart.  But you must do what you must to survive.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you when the train arrives.  Be here about 15 minutes before.  It’s currently running five minutes behind schedule.  You can leave your bags with me, and pick them up later. “

…

It was, I thought, a good thing we were wearing our best clothes.  They only came out on special occasions, and this train trip was exactly that.

Barely out the door, Lucy said, almost in a breathless whisper, “First Class, what is that about.  We’re never going to be able to pay him back.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.  After all, he wouldn’t do it unless he had a plan, so we could.  Perhaps the jobs he had found for us might pay enough so we can.  But for the moment, let’s not worry too much.  I’m taking this as a sign.”

We stopped outside the chicken restaurant.  While it hadn’t been too expensive, it was just Lucy could fry chicken just as nicely.  I had thought, tonight, we could splurge.

“The ticket includes food,” she said, “so let’s just have some coffee and pie instead.”

We had been told about the cafe near the station before, because of its famed apple pie. 

Inside it was warm.  Outside, the first signs of a long, cold, and bitter winter were in the air, and I was sure it would start raining soon.  The weather in Chicago would be freezing, and a little above that, around the time we arrived.

We were used to it and brought out our snow clothes.

She slid the envelope across the table and opened it.  Two tickets, First Class, all inclusive, that I knew would end up in her scrapbook history of our family, a letter, and a guidebook.

She opened the envelope and pulled out a single page.

“From Ms McEwan,” she said.

Not from my Uncle.  It made sense.  He was a busy man and had assigned us to his personal assistant.

Dear Richard and Lucille,”  she wrinkled her nose, a sign that she did not like being called Lucille, even if that was her name. 

Perhaps it had been the way her mother used it when she was annoyed with her daughter.

“We are delighted that you will be coming to Chicago and joining our group.  The Bannisters have long been synonymous with Chicago, and we like to believe we have helped in making our city what it is today.

“You are part of the next generation, and no doubt you will be very happy to join our endeavours to continue that collaboration.

“Mr Bannister is eagerly awaiting your arrival, but first we must get you situated and prepared.  I will be at the station tomorrow when you arrive, and will guide you through the next few days.”

“Once again, we welcome you to the Bannister collective, and cannot wait to see what the furniture holds.”

She shook her head.

“Its sound like we’re about to join a cult.  The Bannister Collective.  It’s like a Steven King novel.”

“Or it’s just an oddish uncle that had trouble expressing himself.”

“It doesn’t strike as strange?”

“It does, but I’m not going to read anything into it until we meet him.  And this Ms McEwan.”

She shrugged.  “Don’t you think we have jobs waiting for us.  It seems so.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Something other than waiting tables.”

“So, if you’re asked…?”

“Organising catering, I could certainly do a lot better than most of the people who had that job in the places I’ve worked.  But I had no experience.”

“You’ve been at the coal face for years.  You see all the stuff-ups and problems from the perfect perspective.  Perhaps this will be your chance.”

“Perhaps.  What about you?  Factory hand, how can you parley that into a better job?  It was not always what I wanted to do, Lucy, it was what I had to do.”

She looked at me with a certain amount of surprise, perhaps remembering that moment when we were finally together after the prom, when we decided there, and then we would get married, and spoke of our hopes and dreams.

I had imagined a very different life for us.

“Just because Mr Jacobs said you had the talent to become a good journalist based on your work for the school paper, he did say you had to hone those skills at college, which you couldn’t afford.  Now, it’s probably too late.”

“I kept writing, you know.  Seeking out stories.  Writing pieces over the years.  I chronicled the downturn of the city as it sank into the mire of economic disaster, government abandonment, and the final death blow.  It doesn’t make pretty reading.”

“But it doesn’t make Pulitzer prize material, Richard.  You, me, were nobodies in a world full of nobodies.”

“Then maybe, just maybe, this is our time to turn that around.”

…

Getting the privileges of first class was not the same as deserving first class.  We didn’t fit in, in our own minds, which made it awkward, until we realised that it didn’t matter who we were to the staff; they treated us like we belonged.

And in turn, we treated them the sort of respect they deserved.  After all, people responded to kindness.

What was prevalent in those two hours we spent in the dining room, asking questions when we were not sure, accepting recommendations, and savouring the sort of food we could never have afforded, was the stark difference between the haves and have-nots.

The staff may have known each passenger’s status, but it never once showed.  In their voices or manner.  It did, however, change for a certain couple who made a lot of noise and complained about everything.

How did people who had those advantages so many others didn’t become so ungrateful?

By the time we were ready for bed, Lucy had begun to relax, just a little, in case that thin veneer of goodness that surrounded us shattered.  Even that cramped space felt more luxurious than anything we had, so we savoured the pleasure rather than eschewing it.

The next morning, we both woke refreshed and perhaps a little more confident that life could be better.  Breakfast was another of those small pleasures, and we took our time. 

The coffee was far better than anything we had before, and not knowing its origin or cost or anything for that matter, we simply took it as of it was as if it was something we had all the time.

The complaining couple were nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps they were not morning people.

The rest of the morning passed, watching the wintry landscape, our fellow passengers, and the staff going through their routine.  We both knew the experience would end soon, so it was time to reacclimatise to our reality.

Off the train, it was going to be a whole new world.

…

We thanked the train staff for their kindness and assistance, gathered our baggage and joined the queue to disembark.  The loudmouth couple were several down from the front of the queue, complaining loudly that they had to get to an important business meeting.

No one was giving up the spot to let them pass.

We waited patiently, like everyone else, and, thanking the carriage attendant again, stepped down onto the platform.

We had arrived in Chicago.  There was no Delilah McEwan on the platform, but I suspected she would be outside in the main station waiting for us to exit through the platform gate.

I saw Lucy looking around, too.  She was as amazed as I was at the size and how busy it was.  This was going to be a lot different to out home town.  She took my hand, and I squeezed it gently.  This was bigger, noisier and more paced than she had ever seen before.

We filed through the gate and into the passage that led to the station foyer.  Coming out into the huge, carious space, larger than anything we had ever seen before, I saw a lady and a tall man in a chauffeur’s uniform, and headed towards her.

She was standing under the ‘To trains’ sign.

“You must be Richard?” She said smiling.  She shook my hand, she gave Lucy a hug.  Lucy hadn’t expected it, but in a way it made her feel more welcome.

“John will take your cases to the car.  Welcome to Chicago.  I’m sure right now, you are almost overwhelmed by just the size of this building.  You will get used to it.”

“This is just the station?” Lucy said.

“If you go to New York, they don’t call Grand Central Station grand for nothing.  But it’s big, I’ll grant you that.”

We followed the chauffeur.

“We have set up an apartment for you, where you will be staying until you decide where you want to live.  There’s no hurry; you will want to get settled and explore the city.  Mr Bannister will see you both for dinner tomorrow night, and then the next day you will have interviews so we can give you a job best suited.”

“We will be working for Mr Bannister?”  Lucy asked.

“We wanted to make sure you had a job while you get settled, and when you feel ready, you can stay, or you can explore the possibilities.  There’s no compulsion, we’re just making your first few days, and weeks, less daunting.”

“We can pay for the apartment,” I said.  Perhaps pride got the better of me because we didn’t have that much money.  All the same…

“That’s alright, Richard.  Mr Bannister is treating this as if he asked you to come work for him, so coming from another state, you get free accommodation for one month, or longer, at a reduced rate if necessary.  You can also apply for a subsidised loan for a vehicle.  These are all matters that will be explained in more detail tomorrow.  As for now, let’s get you settled.”

…

I was still waiting for the bubble to burst.

I would be hesitant to say we were ‘settled’ because the moment Delilah walked out the door, both of us just looked at each other and thought exactly the same thought.

It was too good to be true.

The apartment was larger, new, and brighter than anything we had or expected.  It was like staying in a five-star hotel, or so Lucy said when she had applied for a housekeeper’s role at a hotel in the county’s main city.

To me, it was something out of a magazine I’d seen at the barber shop.

There was an envelope on the counter welcoming us.  It had a debit card with a limit that Delilah didn’t mention, so we could get what we needed.  Lucy would need clothes for the next two days.  So would I.

Then Lucy asked the question:  “How is this possible?”

It was one I asked myself as Delilah rattled off the benefits.  All I could say was, it’s the name, Bannister.  We were part of the family, and like my father taught me, family looks after family.

It seemed odd that it took this long for Uncle Robert to realise he had extended family, but that I suspect had something to do with my father, and his disdain for his family. 

He was an honest, hard-working, ordinary man.  The Bannisters, now that I thought about it, his family, were rich, and he wanted to make his own way in the world, not accept a leg up or any favours.

Not like his brother.   Just on the edges of my memory was a telephone conversation I was never meant to hear, when my uncle had offered his brother money, but as a loan.  He had told his brother where he could put his money.

His brother never called again.  He came for the funeral but left soon after.  He offered his condolences; that was all.

“Crisis of conscience.  He couldn’t help my father because he wouldn’t let him.  I’m not so proud, but there is a limit.  We will have to pay him back, no matter how long it takes.”

“My thought exactly.  Perhaps we could tell your Uncle tomorrow.  Dinner sounds exciting and scary at the same time.  This time we’ll be in front of a lot more people.”

“It’s just dinner in a fancier setting.  We’ll manage.”

“Fancy coffee.  I’d make it, but I saw the cafe down in the foyer, and those cakes looked amazing.”

“Coffer it is.”

A few minutes later, we were whisked down to the ground floor, where the building’s residents were beginning to trickle in.

The cafe has a short line waiting to be seated.  I’d never had to wait before.  There was a lot of stress in that line, and I wondered if big city life was a lot more stressful than back home.

Then it was our turn, and the waitress, in a perfect uniform, with the nametag Wendy, directed us to a table.  When she put the menus on it, it rocked.

It was one of those tables that didn’t sit perfectly on the floor, and I could see a flicker of concern in Lucy’s eyes.  She had been half expecting an omen like this.

But, in the next second, a busboy came over with a piece of cardboard and fixed the rocking table.  I heard Lucy sigh in relief.

That omen could have undone everything.  Now, to her, it was like we were meant to be here.

We sat, ordered coffee and two French pastries, and Lucy used her schoolgirl French to describe the cake exactly, and the waitress showed she was fluent in the language. A short conversation on French ensued.

When the waitress left, she said, now smiling, and happiest I had seen her in months, “I am so sorry glad we came, I can’t wait for the interviews.”

“Or the endless conversations you can have with your new friend.”

“It’s practically the first time.  Maybe one day we can go to France.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Sitting there, looking at her glow return, I didn’t think it mattered much how things went.  If we believed hard enough, everything would work out.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 160 – Writing Exercise – The day righted itself, as a waitress put a folded napkin under a wobbly table

…

We were struggling.

It was not as if it had happened overnight; it was the culmination of a series of events, some unfortunate, but all the result of circumstances beyond our control.

And it wasn’t as if we were living high in the hog, as my father called it, encompassing those he believed were spending more than they earned.

We were just ordinary people with ordinary jobs trying to stay afloat in an ordinary world.

Neither of us had the opportunity to get a tertiary education; our parents were just regular folk who struggled barely.  They had fared reasonably well through the financial crisis because they had no investments, shares, or savings.

They had just enough to see us through high school and teach us the two valuable rules that they hoped would see us through.  Do not get credit and do not spend money you don’t have.

And despite the temptation to keep up with others, we didn’t. We could have new furniture, we could go on lavish holidays, we could go out for dinners, but we didn’t.

And in the end, it didn’t really matter.

The factory where I worked could no longer compete with the cheap imports, and it didn’t matter that it had lasted 121 years, making the best furniture in the world; the cheap imports copied the designs and sold them for sixty per cent less.

They’d gone through restructures and staff cuts, even a degree of mechanisation, but it didn’t matter.  My job, and over a thousand others, just disappeared.

There was no other work, not in a city where forty five percent of the workforce were unemployment.

It took six weeks for the flow-on effect to hit everything else, and then Lucy’s job was cut, along with another ten per cent of those who still had jobs.

I heard it from a friend before Lucy got home.

She was devastated.  It was, she said, a good thing our parents were not alive to see what had happened to the city they honestly believed was God’s Green Earth.

Perhaps now it was time for Plan B.

….

When I got laid off, we sat at the table that had seen happier times, and at dinner with a strange sort of satisfaction that I had wanted to believe was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives.

That had been blunted by the discovery that there were no jobs, and if there were, there were over a hundred applicants.

A few weeks later, as the redundancy money was dwindling, Lucy spoke of the nearby silent rumours she and her friends passed around, that retail outlets were beginning to see a considerable drop in sales.

No need to say out loud what that meant.

That’s when I said we may have to bite the bullet and pay a visit to my Uncle Robert.

My father only had one brother, and I had only met him twice in my life, once when my father discovered he had terminal cancer, and the second, at my father’s funeral.

He was bombastic and condescending.

He did not understand why a brilliant and very clever man like my father would settle for mediocre.  He had up and left for the big city to make his fortune the day after he graduated.

It went against my grandparents’ request, and for that, they ostracised him.  We had met him at the funeral, and Lucy took an instant dislike to him.  It was not surprising.

It might have had something to do with calling our city a dump, and had intimated that if I came to my senses, to come and see him, and he would give me a real job.  I had no qualifications, but he had said all I needed was the Bannister name.

I declined then, but now, I might not have that luxury.  Lucy deserved better than what had happened.

And when she lost her job, with no new job to be found, the point where we said we would talk about it again had arrived.

…

I’d been out doing the rounds of the employment agencies, joining the other job seekers who had not given up hope, and found little encouragement.

It was worse for the men who had children, because their responsibilities were far harder than mine.  I came in and saw Lucy sitting at the table, most likely working out the budget.

When I sat down and looked at her, I could see the tears; some had dripped onto the top bill, the rent account.  We were at the point where it had become unaffordable, and the landlord was not accepting excuses.

We were only one of many all over who were in financial difficulty, and there were far too many people who were being forced into temporary accommodation or out onto the street.

We would be next.

I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “We have to leave.  We have some money left, enough to get us to Chicago, and I will go see Uncle Robert.  He promised to help us.  I called, and he is expecting us.”

She shook her head.  I knew she didn’t want to leave.  Everyone and everything she knew was here, and for the nothing of us it was going to be very difficult.  Going to the big city, where we didn’t know anyone or how people lived.

“We will be all on our own.”

“We will have jobs and a place to live.”

“How can we trust someone that we don’t know?”

I had, but that had been based on my father’s assessment, based on years of hate and misery from his brother as a child.  Nor, as I understood it, did he get along with his father, because as children we had not seen our grandparents, except at the funeral of my father.

To be honest, I had no idea what to expect, but one thing I did know.  If my uncle failed me, Lucy would never forgive me.

But the alternative was unbearable, that we would become destitute, and I would lose her.  I could not begin to imagine what my life would be like without her.

“How could we have trusted those who have let us down so badly. We have been abandoned by the very people who had said that if we got into trouble, they would help us.  They have not.”

“Because they are like us.”

“I know.  I get it.  But we can’t stay here.  You know as well as I do, we’ve reached the point of no return.”

“But everything we own, we have…”

“Means nothing.  All we really have is each other, Lucy.  Our love, our trust, and our hopes and dreams.  It’ll just be somewhere else.  This city is dying slowly, and people are leaving.  What’s done is done.”

She took a minute to consider the situation, perhaps find a way around the problem, but she had been put with her friends.  If there had been any ideas
Among them, she would have it to tell me.

“When?”

“Before the next rent is due.”

“Friday?”

“Thursday would be better. We are just going to have to leave? And hope we don’t have to make up lies to get away.  We simply don’t have enough without completely depleting our reserve.  And why wait another month for the inevitable?”

I hoped she could see the sense in it.  The only problem was simply walking away from everything.  There was a lot of time and effort put into making a life in that apartment.  It wasn’t the best of places, but it was our home and had been from the day we married.

So many memories.

She looked up and smiled wanly.  “Thursday.”

“Pack only what we can carry.  It won’t be a lot.  I’ll get tickets on the 11 o’clock special, a sleeper.  We can afford one last treat.”

“Your uncle is expecting us?”

“He is.”

…

Lucy chose to tell her friends that we were going away for a few days, visiting relatives in Chicago.  She said she could not bring herself to tell them that it might be forever, though I suspect a small part of her wanted to believe we were coming back.

For me, it was more difficult, and I just chose not to alert anyone to my plan.  I convinced myself it was a plan, but it was a move borne of desperation because of this failure. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

Fear of failing Lucy was my only concern.  She was doing everything I asked because she trusted me.  That trust would only go so far.

It was strange how quickly time flies when you’re about to do something drastic.  I thought it would drag, but no.  We were standing in the dining area, taking in a last look at the place that had been home for the last ten years.

The times we had laughed and cried, the parties and the agonies.  We’d never expected life to be easy, but we never expected it to be this hard.  We always believed no matter what, we’d muddle through, like our parents and their parents before them.

“Somehow I can’t feel anything,” Lucy said.  “It’s just four walls and, well, nothing.”

“I had expected that memories would be flooding back, but it’s like we were never here.”

“Maybe it was just a stage in a journey.”

Maybe it was.  Perhaps it was just both of us trying to think about the future and not let the past drag us down.

We both had a backpack and a suitcase with everything we wanted, enough for a few days.  We didn’t own anything expensive, other than our cell phones.

A last look, we walked out the door, closed it for the last time, and left the building.  The bus stopped outside the door and took us to the railway station.

The train was due in an hour and a half.  After getting the tickets, we would have a snack at the restaurant attached to the depot.

I had hoped Riley, the Station Master, would not be on, but it felt like an omen when I saw his smiling face in the ticket office.

He was unofficially voted the happiest man in town, always bright and cheery, the one smiling face surrounded by a world in turmoil.  He was probably one of the few with a permanent job.

My father had been one of his friends, and he had been a frequent visitor at Sunday lunches at my parents’ places.  Sometimes I would go visit, but our contact had become less frequent over time and especially after my father’s death.

“Richard, long time, no see.  How are you?”  He had conveniently ignored the fact that we had baggage.

“Good.”

“Lucy?” 

Lucy was not looking particularly happy, but he chose to ignore that too.

“I’m fine, Mr West.”

“How can I help you?”

“We’re going to Chicago for a few days.”

“Yes, I believe you are.”

“How…” Lucy said it before she could stop herself.

Like her, I wondered if the one person I trusted with the secret had talked.  Rumours travelled like wildfire, despite

“Funny story that.  A couple of days ago, I got a call from a lady by the name of Delilah McEwan.  She says she is calling on behalf of her boss, Robert Bannister.  Bannister, she says.  I know a Bannister, and lo and behold, it is the invisible brother.  Met him once at the funeral.  Larger than life and loud too.  Seems he understands you’re coming to Chicago, and would like me to book a sleeper, first class and all, for Richard and Lucille Bannister. No problem, I say, and it’s done.”

He went over to a large cabinet and pulled out an envelope, and came back with it, putting it on the counter between us.

“Tickets, a letter from Ms McEwan, inclusive of all meals and drinks if you so desire.  Perhaps the man is not as bad as we may cast him?”

“Perhaps not,” I said, after a few moments to get over the surprise.  I had not expected this.

Then he came closer and spoke in a lower tone.  “I’m guessing, given the nature of affairs here, you might not be coming back.  Not until things get better.  I’m not surprised.  There’s a steady stream of folk leaving, some old and dear friends, and it breaks my heart.  But you must do what you must to survive.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you when the train arrives.  Be here about 15 minutes before.  It’s currently running five minutes behind schedule.  You can leave your bags with me, and pick them up later. “

…

It was, I thought, a good thing we were wearing our best clothes.  They only came out on special occasions, and this train trip was exactly that.

Barely out the door, Lucy said, almost in a breathless whisper, “First Class, what is that about.  We’re never going to be able to pay him back.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.  After all, he wouldn’t do it unless he had a plan, so we could.  Perhaps the jobs he had found for us might pay enough so we can.  But for the moment, let’s not worry too much.  I’m taking this as a sign.”

We stopped outside the chicken restaurant.  While it hadn’t been too expensive, it was just Lucy could fry chicken just as nicely.  I had thought, tonight, we could splurge.

“The ticket includes food,” she said, “so let’s just have some coffee and pie instead.”

We had been told about the cafe near the station before, because of its famed apple pie. 

Inside it was warm.  Outside, the first signs of a long, cold, and bitter winter were in the air, and I was sure it would start raining soon.  The weather in Chicago would be freezing, and a little above that, around the time we arrived.

We were used to it and brought out our snow clothes.

She slid the envelope across the table and opened it.  Two tickets, First Class, all inclusive, that I knew would end up in her scrapbook history of our family, a letter, and a guidebook.

She opened the envelope and pulled out a single page.

“From Ms McEwan,” she said.

Not from my Uncle.  It made sense.  He was a busy man and had assigned us to his personal assistant.

Dear Richard and Lucille,”  she wrinkled her nose, a sign that she did not like being called Lucille, even if that was her name. 

Perhaps it had been the way her mother used it when she was annoyed with her daughter.

“We are delighted that you will be coming to Chicago and joining our group.  The Bannisters have long been synonymous with Chicago, and we like to believe we have helped in making our city what it is today.

“You are part of the next generation, and no doubt you will be very happy to join our endeavours to continue that collaboration.

“Mr Bannister is eagerly awaiting your arrival, but first we must get you situated and prepared.  I will be at the station tomorrow when you arrive, and will guide you through the next few days.”

“Once again, we welcome you to the Bannister collective, and cannot wait to see what the furniture holds.”

She shook her head.

“Its sound like we’re about to join a cult.  The Bannister Collective.  It’s like a Steven King novel.”

“Or it’s just an oddish uncle that had trouble expressing himself.”

“It doesn’t strike as strange?”

“It does, but I’m not going to read anything into it until we meet him.  And this Ms McEwan.”

She shrugged.  “Don’t you think we have jobs waiting for us.  It seems so.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Something other than waiting tables.”

“So, if you’re asked…?”

“Organising catering, I could certainly do a lot better than most of the people who had that job in the places I’ve worked.  But I had no experience.”

“You’ve been at the coal face for years.  You see all the stuff-ups and problems from the perfect perspective.  Perhaps this will be your chance.”

“Perhaps.  What about you?  Factory hand, how can you parley that into a better job?  It was not always what I wanted to do, Lucy, it was what I had to do.”

She looked at me with a certain amount of surprise, perhaps remembering that moment when we were finally together after the prom, when we decided there, and then we would get married, and spoke of our hopes and dreams.

I had imagined a very different life for us.

“Just because Mr Jacobs said you had the talent to become a good journalist based on your work for the school paper, he did say you had to hone those skills at college, which you couldn’t afford.  Now, it’s probably too late.”

“I kept writing, you know.  Seeking out stories.  Writing pieces over the years.  I chronicled the downturn of the city as it sank into the mire of economic disaster, government abandonment, and the final death blow.  It doesn’t make pretty reading.”

“But it doesn’t make Pulitzer prize material, Richard.  You, me, were nobodies in a world full of nobodies.”

“Then maybe, just maybe, this is our time to turn that around.”

…

Getting the privileges of first class was not the same as deserving first class.  We didn’t fit in, in our own minds, which made it awkward, until we realised that it didn’t matter who we were to the staff; they treated us like we belonged.

And in turn, we treated them the sort of respect they deserved.  After all, people responded to kindness.

What was prevalent in those two hours we spent in the dining room, asking questions when we were not sure, accepting recommendations, and savouring the sort of food we could never have afforded, was the stark difference between the haves and have-nots.

The staff may have known each passenger’s status, but it never once showed.  In their voices or manner.  It did, however, change for a certain couple who made a lot of noise and complained about everything.

How did people who had those advantages so many others didn’t become so ungrateful?

By the time we were ready for bed, Lucy had begun to relax, just a little, in case that thin veneer of goodness that surrounded us shattered.  Even that cramped space felt more luxurious than anything we had, so we savoured the pleasure rather than eschewing it.

The next morning, we both woke refreshed and perhaps a little more confident that life could be better.  Breakfast was another of those small pleasures, and we took our time. 

The coffee was far better than anything we had before, and not knowing its origin or cost or anything for that matter, we simply took it as of it was as if it was something we had all the time.

The complaining couple were nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps they were not morning people.

The rest of the morning passed, watching the wintry landscape, our fellow passengers, and the staff going through their routine.  We both knew the experience would end soon, so it was time to reacclimatise to our reality.

Off the train, it was going to be a whole new world.

…

We thanked the train staff for their kindness and assistance, gathered our baggage and joined the queue to disembark.  The loudmouth couple were several down from the front of the queue, complaining loudly that they had to get to an important business meeting.

No one was giving up the spot to let them pass.

We waited patiently, like everyone else, and, thanking the carriage attendant again, stepped down onto the platform.

We had arrived in Chicago.  There was no Delilah McEwan on the platform, but I suspected she would be outside in the main station waiting for us to exit through the platform gate.

I saw Lucy looking around, too.  She was as amazed as I was at the size and how busy it was.  This was going to be a lot different to out home town.  She took my hand, and I squeezed it gently.  This was bigger, noisier and more paced than she had ever seen before.

We filed through the gate and into the passage that led to the station foyer.  Coming out into the huge, carious space, larger than anything we had ever seen before, I saw a lady and a tall man in a chauffeur’s uniform, and headed towards her.

She was standing under the ‘To trains’ sign.

“You must be Richard?” She said smiling.  She shook my hand, she gave Lucy a hug.  Lucy hadn’t expected it, but in a way it made her feel more welcome.

“John will take your cases to the car.  Welcome to Chicago.  I’m sure right now, you are almost overwhelmed by just the size of this building.  You will get used to it.”

“This is just the station?” Lucy said.

“If you go to New York, they don’t call Grand Central Station grand for nothing.  But it’s big, I’ll grant you that.”

We followed the chauffeur.

“We have set up an apartment for you, where you will be staying until you decide where you want to live.  There’s no hurry; you will want to get settled and explore the city.  Mr Bannister will see you both for dinner tomorrow night, and then the next day you will have interviews so we can give you a job best suited.”

“We will be working for Mr Bannister?”  Lucy asked.

“We wanted to make sure you had a job while you get settled, and when you feel ready, you can stay, or you can explore the possibilities.  There’s no compulsion, we’re just making your first few days, and weeks, less daunting.”

“We can pay for the apartment,” I said.  Perhaps pride got the better of me because we didn’t have that much money.  All the same…

“That’s alright, Richard.  Mr Bannister is treating this as if he asked you to come work for him, so coming from another state, you get free accommodation for one month, or longer, at a reduced rate if necessary.  You can also apply for a subsidised loan for a vehicle.  These are all matters that will be explained in more detail tomorrow.  As for now, let’s get you settled.”

…

I was still waiting for the bubble to burst.

I would be hesitant to say we were ‘settled’ because the moment Delilah walked out the door, both of us just looked at each other and thought exactly the same thought.

It was too good to be true.

The apartment was larger, new, and brighter than anything we had or expected.  It was like staying in a five-star hotel, or so Lucy said when she had applied for a housekeeper’s role at a hotel in the county’s main city.

To me, it was something out of a magazine I’d seen at the barber shop.

There was an envelope on the counter welcoming us.  It had a debit card with a limit that Delilah didn’t mention, so we could get what we needed.  Lucy would need clothes for the next two days.  So would I.

Then Lucy asked the question:  “How is this possible?”

It was one I asked myself as Delilah rattled off the benefits.  All I could say was, it’s the name, Bannister.  We were part of the family, and like my father taught me, family looks after family.

It seemed odd that it took this long for Uncle Robert to realise he had extended family, but that I suspect had something to do with my father, and his disdain for his family. 

He was an honest, hard-working, ordinary man.  The Bannisters, now that I thought about it, his family, were rich, and he wanted to make his own way in the world, not accept a leg up or any favours.

Not like his brother.   Just on the edges of my memory was a telephone conversation I was never meant to hear, when my uncle had offered his brother money, but as a loan.  He had told his brother where he could put his money.

His brother never called again.  He came for the funeral but left soon after.  He offered his condolences; that was all.

“Crisis of conscience.  He couldn’t help my father because he wouldn’t let him.  I’m not so proud, but there is a limit.  We will have to pay him back, no matter how long it takes.”

“My thought exactly.  Perhaps we could tell your Uncle tomorrow.  Dinner sounds exciting and scary at the same time.  This time we’ll be in front of a lot more people.”

“It’s just dinner in a fancier setting.  We’ll manage.”

“Fancy coffee.  I’d make it, but I saw the cafe down in the foyer, and those cakes looked amazing.”

“Coffer it is.”

A few minutes later, we were whisked down to the ground floor, where the building’s residents were beginning to trickle in.

The cafe has a short line waiting to be seated.  I’d never had to wait before.  There was a lot of stress in that line, and I wondered if big city life was a lot more stressful than back home.

Then it was our turn, and the waitress, in a perfect uniform, with the nametag Wendy, directed us to a table.  When she put the menus on it, it rocked.

It was one of those tables that didn’t sit perfectly on the floor, and I could see a flicker of concern in Lucy’s eyes.  She had been half expecting an omen like this.

But, in the next second, a busboy came over with a piece of cardboard and fixed the rocking table.  I heard Lucy sigh in relief.

That omen could have undone everything.  Now, to her, it was like we were meant to be here.

We sat, ordered coffee and two French pastries, and Lucy used her schoolgirl French to describe the cake exactly, and the waitress showed she was fluent in the language. A short conversation on French ensued.

When the waitress left, she said, now smiling, and happiest I had seen her in months, “I am so sorry glad we came, I can’t wait for the interviews.”

“Or the endless conversations you can have with your new friend.”

“It’s practically the first time.  Maybe one day we can go to France.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Sitting there, looking at her glow return, I didn’t think it mattered much how things went.  If we believed hard enough, everything would work out.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 159 – If you want to be a writer, write

…

The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation

We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.

But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.

Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.

The Illusion of Osmosis

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”

While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.

Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.

The Anatomy of a Writer

If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.

When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.

To write, you have to:

• Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
• Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
• Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.

Stop Waiting, Start Doing

If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.

The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.

Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”

If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.

…

Day 159 – If you want to be a writer, write

…

The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation

We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.

But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.

Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.

The Illusion of Osmosis

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”

While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.

Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.

The Anatomy of a Writer

If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.

When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.

To write, you have to:

• Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
• Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
• Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.

Stop Waiting, Start Doing

If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.

The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.

Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”

If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.

…

Days 157 and 158 – Writing Exercise

Start a story based on the premise of a book you read

…

From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak.  Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings. 

I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud. 

In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.

At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.

Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.

My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.

It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.

Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition.  She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.

If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.

Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem.  Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.

I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend.  Attendance was optional.

Anthea locked then came in.  She did not have to wait to enter.

I turned.

“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter.  Were you expecting one?”

“From?”  I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.

“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”

I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.

She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing. 

She handed it to me.  Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble.  The envelope was sealed with wax.  I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.

“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.

Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.

“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects.  You’d know most of them.”

She showed me the list.  Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria.  Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.

“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.

I handed her the card.  “A Friday night.  Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one.  She would be amused.”

“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”

“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”

It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend.  She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.

“The same.”

“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”

I shrugged.  “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate.  She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man.  She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”

“Who would want to?”

“It takes a certain type.”

“Do you want me to file it?”

“No.  Leave it on the desk.  The name of the society intrigues me.  I might ask Wegie to check it out.  There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”

Wegie was the company’s private detective.  Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.

“Some might say you live under a rock.”

“Some might say you have work to do.”

…

I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.

Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend.  It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.

Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not.  Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.

I was not daring.

I was old school.

I would ‘die a lonely old man’.

That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.

Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways.  She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.

She was kind, generous, but easily upset.  I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.

In short, life with her was not boring.

We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates.  Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so.  I knew enough not to ask her age.

And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.

Few people had my cell phone number.  It was a concession that I gave to her.

“Dorothy.”  I’d resumed my position by the windows.  The scenery had not changed.

“Phillip.  How are you?”

I’m sure my health was what she was calling about.  Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.

“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook.  The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled.  Not today.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that.  How about I take you to dinner tonight?  There’s a new restaurant I want to try.  My treat.”

I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with.  With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.

She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved.  I did not understand what influence I could have.

But she did make the event interesting.  She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.

“Where and when?  I’ll pick you up on the way.”

..

The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.

It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.

Dinner was interesting.  I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world. 

Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions.  She praised the restaurant, and people went.  Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.

It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.

But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.

And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.

That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.

Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.

…

My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea.  The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it.  Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.

We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant.  And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.

She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.

The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine.  As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.

More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.

I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off

Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.

Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.

It was why I decided to attend.

The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors.  I was here to be convinced.

It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30.  Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last.  She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us. 

The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances.  We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors

The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers.  That might have negatively influenced me if I were.

Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.

She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure.  She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed.  At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.

It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.

…

My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event.  It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.

I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price.  Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.

She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.

“I was taking a punt that you might attend.  I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”

“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”

“I had expected to see you with Dorothy.  I was hoping to talk about food with her.  I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”

“I did not come for the dining.”

“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”

“It shouldn’t.”

First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly.  Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you.  Eye contact.  A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.

Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease.  Some people could make you brace for the incoming.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.

“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”

“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”

“We do now.  Where were you before this?”  Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back and relaxed.  “No.  It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”

“I’m but one humble worker among many.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”

“It is my name.”

“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”

“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”

“My father always said manners make the man.”

She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script.  She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it.  It made me wonder what information people collected on me

“What does your assessment of me say?”

“What makes you think….”

“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them.  There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios.  I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort.  Your organisation is brave.”

“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building.  It’s not my organisation.”

“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction.  Whose is it?”

She frowned for a moment.  “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”

“We can end it here.  You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”

“I can ask no less.   Now, can I ask you a favour?”

“It depends…”

“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest.  I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not.  I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”

“That’s not about money.”

“It is for a particular charity.”

“Why offer this to me?”

She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.

“When?” I asked.

“When you issue the invitation.”

I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in.  The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.

I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.

And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.

I shrugged.  If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered.  If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.

“OK.  Who do I make the check out to?”

She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room.  I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.

But it was an entertaining evening.

…

Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.

She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation.  It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation.  It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.

My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.

It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.

“Who is it from?”

“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”

“Then don’t open it.”

“And not learn who it is?”

“You may not want to know.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I opened it.

It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.

Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”

The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”

I kept the number and deleted the message.  I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.

“Anyone you know.”

“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”

She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times.  Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.

Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”

If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.

Still…

“I have.”  And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.

She took it all in, changing her expression several times.  Then she smiled.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”

“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”

“What did Wegie say?”

She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value.  “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”

“Could she fit into your world?”

“Does she have to?  It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”

“Then what have you got to lose?”

I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.

It was a sign.

I took out my cell phone and dialled the number.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 157 and 158 – Writing Exercise

Start a story based on the premise of a book you read

…

From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak.  Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings. 

I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud. 

In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.

At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.

Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.

My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.

It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.

Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition.  She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.

If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.

Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem.  Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.

I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend.  Attendance was optional.

Anthea locked then came in.  She did not have to wait to enter.

I turned.

“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter.  Were you expecting one?”

“From?”  I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.

“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”

I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.

She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing. 

She handed it to me.  Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble.  The envelope was sealed with wax.  I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.

“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.

Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.

“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects.  You’d know most of them.”

She showed me the list.  Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria.  Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.

“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.

I handed her the card.  “A Friday night.  Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one.  She would be amused.”

“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”

“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”

It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend.  She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.

“The same.”

“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”

I shrugged.  “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate.  She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man.  She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”

“Who would want to?”

“It takes a certain type.”

“Do you want me to file it?”

“No.  Leave it on the desk.  The name of the society intrigues me.  I might ask Wegie to check it out.  There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”

Wegie was the company’s private detective.  Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.

“Some might say you live under a rock.”

“Some might say you have work to do.”

…

I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.

Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend.  It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.

Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not.  Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.

I was not daring.

I was old school.

I would ‘die a lonely old man’.

That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.

Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways.  She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.

She was kind, generous, but easily upset.  I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.

In short, life with her was not boring.

We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates.  Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so.  I knew enough not to ask her age.

And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.

Few people had my cell phone number.  It was a concession that I gave to her.

“Dorothy.”  I’d resumed my position by the windows.  The scenery had not changed.

“Phillip.  How are you?”

I’m sure my health was what she was calling about.  Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.

“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook.  The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled.  Not today.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that.  How about I take you to dinner tonight?  There’s a new restaurant I want to try.  My treat.”

I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with.  With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.

She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved.  I did not understand what influence I could have.

But she did make the event interesting.  She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.

“Where and when?  I’ll pick you up on the way.”

..

The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.

It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.

Dinner was interesting.  I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world. 

Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions.  She praised the restaurant, and people went.  Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.

It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.

But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.

And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.

That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.

Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.

…

My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea.  The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it.  Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.

We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant.  And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.

She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.

The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine.  As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.

More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.

I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off

Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.

Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.

It was why I decided to attend.

The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors.  I was here to be convinced.

It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30.  Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last.  She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us. 

The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances.  We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors

The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers.  That might have negatively influenced me if I were.

Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.

She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure.  She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed.  At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.

It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.

…

My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event.  It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.

I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price.  Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.

She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.

“I was taking a punt that you might attend.  I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”

“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”

“I had expected to see you with Dorothy.  I was hoping to talk about food with her.  I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”

“I did not come for the dining.”

“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”

“It shouldn’t.”

First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly.  Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you.  Eye contact.  A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.

Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease.  Some people could make you brace for the incoming.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.

“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”

“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”

“We do now.  Where were you before this?”  Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back and relaxed.  “No.  It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”

“I’m but one humble worker among many.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”

“It is my name.”

“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”

“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”

“My father always said manners make the man.”

She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script.  She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it.  It made me wonder what information people collected on me

“What does your assessment of me say?”

“What makes you think….”

“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them.  There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios.  I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort.  Your organisation is brave.”

“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building.  It’s not my organisation.”

“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction.  Whose is it?”

She frowned for a moment.  “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”

“We can end it here.  You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”

“I can ask no less.   Now, can I ask you a favour?”

“It depends…”

“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest.  I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not.  I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”

“That’s not about money.”

“It is for a particular charity.”

“Why offer this to me?”

She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.

“When?” I asked.

“When you issue the invitation.”

I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in.  The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.

I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.

And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.

I shrugged.  If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered.  If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.

“OK.  Who do I make the check out to?”

She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room.  I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.

But it was an entertaining evening.

…

Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.

She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation.  It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation.  It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.

My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.

It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.

“Who is it from?”

“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”

“Then don’t open it.”

“And not learn who it is?”

“You may not want to know.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I opened it.

It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.

Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”

The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”

I kept the number and deleted the message.  I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.

“Anyone you know.”

“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”

She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times.  Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.

Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”

If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.

Still…

“I have.”  And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.

She took it all in, changing her expression several times.  Then she smiled.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”

“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”

“What did Wegie say?”

She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value.  “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”

“Could she fit into your world?”

“Does she have to?  It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”

“Then what have you got to lose?”

I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.

It was a sign.

I took out my cell phone and dialled the number.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to  Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.

It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.

Rupert realises that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington was going to realise it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington had to be taken off the chessboard.

Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.

Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter.  There, she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.

Then, miraculously, John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.

Then it disappears again.

Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address.  It’s a short call.

Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilise them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.

…

More about my second novel

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In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to  Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.

It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.

Rupert realises that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington was going to realise it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington had to be taken off the chessboard.

Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.

Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter.  There, she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.

Then, miraculously, John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.

Then it disappears again.

Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address.  It’s a short call.

Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilise them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.

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Day 156 – The past is a great resource

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The Archive of Experience: Why Your Past is Your Greatest Resource

In our modern, fast-paced world, we are obsessed with the “next.” We are constantly looking toward the next milestone, the next innovation, and the next version of ourselves. While forward momentum is essential for growth, we often overlook the most powerful tool in our arsenal for navigating the future: our own history.

The past is not merely a collection of memories or a series of “what-ifs.” It is a dynamic, living resource—a vast library of data, lessons, and patterns that, when leveraged correctly, can become the foundation for our future success.

Here is why your past is the most valuable asset you own.

1. The Laboratory of Pattern Recognition

Patterns are the language of reality. Whether in business, relationships, or personal habits, history tends to rhyme. When you look back at your past experiences—both the triumphs and the failures—you begin to see recurring themes.

Did you notice that you always thrive when you collaborate, but struggle when you’re isolated? Do you see a trend in the types of challenges that tend to derail your progress? By analysing your past, you aren’t just remembering; you are engaging in pattern recognition. This allows you to walk into new situations with a “map” that others, who haven’t done the work of reflection, lack.

2. Failure as R&D (Research and Development)

We often treat our past mistakes as sources of shame. However, in the world of professional innovation, a failed experiment is simply a piece of data that proves what doesn’t work.

When you treat your past failures as “Research and Development,” you strip away the emotional sting and replace it with objective intelligence. Every “no” you received, every project that stalled, and every lapse in judgment is a refined instruction manual for how to handle similar situations in the future. You are the only person who possesses the unique training data of your own life—don’t let it go to waste.

3. The Anchor of Resilience

There is a specific kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have survived 100% of your worst days. When the present feels overwhelming, looking back at your own history serves as a powerful anchor.

By remembering the times you felt trapped, confused, or defeated and recalling exactly how you navigated your way out, you remind yourself of your inherent resilience. The past doesn’t just show you where you’ve been; it proves your capacity to transcend adversity. It transforms the question “Can I get through this?” into “I have gotten through this before, and I will do it again.”

4. Harvesting Your “Hidden Hits”

Sometimes, we get so focused on the future that we forget the skills, passions, and insights we once possessed. Perhaps you were a great writer in college, a creative problem solver in your first job, or someone who naturally brought people together in a community group.

Modern life often causes us to prune away parts of ourselves to fit into a specific “career box.” Returning to your past allows you to rediscover forgotten talents. It is a process of harvesting the “hidden hits” of your early life and re-integrating them into your current identity to create a more well-rounded, effective version of yourself.

How to Use Your Past Effectively

To turn your past into a resource rather than a prison, you must change your relationship with it:

• Practice Objective Reflection: Spend time journaling about past events as if you were an unbiased observer. Write down what happened, what you did, and what the outcome was.
• Extract the Lesson: Don’t stop at the memory. Ask yourself, “What did this teach me that I am still using today?”
• Forgive the “Past You”: Recognise that the version of you in the past was making the best decisions they could with the information they had at the time. Compassion for your past self is the key to clarity for your future self.

The Bottom Line

Your past is not a graveyard; it is a goldmine. It is where your wisdom resides and where your most authentic lessons are stored. By mining your history for its insights, patterns, and proofs of strength, you stop being a victim of your experiences and start becoming the architect of your future.

Don’t just move forward—move forward informed. Your past is waiting to tell you exactly how to win.

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