Gauge's Wall
Fiction: A short story about isolation
This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “isolation.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.
Malcolm Gauge sat in his study, after dinner, swirling his wine glass and watching the deep red Malbec within reflect in the dim light. He didn’t know why exactly he swirled the glass, but that’s what people always did when they drank fancy wine, so he did it too. He took a sip, set down the oversized sommelier glass, and picked up his smoldering Cuban cigar. As he savored the cigar’s flavor, he turned and gazed out the window to watch the snow falling onto the grounds of his majestic home in the Hamptons.
As he did most evenings, Malcolm sat and thought about how satisfied he was with his life. He thought about his achievements, which surely surpassed most people’s. And he thought about his ongoing and future ambitions.
Malcolm had founded, and still ran, one of the largest hedge funds on Wall Street: Infinite Gauge Funds. He owned a luxurious penthouse on the upper east side and, of course, this grand second home in the Hamptons. He had been married to the most gorgeous woman he knew, Heather, for two decades. He reveled in the thinly veiled looks of jealousy from his colleagues when he entered a room with her. They often attended various social functions in the city together, and he always caught these envious looks out of the corner of his eye. He and Heather had two perfect children who excelled in sports and made top grades in all their classes. Malcolm had even managed to stay fit and trim, despite being middle-aged, and despite his penchant for wine and cigars. He nodded to himself, he was truly “living the dream” as his kids would say.
But, as Malcom sat and thought about how blessed he had been in life, he suddenly had an epiphany. Darker thoughts that worried him appeared unbidden. Perhaps he hadn’t done quite as well in his life as he first thought. Something was missing.
It’s just the short dark winter days, or perhaps I’ve had too much wine this evening.
I’ll just take an Ambien and go to bed. I’ll feel better in the morning.
But Malcom didn’t get up. He sat there, smoking his cigar and swirling his wine, as his mood grew dark and somber. He simply couldn’t shake the clarity of these new thoughts. They felt like they had appeared in his mind as some mystical intuition from the larger universe. They told him that, perhaps, he had focused his life on all the wrong things.
Certainly, like all successful people, Malcolm had made mistakes. He had missed most of his kids’ childhoods as he built his company. The usual clichés. Working through vacations. Missed ball games. Late for dance recitals. Prioritizing last minute work problems and opportunities over time he promised to spend with his family. So many broken promises! Those were precious moments he could never get back. He hoped his kids had forgiven him, but, tonight these memories haunted him.
And the way he had taken Heather for granted! He and Heather hardly spoke these days. And many times, when they did, things turned into a heated argument. His kids almost never talked to him anymore either. Hell, even his dogs seemed afraid of him lately. Malcolm knew he drank too much and the stress of work sometimes caused him to fly into a rage when anything unexpected happened during his day, especially if it interfered with his plans and goals.
So, instead of taking an Ambien and escaping to the sweet bliss of dreamless sleep, tonight, Malcolm did something out of character. He opened his desk drawer and took out his long neglected journal. He sat for a good ten minutes, drinking more wine, just staring at it and trying to decide if he was really going to write something.
It takes courage to put thoughts to paper, but tonight, somehow, Malcom found that courage. Here is what he wrote:
***
I've built a Wall between us,
with words and deeds.
Words full of lies, deceit and anger,
have built a wall stronger than stone
and taller than the wall that rings a city.
I didn't mean to build a Wall,
but word by word, brick by brick,
it has been built.
Until now
And we are completely separated.
My heart yearns to tell you things,
to tell you I love you.
But now, your heart will not receive such words,
and they will be perceived as more lies.
Even in writing this, I've made the wall stronger.
All words and concepts are now stopped by The Wall,
and indeed contribute to it.
I cry in frustration.
I yell in my soul.
Tears stream down my face.
In my heart, I am in pain for what I have done.
But you will see my tears and they will just be
more bricks to stack on
The Wall.
I am ashamed of what I have done.
I often, when we attempt to speak earnestly,
can't look at you.
For I am ashamed, that
I have ruined what we built,
and now we are worlds apart.
I am utterly alone, surrounded by The Wall.
And you are utterly alone outside it.
As we all are in the end.
But, for a while, in the sunshine, before the Wall,
we faced the aloneness together.
And it was nice. Better even.
It was beautiful.
I shout at The Wall at the top of my lungs, but words have no strength.
I rage at The Wall, but rage only strengthens it.
I pray for The Wall to fall, but prayers cannot escape it to be heard.
I want to destroy it.
And I now, finally, suspect the only tool that has a chance
is the flame of Truth.
So I seek Truth, in other ways than words.
What ways, I don't know.
For, I am ill equipped and surrounded by
The Wall.
But it is worth striving for.
I miss you, and it's my own fault that I can't reach you.
So while these words will add a little more height to The Wall,
Words aren't the only way to perceive Truth.
But I've surrounded myself with lies.
So perhaps the only way out is to destroy,
not The Wall,
but what's left inside of it.
To destroy my ego,
For my ego is the source of the anger that built
The Wall.
So my ego rages in anger inside its cage of isolation,
Not knowing it creates the bricks
That build The Wall ever higher.
Yes, perhaps the way through is to destroy,
not The Wall, but to destroy my ego,
For my ego surrounds and entraps nothing,
nothing but Truth.
And if that can be destroyed,
Perhaps, just perhaps,
that would allow that nothing that is Truth,
to float through The Wall,
as only nothing can do,
and find its way back to you.
Perhaps only the truth can set me free.
***
Malcolm sat back and stared at what he had written.
He pondered it for a long time, and even reread it several times. A tear leaked from his eye. Finally, he downed the rest of his wine in one large gulp, and turned and poured himself another glass.
Then, he shook his head, tore the page out of his journal, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the fireplace.
And, as he watched it burn, he popped an Ambien into his mouth, washed it down with another sip of wine, and thought to himself,
Everything will be fine, I’ll do better tomorrow.
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