Secret Expectations

Gazing into the silent corners of his bookshelf, Howard sat anchored to his armchair. His parlor resembled a bookstore café with its walls of books and newsprint strewn across the mahogany table. The rows of books, lined up like soldiers, quieted his mind. He took pleasure in their company; the titles leaping out at him, consuming his thoughts. He felt refreshed and expanded as he arranged and rearranged each classic in his mind. He was like an old sail endowed with life, waiting patiently for Sam to arrive.

Howard aspired to become acquainted with wiser men and become a member of the prestigious book group that met at the Coop Café in Harvard Square.  But it was Sam who had climbed the ivy walls of Harvard and earned his way into the scholarly circles, becoming a gilded member of the Cambridge Literary Society.

             Sam had enlisted in the US Air Force before attending Harvard, returning to Cambridge after an interval of world wandering.  And Howard had settled in Harvard Square after moonlighting at a meat packing plant in Somerville.  They dusted off their friendship after years of separation, soon discovering that they frequented the same coffee shops, rode the same bus routes, and traveled the same neighborhoods, often meandering through the seasons. And then Sam surprised Howard with an invitation into the prestigious Cambridge Literary Society, and Howard graciously accepted. 

Sam arrived in good earnest, his voice echoing into the darkened hallway as he made his early morning appearance. His soft voice matched his eyes and hair, a voice that made people lean in close as he spoke.  He knew the importance of speaking low enough to be heard and spacing himself away from a restless crowd.  Stopping to pause, Sam always gave his thoughts time to take root.

            Sam was viewed as one of the elders in the group, one of the old minds who spoke publicly of his own struggles before attending Harvard.  He was part of the “silent generation”, renowned for having a strong work ethic and a desire for stability. He didn’t enjoy the newcomers, the so-called Gen Z group, the digital natives, who were constantly tapping away on their devices and fliting between their apps and social media feeds. 

            Sam and Howard shared stories and anecdotes as they gazed at the familiar scenery along Mass Ave. Through the rain they could see the birches, oaks, and elms in full flame; the leaves being transformed from green to various shades of yellow and red, capturing the most memorable part of their day. 

            “Today will be open to the public,” Sam complained. “I suspect we will see the younger crowd telling their stories while building castles in the air. I sure hope they follow procedure and let the elders lead.”

            The Cambridge Literary Society, because of their passion for ambition, had chosen Dickens for their fall discussion group. They had lusted for it.  They had decided in late August that it would be Great Expectations, and not The Great Gatsby, that some of the members had discussed in early June. Like Pip, most of the scholars in the group had despised poverty and longed for wealth and power. And then the votes were cast, and the members decided on Great Expectations because of their own ambitions. The persona of Jay Gatsby would have suggested a masterful illusion, a theatrical approach to life.  Both Pip and Jay Gatsby were legendary celebrities surrounded by spectacular luxury and gossip, yet the scholars of the Cambridge Literary Society chose ambition over dreams and truth over fantasy.

             The Coop Café offered their seasonal pumpkin lattés in eco-friendly cups, but Sam and Howard ordered the daily roast with plenty of cream and sugar. Members and newcomers drifted in, selected their seats, and settled. The room filled up quickly as more guests enclosed the circle and began to change the atmosphere. 

            Sam kept his thoughts to himself and watched warily as the new scholars began to crowd out the elders.  Private conversations leaped form i Phone to i Phone, as tired fingers rolled out an endless stream of texts. When the keynote speaker droned on about Pip and his ambition for self-improvement, the bored newcomers began checking their social media, smiling silently at a new “like” or elevated comment. As the LCD screens lit up the room, Howard flipped through the worn pages of his hard copy, thinking about Pip and his own expectations.

            “I never got a chance to speak tonight,” said Sam as they left the café. “I didn’t enjoy the newcomers. It was as if we were speaking different languages, and there was no one there to translate. Like disoriented men drifting at sea, I suspect they never learned to find their way by getting lost.”

            “They were communicating to a larger audience,” Howard replied.  “An audience greater than we were,” I surmise.  “Most of the attendees came tonight because they were curious.  I suspect that many of them never even read the book.”          

As they approached Howard’s apartment, Sam carefully reached into his jacket pocket. “I have something for you,” he announced.  

Howard eyes gazed at the small white envelope Sam was holding. 

“A special invitation to the Reader’s Convention to be held at the Boston Public Library next week,” Sam exclaimed joyfully.

            Howard opened the envelope and stared at the gold lettering.  “How did you get this?” he inquired. 

             Sam smiled and crafted his answer carefully. “Not an easy feat my friend,” he answered.  “I cannot always share my secrets, as I surmise you have a few of your own.”

            “This is too generous of a gift Sam.  I don’t know if I am worthy enough to accept this.  I’m honored, but I think I should decline this invitation.”

            “A special gift for your 75^th birthday celebration,” Sam exclaimed.  “I won’t take no for an answer.  There will be a surprise guest author, and I have arranged for you to read aloud a special passage from his works. This my friend is the gift of a lifetime.”

            As they reached Howard’s front stoop, Sam reminded him of his special invite to the Reader’s Convention on Friday afternoon. Howard smiled as he carefully tucked the invitation into his jacket pocket.

            On Friday, Howard checked the bus schedule and packed his satchel with his books. He quietly closed the front door behind him and crossed the street to the bus stop. Today, he would be boarding #71. When the bus opened its doors, Howard carefully mounted the steps and took his place by the window, so not to be disturbed.  He turned 75 today. A good age he speculated.

            Sam waited patiently for bus #73 and Howard to arrive.  He was beginning to feel uneasy. He wondered if Howard had forgotten about the magnificent invitation. He checked his watch, made his way to Howard’s place, and knocked on his door. Where could he be? Had Howard planned on getting there early? Would he perhaps meet him at the Boston Public Library? He was confused.  Sam went back to the bus stop. He needed to get to Copley Square. He glanced at his ticket and anxiously boarded the bus.

            Howard departed #71, as quickly as he had boarded it. His spirits rose as he ambled through the streets, pausing briefly to view his emerging shadow illuminated with light. 

            Howard breathed a sigh of relief as he stopped in front of the shabby building on Essex Street.  He had made the journey alone, or perhaps he was making it with Pip. Howard had chosen to spend his 75^th birthday at the literacy center learning to read.