The Lost Decade

by F Scott Fitzgerald

All sorts of people came into the offices of the news-weekly and Orrison Brown had all sorts of relationships with them. Outside office hours he was 'one of the editors' – during work time he was simply a curly-haired man who, a year before, had edited a newspaper but was now very glad to get the unwanted assignments around the office, anything from making illegible articles readable to entertaining visitors.

He had seen the latest visitor go into the editor's office – a pale, tall man of forty with a lot of blond hair and a way that was neither shy nor other-worldly like a man of religion, but something like it. The name on his card, Louis Trimble, reminded him vaguely of something but Orrison did not puzzle over it – until experience and a bell ringing on his desk warned him that Mr. Trimble was to be his first course at lunch.

"Mr. Trimble – Mr. Brown," said the boss.

"Orrison – Mr. Trimble's been away a long time. Or he feels it's a long time – almost twelve years. Some people would consider themselves lucky to miss the last decade."

"That's so," said Orrison.

"I can't lunch today," continued his chief. "Take him to Voisin or 21 or anywhere he'd like. Mr. Trimble feels there're lots of things he hasn't seen."

Trimble accepted politely.

"Oh, I can get around."

"I know. Nobody knew this place like you did once — and if you get bored with Brown, just send him back here to me. And you'll be back yourself by four, won't you?"

Orrison got his hat.

"You've been away ten years?" he asked while they went down in the lift.

"They'd begun making the Empire State Building," said Trimble. "When was that?"

"About 1928. But as the chief said, you've been lucky to miss a lot." Encouraging his guest to talk, he added, "You probably had more interesting things to look at."

"No."

They reached the street and the way Trimble's face changed in traffic made Orrison take one more guess.

"You've been out of civilization?"

"In a way." The words were spoken in such a quiet way that Orrison decided this man wouldn't talk unless he wanted to — and, straight away, he wondered if he’d spent the last ten years in a prison or a mental hospital.

"This is the famous 21," he said. "Do you think you'd rather eat somewhere else?"

Trimble paused, looking carefully at the house.

"I can remember when the name 21 became famous," he said. Then he continued almost apologetically, "I thought we might walk up Fifth Avenue about five minutes and eat wherever we happened to be. Some place with young people to look at."

Orrison gave him a quick glance and once again thought of grey walls and bars; he wondered if his duties included getting girls for him. But Mr. Trimble didn't look as if he had that in mind – his expression was of absolute and deep curiosity and Orrison tried to connect his guest’s name with explorers at the South Pole or pilots lost in Brazilian jungles. He was, or he had been, a celebrity — that was obvious. But the only definite clue to his environment – and to Orrison the clue led nowhere – was his countryman's obedience to traffic lights. Once he stopped and gazed into a men's clothes shop window.

"Bow ties," he said. "I haven't seen one since I left college."

"Where did you go?"

"Massachusetts Tech."

"Great place."

"I'm going to take a look at it next week. Let's eat somewhere along here … you choose."

There was a good restaurant just around the corner.

"What do you want to see most?" Orrison asked, as they sat down.

Trimble considered.

"Well, the backs of people's heads," he suggested. "Their necks – how their heads are joined to their bodies. I'd like to hear what those two little girls are saying to their father. Not exactly what they're saying but whether the words shine, how their mouths shut when they've finished speaking."

"That waiter. I knew him once but he wouldn't remember me," said Trimble.

But as they left the restaurant the same waiter looked at Trimble rather puzzled as if he almost knew him. When they were outside, Orrison laughed:

"After ten years people will forget."

"Oh, I had dinner there last May." He stopped speaking abruptly.

It was all very strange, Orrison decided – and changed himself suddenly into a tour guide.

"From here you get a good look at the Rockefeller Center," he pointed out "… and the Chrysler Building and the Armistead Building, the best of all the new ones."

"The Armistead Building," Trimble looked round, obediently. "Yes, I designed it."

Orrison shook his head – he was used to going out with all kinds of people.

He paused by the corner of the Armistead Building. "1928," it said.

Trimble nodded.

"But I was taken drunk that year, every-which-way drunk. So I have never seen it till now."

"Oh." Orrison hesitated. "Like to go in now?"

"I've been in it, lots of times. But I've never seen it. And now it isn't what I want to see. I wouldn't ever be able to see it now. I simply want to see how people walk and what their clothes and shoes and hats are made of. And their eyes and hands. Would you mind shaking hands with me?"

"Not at all, sir."

"Thanks. Thanks. That's very kind. I suppose it looks strange – but people will think we're saying good-bye. I'm going to walk up the street for a while, so we’ll say good-bye. Tell your office I'll be in at four."

Orrison looked after him when he walked off, half expecting him to turn into a bar. But there was nothing about him that suggested or ever had suggested drink.

"Jesus," he said to himself. "Drunk for ten years."

He suddenly felt his own coat and then pressed his thumb against the side of the building next to him.