Charitable Reflections

It is a rare thing to see the moon hanging menacingly just above the reach of New York Cities piercing skyscrapers.  But sometimes it does and when it does it goes almost fully unnoticed.  Just think, all the pairs of eyes that fill the walls of New York City, and hardly one gives any thought to the moon shine that dances on the rain slick streets.  At best someone may think the light bulbs of the streetlamps have been changed.  All those eyes that see so much but fail to notice the simplest of things. 
Tonight is such a night.  The moon is dangling and the streets are dancing.  Windows of empty office towers sparkle with the cool reflection.  One of these rooms isn't empty and a white wash of the moon's beams play on the rug and the walls, the only light present save a small glow from a desk in the corner.  Hunched over the desk Roger intently worked his pencil over paper. 
         "There. Finished."
         He picked up the piece of paper and held it out in the beam of the moons light to examine his work.  Staring back at him off the paper are a pair of dull, lifeless eyes surrounded by a concentrated expression belonging to a man in his mid thirties.
         Roger squinted at the drawing, "Ack."
He set it back on the desk and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the top drawer. The flash penetrated the dark corners of the room that hid from the moon's light as he lit the cigarette.  Puffing contentedly he reclined in his chair and continued to stare at his creation.  He shook his head.
         "It's just not right.  I don't understand it."  Taking a long drag of his cigarette he threw the drawing into the bottom drawer of his file cabinet on top of hundreds of other drawings of the same face. 
         Directly in front of him a mirror reflected his face as he sat puffing his cigarette.  He adjusted the mirror and looked straight into his own frustrated reflection.
         "Why can't I get it? What am I missing? Hell what am I even trying to get?"
         Pushing the mirror aside he revealed a pink envelope with a Post it note stuck to it.  The fluid girlish handwriting of his wife skipped across the yellow square. 
         "Don't forget"
         Roger mumbled under his breath.  He had forgotten.  The pink envelope concealed a flowery pink invitation to the Mayor's wife's annual charity ball. Unfortunately for him the Mayor happened to be married to his wife's sister Patricia and therefore he had the ‘honor' of attending every ridiculous event she put together.  Roger didn't mind Patricia, or the Mayor for that matter, but he never was too fond of the upper class of New York that attended these events.
         Tucked in the closest of his office was a bagged up tuxedo pressed and ready for occasions such as this.  He carefully relieved the tuxedo from the suffocating confines of the bag and hung it from its hanger on the closet door.  At the bottom of the closet was a small red duffle bag full of the other necessary accommodations for the event; dress shoes and polish, comb, gel, razor, deodorant, a bundle of fresh black socks, and a small bottle of cologne.  His wife, Clara was always very particular about the way he presented himself for these events.  She took responsibility for dry cleaning and pressing his tux and had put together the duffle bag for him. It always seemed somewhat ridiculous to him, but he knew how much it meant to her.
He pulled out his dress shoes and gave them a quick buffer. Then grabbed the razor and comb and settled himself back in his desk before the mirror.  Stretching his neck and rubbing the stubble it was clearly necessary for a quick shave. On top of that his hair was a crumpled mess from his nervous habit of tangling his fingers in it whenever a cigarette was out of the question.
         "Hmm. That's funny."  He reached for the drawer where he had tossed his drawing.  Holding it up beside the mirror he examined the drawing beside his face.  The hair of the man in the drawing was significantly neater than Roger's and there wasn't any stubble on the drawn man's neck either.
         He shrugged indifferently and tossed the picture back into the drawer.  Glancing at his watch he figured that he had better pick up the pace.  He had undoubtedly already missed the five course dinner and would get to the ballroom well into nine o ‘clock.  Clara of course wouldn't say anything.  She knew how much he hated these events, but he also knew how much she hated showing up without him all the time.  He didn't understand why she needed him; after all it was her family. However, he loved her enough to attempt to spare her of her embarrassment however unnecessary it may seem. 
"Ack" Roger snatched a crumpled napkin that had been shoved to the corner of his desk from lunch.  A thick line of blood dripped down the side of his neck.
"This is ridiculous," He murmured to his reflection as he dabbed at the wound. Shaving once a day before work was enough, why should he have to shave for social gatherings as well.  Who was he trying to impress? The rest of his face would have to be good enough.  He quickly changed into his tuxedo, shoved the pink invitation into his coat pocket, and ran his fingers through his hair as he hurried out of the office complex.
The Mayor's hall was not far from the office tower where Roger worked which made for a quick walk of ten blocks or so.  The fresh air and exercise was just the thing to gather his bearings before the circus.
         He had never been a fan of his sister-in-law's fancy banquets and balls.  As a graphic designer he never felt quite in step with the upper crust of New York society.  He couldn't quite pin point why, but he couldn't fall into a comfortable conversation with anyone. Everything always felt awkward. Even forced.  The usual scenario would undoubtedly play out, in which he would become overly anxious or completely withdrawn.  Clara would eventually feel bad for him and break away from the onslaught of high class gossip which was always centered around her sister and they would go home. 
         He recognized the turnaround driveway overflowing with an entourage of sparkling limousines and Mercedes casually loitering while the valets scampered about.  The building was impressive, an archaic brick mansion of sorts.  The terrace sat suspended on three marble pillars.  Spotlights illuminated various angles of the massive brick architecture.  Inscribed above a myriad of glass doors were the words Aglaia Mansion. 
         Beneath the terrace a well fed, rosy cheeked guard occupied a cement bench beside the door's entrance contentedly bundled in his uniform and haphazardly gazing at the world around him.  In the far corner of the terrace a bejeweled woman gently nuzzled her head in the crook of a man's neck, both figures swallowed by the voluptuous pleats of her fur coat.   
  Roger skipped up the front steps and hesitated before the doors fondling the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket.  What was five more minutes?           
"May I?" Roger indicated the open space on the bench beside the guard.
         "Oh yes.  Of course.  Go right ahead," the guard bellowed good naturedly and ineffectively moved his robust figure to make more room.
         Roger settled himself on the bench and pulled out a cigarette.  With a gesture he beckoned the guard to take one as well.
         "Ah no that's alright. Can't stand the taste of them. I've got my own device. Thanks anyways."  The guard pulled out a thick cigar and joined Roger for a smoke.
         "You here to join in the festivities?" the guard asked pleasantly.
         "Guilty." Roger rustled around his pocket and handed the guard the pink invitation.
         "Indeed you are."
         The conversation fell off and Roger directed his attention to the couple in the corner.  They had peeled there bodies apart and were speaking animatedly.  The woman seemed to be whining in a state of childlike tantrum, throwing her arms about and pleading to the man.
         Roger smirked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that lively couple in the corner there?"
         The guard turned his attention to the whimpering woman.  The man had stubbornly plugged his ears refusing to hear anything she said. "Ha, that's Mr. Jack Buxley and his wife Vicki.  He owns the Buxley Law Firm on the other side of the city."
         "Do you think they know what they look like?"  The guard didn't answer. They both stared at the fiasco the couple were creating, "Bet you see a lot of crazy things sitting out here away from the social pressure."
         The guard smiled wide, "You have no idea.  Just because they are high class doesn't make em first rate.  That's what I always say.  In fact if you look hard enough I'll bet they slip up under the limelight as well.  I wouldn't know, I'm always out here, but I'd bet money they do.  You can't hide habits that atrocious."  He pointed to the couple. The woman stormed off with a thick pout on her red lips and stood in front of the door with her arms crossed, stiff backed.  The man rocked back and forth on his heels, fingers looped on his suspenders looking out into the street for a moment before he turned around and escorted his date back inside as though nothing had happened.
         "Well I'll be damned," Roger pinched his cigarette as he took one last drag before tossing in on the ground and snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe. "Well it's been a pleasure. I guess I'll be going in now."
         "Certainly.  Enjoy yourself."  The guard chuckled behind the smoke of his cigar.
         Roger made his way through the chamber of doors and into the main hallway.  He handed the bellhop his coat and pocketed the plastic number before slowly making his way down the long hallway to the ballroom. 
He had never much paid attention to the hallway before.  It was actually quite magnificent.  There really wasn't anything in the hallway aside from a couple plush cashmere love seats and a strip of wall hangings lining each wall.  But he had never taken the time to actually look at the wall hangings and right now they seemed particularly uncanny.  Really they were nothing more than an assortment of portraits and mirrors.  The portraits were of the mayor and his wife, their children, various members of the extended family on one wall.  On the other wall were portraits of past mayors.  What struck him as strange was that following each portrait was an elegantly framed mirror of sorts. They were all different.  A sort of gallery of portraits and mirrors.  So when one was to attentively walk down the hallway they were looking at the portraits of others as much as they were looking at a portrait of themselves.  Even more interesting, the mirrors grew in size the farther down the hallway you went.  And so when Roger started down the hallway all he could see were his own eyes and now, just as he was about to enter the ballroom he was looking at a full size portrait of himself.  Not only was he looking at a portrait of himself, it was a progressive portrait.
         He fought the urge to sit in one of the love seats and contemplate the arrangement of the hallway.  He thought better of it when he remembered that he couldn't smoke cigarettes in the building and somehow thinking without cigarettes just wasn't plausible. And so he made his way into the ballroom and filed his questions away to be explored under more comely circumstances.
         It had been a year since he last set foot in a ballroom.  Fortunately for him Clara's sister had caught ill for several months and this was to be the first ball since her recovery.  Everything was exactly as he had expected to find it.  The hall was extravagantly manifested in ornaments from the cascading chandeliers, to the intricate wooden inlays adorning the walls and ceiling, to the sheaths of velvet, burgundy drapes.  Tables spotted the room as tiny oases of refreshments and garnishments. 
The crowd of ladies and gentlemen were carefully manufactured with their best features meticulously rendered to perfection.  The women in opulent fountains of ribbons, jewels, silk, and satin partnered with men of equal exuberance crisply tucked into tuxedos.  They reminded Roger of characters from reminiscent paintings of symmetrical affluence and grace. 
         Roger's eyes skirted about the room.  The hall was large and organized in such a manner that the tables circled the perimeter with the dance floor at its center.  Simple, melodic waltzes and quadrilles wafted about from a chamber orchestra of strings, woodwinds and brass nestled in the far corner.  He positioned himself in the adjacent corner far removed from the commotion to scan the crown in search of Clara. 
         There were more people present than usual probably due to the deprivation of his sister-in law's presence to society.  At this point in the evening the ball was in full swing.  Everyone had dined and rested and eagerly immersed themselves with champagne and dancing.  The dance floor was crowded with swirling gowns and beaming faces.  It quickly became apparent that it would be no easy task to locate his wife.
         A tuxedoed waiter walked by and Roger plucked a glass of champagne from his silver tray.  The waiter bowed before turning away and Roger smiled awkwardly in return.  He took a deep breath and tried not to let the intense energy of the room upset him.  He decided to test the guard's little theory on the validity of these people.
         As is generally the case with balls, there were women everywhere.  The men of the room were far out numbered and Roger felt a sense of vulnerability as easy prey to be dragged onto the dance floor.  Such an awareness hindered his observations for fear of meeting the gaze with that of a young lady in which case his fate would be certain.  Times like these made him yearn for the company of his wife.  He kept a solemn face trying his best to appear unapproachable.  The dance floor appeared far too congested for any type of thorough investigation.  He tried to mentally weave through the profiles of men and women standing and sitting around the dance floor for any sign of unconventional actions.  Although he was hardly sure what would qualify as unconventional.  At a quick glance everyone seemed to be mingling about, either engaged in conversation or merely observing the commotion. 
         Nearly three tables away he spotted the couple that had made a scene outside.  Figuring they were a good culprit, he took a few steps along the wall to get a better view. They were bookending their companions, another man and woman.  The other couple was far more interactive than the Buxleys.  Mr. Buxley's eyes were cemented to a point beyond the walls of the building and Mrs. Buxley nervously fidgeted with her wedding ring behind her back politely nodding and smiling at the rambling woman beside her.  Another man walked in front of the group and Mrs. Buxley flamboyantly embraced him with smiles and greetings.  Roger saw Mr.Buxley's back tense at his wife's display of emotion.  He kept a smile on his face and acknowledged the man beside him when he spoke. 
         Roger felt his own muscles relax as he watched the scene play out before him.  These people were putting on a show.  It didn't really surprise him as much as it intrigued him.  He had always felt lower than the people that attended these classy functions but somehow he felt that weight slowly lifting.  How could he think himself lower when these people were nothing more than frauds?
         As his confidence perked he found himself moving a little bit further around the room to see if all these people were indeed putting on a show.  It didn't take long before he found his eyes resting on the back of a young lady.  Her body seemed to be drenched with superiority.  Her back was stiff and straight, yet elegant.  Her neck was held extended and her chin slightly elevated. 
         He recognized several of the people that she was standing and talking with to be random relatives of Clara's but he couldn't tell who the young lady was.  She looked to be of great affluence.  A diamond comb tucked delicately in a fountain of bronze curls sparkled under the light of the chandeliers.  Two diamond earrings dangled beneath the lobes of her ears as well and he was certain that the chain that clasped at the nape of her neck was holding diamonds above her bosom as well. The diamonds didn't bother him so much as the way this woman seemed to carry herself.  He wondered what her face looked like. 
         Politely dodging waiters and guests, Roger kept one eye on the woman and the other on the path to the other side of the room.  He lost her for a moment as he skirted behind the orchestra and tried to make his way closer to her position.  Just as he had made it within twenty feet she had turned her back as though she were looking for something.  When she turned back around she looked straight at him with an eye of confusion.  It was Clara. He shook his head and tried to hide his look of shock. Frozen he watched her with wide eyes as she excused herself from her companions and made her way over to him with a look of dignity and the carriage of grace that he had never before seen in her. 
         "What on earth are you wearing," Roger struggled to maintain his composure, "You look absolutely ridiculous."
         A hurt expression washed over her face washing all the dignity and grace away with it.  Without a word she quickly gathered the skirt of her dress and made her way for the door. 
         Roger rolled his eyes, took a deep breath and followed her into the hallway, "Clara, wait." He trotted to catch up to her and grabbed her by a white gloved arm. "That's not what I meant. You don't look ridiculous.  You know I think you are beautiful.  I was just caught off guard.  But, where did you get all of this stuff."
         Clara sniffed and wiped away a small tear, "From Patricia.  She called me today while I was trying to figure out what I was going to wear and I told her I couldn't find anything.  So she invited me over.  She dressed me all up." She looked up at Roger, "I thought you would like it."
         "Why would I like it?  I like the way you look.  I can hardly recognize you right now under all that makeup and diamonds and cloth."
         Clara sighed and plopped down on one of the love seats.  Roger sat down beside her and they both looked directly into one of the larger mirrors. 
         "You know what's funny though?"
         Clara wiped away the rest of her tears and regained he normal composure, "No."
         Roger thought a minute back to what he first saw of her in the ballroom, "Not only do you look different but you acted differently in there too."
         Clara's face lit up, "I know. I could feel it.  I felt great.  I felt in control and light as a feather.  I've never felt like that before.  It was strange."
         Roger wrinkled his brow for a moment as he thought about what Clara said. "Huh, just because you looked differently?"
         "Yea I suppose so." Clara shrugged and smoothed the front of her dress.
         "Why do you think that happened?  I mean.  What's wrong with the way you always look?"
         "Oh. I don't know.  I guess I felt like I fit in better."
         "All because of what you looked like?" Roger bit his lip and stood up fidgeting with the pack of cigarettes in his coat. He looked back at Clara. "Clara dear."
         "Hmm?"
         "Do you really even know what you look like?  I mean... for that matter do I even know what I look like? Does anyone know what they look like?" Roger put his hand to his chin and began to pace back and forth.
         "What on earth are you talking about Roger? Of course I know what I look like. That's what mirrors are for."
         He had his pack of cigarettes out. "Come on Clare I want to show you something."
         Since the excitement of her new look had been destroyed Clara decided to follow her husband.  After all it wasn't every day that he acted so curious.
         He retrieved their coats quickly and walked out into the street, his wife trailing behind him, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.  He led her ten blocks down the street and into his office a swirl of smoke dragging behind him. After fumbling with the key to his office for a moment he whisked her into the room and shut the door behind him. 
         Clara stood patiently in front of the door while he pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. "All right. Here, this is what I wanted to show you." He pulled open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and stepped away.
         Clara walked over to the draw and lifted up the drawing he had made before the ball.
         "I've been working at these for a long time now.  Mostly after work before I come home.  I draw one everyday."
         "This. This is why you get home so late every night?  But, why?  I don't understand Roger.  What are all of these for?"  Clara ran her fingers over the mess of drawing, shuffling through them to see hundreds of eyes staring back at her.  She looked at her husband quizzically.  He sat at the edge of his desk nervously picking at the seam of his coat. 
         Clara looked back down at the drawings.  "These are all drawings of you."  Her eyes searched Roger for an answer.
         "No. but that's just it.  They are supposed to be me but some how they aren't and it's driving me mad that I can't get my own face right." 
         "But, why? What difference does it make? These are awfully close anyways."
         Roger sighed and looked down at the seam he was toying with.  His shoulders shrank. "If you want to know it's Roberto's fault."
         "Your old painting teacher from school?"
         "Yea.  He was the one that told me not to go into graphic design and to stick to painting.  But anyways back in school he put this idea into my head," Roger paused as though he was unsure of whether or not to go on. 
         Clara busied herself with sifting through more of the drawings trying not to show too much interest.  Roger wasn't usually this sentimental or reflective.  She didn't want to scare him.
         "There was a time when I was struggling with my work.  I couldn't paint precisely what I wanted to paint.  I began to think of myself as a failure and that it would be wise to switch my focus before it was too late.  I spent an entire hour venting to Roberto one day and he said only one thing and then walked out of the room.  You know what he said?"
         Clara's eyes were fixed intently on her husbands face, "No, dear, I don't know."
         "He told me to draw myself until I understand.  That was it.  That was his solution.  I blew it off at the time until about a year or two ago.  It struck me that I never did figure out what he meant by that.  So I've been drawing myself over and over and over and over.  Not sure of what it is that I am trying to figure out but so confident in Roberto's advice."  Roger fell silent and rifled through his pocket for a cigarette, lit it up and stood up to look out the window with his back to Clara.
         Clara pulled out the entire stack of drawings and set them on the desk.  Rearranging her gown she sat down before the papers and began to examine them one by one.  She started from the bottom and worked to the top.  They were all in order from first to last with the date sketched in the upper right hand corner.  He had started off shaky. Obviously out of tune from lack of practice but she could still vaguely pick out his image in each of the sketches.  Each one had its own unique facial expression, mostly just of his head, some from shoulders up, and a few with his hands.  But he was right, there was still something missing.  Not one of them struck her as an adequate replica of her husband.  Although she hardly knew why it mattered she was worried about her husband's unrest.
         When she had finished looking at each one Roger was still standing silently in the window and lighting up another cigarette.  She straightened up the pile of drawings and rested her chin on the palm of her hand.  Her face gazed back at her out of the mirror on the desk.  She stared at her image for a while and touched the glass with her hand following the outline of her reflection, "honey?"
         "Hmm?"
         She paused and continued to trace her image in the mirror, "Honey, have you ever tried to draw yourself without looking in the mirror?"
         Hesitating mid drag Roger cocked his head slightly, wrinkling his brow at the thought.  "No, no I don't think I ever have.  Why?"
         "I don't know.  I was just thinking about how I would draw my own self portrait.  Well, I couldn't do it if I tried, but I most certainly couldn't do it without a mirror."
         Roger turned to face her, his brow still wrinkled, "You know there might be something to that."
         He hurried to the drawers of the desk and pulled out his sketch pad and a pencil.  Quickly he went to the other corner of the room and sat in the red leather armchair and set to sketching.
         Clara sat quietly at the desk watching her husband draw.
         It didn't take long before Roger looked up at her with a smile on his face, "I can't do it."
         Clara smiled back at him, "Is that good or bad?"
"You would think that I know what I look like.  I've been drawing myself for so long. But I don't.  I don't know what I look like." Roger leaned back in his chair to think for a moment and then rose to pace the room.  Back and forth, in and out of the moon's glow.  "I think that might be it Clare. I don't know what I look like.  You don't know what you look like.  All of those people at the ball don't know what they look like."
         "So what"
         "That's the thing though.  I thought I knew what I looked like. You thought you knew what you look like.  You even said so tonight.  You said that that's what mirrors are for.  But that's not true.  Mirrors are no better than pictures.  They have nothing to do with what you actually look like."
         "That's actually kind of interesting." Clara crossed her thin gloved arms across the desk chair's back, resting her chin on the meat of her forearm.  "Because I thought that tonight I really looked beautiful and I fit in, but you thought I looked ridiculous."  She giggled lazily, reflecting on the events of the ball, "I felt like I was on top of the world... I wonder what everyone else thought about me."
         "Now isn't that the question. Why should it matter?  To yourself you fit in and that changed the way you acted despite what everyone else thought.  I was probably the first one that said something to you about how you looked and that changed the way you acted in the same way that a mirror did when you looked in it before the ball.  You know what I mean?"
         Yawning she rest her cheek on the side of her arm, "I don't know. I guess. But I don't get what any of this has to do with Roberto or why it's even important at all really."
         "Ack. I don't know what it is Roberto wanted me to understand.  But I don't think that's really the point.  I think he just wanted me to understand something. Anything.  And I think I finally do."          
         Roger stopped pacing and looked out the window.  He really didn't know what it was that he thought he understood, but he could feel that it was something.  He felt calm yet resolute. Like a veil had been lifted but a mist lingered.  It was the sort of truth that dangles above ones head, teasing, bobbing from a rope that dips just into the reach of ones consciousness but pulls away just before it can be grasped. 
He stood there like that, contemplating this paradox of feeling, for quite some time, gazing out over the city from the thirtieth floor.  After a while he lifted his eyes past the jagged horizon of skyscrapers and saw the moon full and round.  He smiled.  It was such a simple thing, the moon, and yet at the right moment it was so much more than what it seemed to be.  He turned to tell Clara but she had fallen asleep.  Her head cradled in the crook of her elbow on the desk.  Her face was relaxed, serene, her small pink mouth slightly parted. The diamonds glistening from her ears and neck.  Roger couldn't bring himself to wake her.  She truly was beautiful despite what the mirror told her.  Hers was a pure beauty, one that couldn't be manufactured of replicated, just simple.