He was neither a scoundrel, nor a gentleman.
Some where in between.
His dress was business casual befitting his position as vice president in charge of sales for the organization. His body for all of its 50 years was lean and taunt. He insisted on the four times weekly gym workouts. He refused to eat most vegetables except green beans. He enjoyed remarkably good health.
He traveled the world, business-class, and came to know the best bars and restaurants in Hong Kong and Havana, in Chicago and Chelsea. He liked, after a long day’s work, to enjoy a bourbon with dinner.
Only one. He needed to keep his wits about him. The ice clinked in his glass and it reminded him of other evenings when he had a family. A family. What a concept. For others, I guess, not for me, he often mused.
Did he ever have a family life? What happened to the 1960s and 1970s? It was all too painful to remember. Best forgotten.
He returned to the present and to his dinner. The steak was well done and delicious. Finishing, he paid the bill with his business credit card. He decided to walk back to his hotel, passing Kensington Gardens and Queensway. He noticed the Catholic Church as he walked and thought he would attend Sunday Mass there.
The following day offered business meetings and dinner with his hosts at an Italian Restaurant near Piccadilly. He arrived early at the restaurant. His mind wandered. What was her name? Jilly? Jean? Ah, yes, it was Jacqueline. What a sweet love affair they had that previous Summer in Rome.
It was her city and she knew the chocolate shops, the florists, and the best times to see the tourist attractions. They threw coins in Trivi Fountain and sat on the Spanish steps as the moon waltzed across the Roman sky. They bought hazelnut gelati cones and laughed.
They were a couple that Summer and he brought fresh bouquets of flowers and the wine for her dinners. When his work finished, they bid one another arrivederci. Knowing, each of them, it was goodbye forever.
His memories stopped as his hosts arrived. The present offered dinner table talk of that year’s best red wine and where to buy the freshest olive oil. Surely, this meal will end soon, he thought. I can walk back to the hotel alone. He had three more days in London and planned to shop at Harrod’s, take tea at Claridge’s Hotel and indulge, he thought.
Yes, indulge.
Something he knew how to do as a single, lonely, man about town. When he returned to the States, work would resume at its usual frantic pace. And that was all right with him. Busy days meant better sleeping nights and less time to think of the past and its pleasures.
Yes, he was not a scoundrel. He did not cheat or steal or use people. Yet, he was not quite the gentleman either. His words could wound just as much as a blow would. The critical words that strife a soul. Whether he meant to or not, his words could be bullets of verbal abuse. He could never seem to accept responsibility for his own actions. He simply walked away, immune to his words and their result.
As the jet left London’s Heathrow Airport, he looked out his window and thought about his life. Some things will change. Some things have to change, he thought.
I will be a better man.