Book: "Dalyrimple'', is a short crime drama about the wayward dreams we all can weave at every crossroad. Written by author F Scott Fitzgerald. This is an 1 hour long bed time read.




Suitable for teens and up. Explicit storytelling and events.
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Short story (One Evening Bed time read)
Dalyrimple tells the tale of young "Bryan Dalyrimple" that straight out of war tries his hands at his first real job embarking on a wayward journey before hopefully finding his way.
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Photography and web adaptation and minor writing: Mike Koontz
2017, a Norse View Imaging and Publishing



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The ghost by Mors Principium Est



To the daisy that is my sun and inspiration












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straight out of adolescence

The generation which numbered Bryan Dalyrimple drifted out of adolescence to a mighty fan-fare of trumpets.
Bryan played the star in an affair which included a Lewis gun and a nine-day romp behind the retreating German lines, so luck triumphant or sentiment rampant awarded him a row of medals and on his arrival in the States he was told that he was second in importance only to General Pershing and Sergeant York.
This was a lot of fun.
The governor of his State, a stray congressman, and a citizens’ committee gave him enormous smiles and “By God, Sirs” on the dock at Hoboken; there were newspaper reporters and photographers who said “would you mind” and “if you could just”; and back in his home town there were old ladies, the rims of whose eyes grew red as they talked to him, and girls who hadn’t remembered him so well since his father’s business went blah! in nineteen-twelve.









But when the shouting died he realized that for a month he had been the house guest of the mayor, that he had only fourteen dollars in the world and that “the name that will live forever in the annals and legends of this State” was already living there very quietly and obscurely.
One morning he lay late in bed and just outside his door he heard the up-stairs maid talking to the cook.
The up-stairs maid said that Mrs. Hawkins, the mayor’s wife, had been trying for a week to hint Dalyrimple out of the house.
And so he left at eleven o’clock in intolerable confusion, asking that his trunk be sent to Mrs. Beebe’s boarding-house.
Dalyrimple was twenty-three and he had never tasted a fulfilling job.
His father had given him two years at the State University and passed away about the time of his son’s nine-day romp, leaving behind him some mid-Victorian furniture and a thin packet of folded paper that turned out to be grocery bills.
Young Dalyrimple had very keen gray eyes, a mind that delighted the army psychological examiners, a trick of having read it — whatever it was — some time before, and a cool hand in a hot situation.















But these things did not save him a final, unresigned sigh when he realized that he had to go to work — right away.
It was early afternoon when he walked into the office of Theron G. Macy, who owned the largest wholesale grocery house in town.
Plump, prosperous, wearing a pleasant but quite unhumorous smile, Theron G. Macy greeted him warmly.
“Well — how do you, Bryan? What’s on your mind?”






To Dalyrimple, straining with his admission, his own words, when they came, sounded like a down on his luck beggar’s whine for deaf and blind ear alms.
“Why — this question of a job.” (“This question of a job” seemed somehow more clothed than just “a job.”)
“A job?” An almost imperceptible breeze blew across Mr. Macy’s expression.
“You see, Mr. Macy,” continued Dalyrimple, “I feel I’m wasting time. I want to get started at something. I had several chances about a month ago but they all seem to have — gone ——”
“Let’s see,” interrupted Mr. Macy. “What were they?”
“Well, just at the first the governor said something about a vacancy on his staff. I was sort of counting on that for a while, but I hear he’s given it to Allen Gregg, you know, son of G. P. Gregg. He sort of forgot what he said to me — just talking, I guess.”
“You ought to push those things.”
“Then there was that engineering expedition, but they decided they’d have to have a man who knew hydraulics, so they couldn’t use me unless I paid my own way.”











would this man
give him
a small chance


“You had just a year at the university?”
“Two. But I didn’t take any science or mathematics. Well, the day the battalion paraded, Mr. Peter Jordan said something about a vacancy in his store. I went around there to-day and I found he meant a sort of floor-walker — and then you said something one day”















He paused and waited for the older man to take him up, but noting only a minute wince continued.
“about a position, so I thought I’d come and see you.”
“There was a position,” confessed Mr. Macy reluctantly, “but since then we’ve filled it.”
He cleared his throat again.
“You’ve waited quite a while.”
“Yes, I suppose I did. Everybody told me there was no hurry — and I’d had these various offers.”















Mr. Macy delivered a paragraph on present-day opportunities which Dalyrimple’s mind completely skipped.
“Have you had any business experience?”
“I worked on a ranch two summers as a rider.”
“Oh, well,” Mr. Macy disparaged this neatly, and then continued: “What do you think you’re worth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Bryan, I tell you, I’m willing to strain a point and give you a chance.”















Dalyrimple nodded.
“Your salary won’t be much. You’ll start by learning the stock. Then you’ll come in the office for a while. Then you’ll go on the road. When could you begin?”
“How about to-morrow?”
“All right. Report to Mr. Hanson in the stock-room. He’ll start you off.”











He continued to regard Dalyrimple steadily until the latter, realizing that the interview was over, rose awkwardly.
“Well, Mr. Macy, I’m certainly much obliged.”
“That’s all right. Glad to help you, Bryan.”
After an irresolute moment, Dalyrimple found himself in the hall. His forehead was covered with perspiration, and the room had not been hot.
“Why the devil did I thank the son of a gun?” he muttered.











Next morning Mr. Hanson informed him coldly of the necessity of punching the time-clock at seven every morning, and delivered him for instruction into the hands of a fellow worker, one Charley Moore.
Charley was twenty-six, with that faint musk of moral and physical weakness hanging about him that is often mistaken for the scent of evil.
It took no psychological examiner to decide that he had drifted into indulgence and laziness as casually as he had drifted into life, and was one day to drift out.
He was pale and unhealthy and his clothes stank of smoke; he enjoyed burlesque shows, billiards, and Robert Service, and was always looking back upon his last intrigue or forward to his next one. In his youth his taste had run to loud ties, but now it seemed to have faded, like his vitality, and was expressed in pale-lilac four-in-hands and indeterminate gray collars.











Charley was listlessly struggling that losing struggle against mental, moral, and physical anæmia that takes place ceaselessly on the lower fringe of the selfish and morally deprived people that slowly and with great blank stares and muted thoughts turns their body and our entire planet to a limping, rotting pile of decay.
The first morning he stretched himself on a row of cereal cartons and carefully went over the limitations of the Theron G. Macy Company.
“It’s a piker organization. My Gosh! Lookit what they give me. I’m quittin’ in a coupla months. Hell! Me stay with this bunch!”












The lost world





[ our,world

now lost

was

once born

in tomorrows

Dream, of yesterday

it,

changes

forever,

with

the birth

of

the growing

Dusk ]




























































































The Charley Moores are always going to change jobs next month.
With luck they manage to go where their minds are, perhaps once or twice in the entirety of their life, after which they sit around comparing their last job with the present one, to the infinite disparagement of the latter.
“What do you get?” asked Dalyrimple curiously.
“Me? I get sixty.” This rather defiantly.
“Did you start at sixty?”
“Me? No, I started at thirty-five. He told me he’d put me on the road after I learned the stock. That’s what he tells ’em all.”
“How long’ve you been here?” asked Dalyrimple with a sinking sensation.
“Me? Four years. My last year, too, you bet your boots.”















Dalyrimple rather resented the presence of the store detective as he resented the time-clock, and he came into contact with him almost immediately through the rule against smoking.
This rule was a thorn in his side.
He was accustomed to his filthy and repulsive, self destructive habit of three or four cigarettes in a morning, and after three days without it he followed Charley Moore by a circuitous route up a flight of back stairs to a little balcony where they indulged in unhealthy peace.
But this was not for long.
One day in his second week the detective met him in a nook of the stairs, on his descent, and told him sternly that next time he’d be reported to Mr. Macy. Dalyrimple felt like an errant schoolboy.











Unpleasant facts came to his knowledge.
There were “cave- dwellers” in the basement who had worked there for ten or fifteen years at sixty dollars a month, rolling barrels and carrying boxes through damp, cement-walled corridors, lost in that echoing half-darkness between seven and five-thirty and, like himself, compelled several times a month to work until nine at night.
Doomed to never leave the prison halls of their own mental making.











At the end of a month he stood in line and received forty dollars.
He pawned a cigarette-case and a pair of field-glasses and managed to live — to eat, sleep, and smoke.
It was, however, a narrow scrape; as the ways and means of economy were a closed book to him and the second month brought no increase, he voiced his alarm.
“If you’ve got a drag with old Macy, maybe he’ll raise you,” was Charley’s disheartening reply.
“But he didn’t raise ME till I’d been here nearly two years.”
“I’ve got to live,” said Dalyrimple simply.
“I could get more pay as a laborer on the railroad but, Golly, I want to feel I’m where there’s a chance to get ahead.”
Charles shook his head sceptically and Mr. Macy’s answer next day was equally unsatisfactory.















Dalyrimple had gone to the office just before closing time.

resentful
words of empty promises
always


“Mr. Macy, I’d like to speak to you.”
“Why — yes.” The unhumorous smile appeared. The voice vas faintly resentful.
“I want to speak to you in regard to more salary.”
Mr. Macy nodded.
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “I don’t know exactly what you’re doing. I’ll speak to Mr. Hanson.”
He knew exactly what Dalyrimple was doing, and Dalyrimple knew he knew.
“I’m in the stock-room — and, sir, while I’m here I’d like to ask you how much longer I’ll have to stay there.”
“Why — I’m not sure exactly. Of course it takes some time to learn the stock.”
“You told me two months when I started.”
“Yes. Well, I’ll speak to Mr. Hanson.”
Dalyrimple paused irresolute.
“Thank you, sir.”











Two days later he again appeared in the office with the result of a count that had been asked for by Mr. Hesse, the bookkeeper.
Mr. Hesse was engaged and Dalyrimple, waiting, began idly fingering in a ledger on the stenographer’s desk.
Half unconsciously he turned a page — he caught sight of his name — it was a salary list:
Dalyrimple
Demming
Donahoe
Everett












His eyes stopped
Everett. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .$60
So Tom Everett, Macy’s weak-chinned nephew, had started at sixty, and in three weeks he had been out of the packing-room and into the office.
So that was it!
He was to sit and see man after man pushed over him: sons, cousins, sons of friends, irrespective of their capabilities, while HE was cast for a pawn, with “going on the road” dangled before his eyes — put of with the stock remark: I’ll see; I’ll look into it.” At forty, perhaps, he would be a bookkeeper like old Hesse, tired, listless Hesse with a dull routine for his stint and a dull background of boarding-house conversation.
This was a moment when a genii should have pressed into his hand the book for disillusioned young men.
But the book has not been written.
A great protest swelling into revolt surged up in him.
Ideas half forgotten, chaoticly perceived and assimilated, filled his mind.
Get on — that was the rule of life — and that was all.
How he did it, didn’t matter — but to be Hesse or Charley Moore.
“I won’t!” he cried aloud.















The bookkeeper and the stenographers looked up in surprise.
“What?”
For a second Dalyrimple stared — then walked up to the desk.
“Here’s that data,” he said brusquely. “I can’t wait any longer.”
Mr. Hesse’s face expressed surprise.
It didn’t matter what he did — just so he got out of this rut.
In a dream he stepped from the elevator into the stock-room, and walking to an unused aisle, sat down on a box, covering his face with his hands.
His brain was whirring with the frightful jar of discovering a platitude for himself.











“I’ve got to get out of this,” he said aloud and then repeated, “I’ve got to get out”— and he didn’t mean only out of Macy’s wholesale house.
When he left at five-thirty it was pouring rain, but he struck off in the opposite direction from his boarding-house, feeling, in the first cool moisture that oozed soggily through his old suit, an odd exultation and freshness.
He wanted a world that was like walking through rain, even though he could not see far ahead of him, but fate had put him in the world of Mr. Macy’s fetid storerooms and corridors.
At first merely the overwhelming need of change took him, then half-plans began to formulate in his imagination.











The real self, he had yet to discover

“I’ll go East — to a big city — meet people — bigger people — people who’ll help me. Interesting work somewhere. My God, there MUST be.”
With sickening truth it occurred to him that his facility for meeting people was limited.
Of all places it was here in his own town that he should be known, was known — famous — before the water of oblivion had rolled over him.
You had to cut corners, that was all. Pull — relationship — wealthy marriages ——











For several miles the continued reiteration of this preoccupied him and then he perceived that the rain had become thicker and more opaque in the heavy gray of twilight and that the houses were falling away.
The district of full blocks, then of big houses, then of scattering little ones, passed and great sweeps of misty country opened out on both sides.
It was hard walking here.
The sidewalk had given place to a dirt road, streaked with furious brown rivulets that splashed and squashed around his shoes.
Cutting corners — the words began to fall apart, forming curious phrasings — little illuminated pieces of themselves.
They resolved into sentences, each of which had a strangely familiar ring.
Cutting corners in his mind, now meant rejecting the old childhood principles that success came from faithfulness to ones own joy and heart, that evil was necessarily punished or virtue necessarily rewarded — that honest poverty was happier than corrupt riches.
It meant being hard, always ignoring ones own inner joy and needs.











The joyless demons without heart and poverty This phrase appealed to him and he repeated it over and over.
It had to do somehow with Mr. Macy and Charley Moore — the attitudes, the methods of each of them.
He stopped and felt his clothes.
He was drenched to the skin.
He looked about him and, selecting a place in the fence where a tree sheltered it, perched himself there.











In my credulous years — he thought — they told me that evil was a sort of dirty hue, just as definite as a soiled collar, but it seems to me that evil is only a manner of hard luck, or heredity-and-environment, or “being found out.”
It hides in the vacillations of dubs like Charley Moore as certainly as it does in the intolerance of Macy, and if it ever gets much more tangible it becomes merely an arbitrary label to paste on the unpleasant things in other people’s lives.
In fact — he concluded — it isn’t worth worrying over what’s evil and what isn’t.
Good and evil aren’t any standard to me — and they can be a devil of a bad hindrance when I want something.
When I want something bad enough, common sense tells me to go and take it — and not get caught.











And then suddenly Dalyrimple knew what he wanted first.
He wanted fifteen dollars to pay his overdue board bill.
With a furious energy he jumped from the fence, whipped off his coat, and from its black lining cut with his knife a piece about five inches square.
He made two holes near its edge and then fixed it on his face, pulling his hat down to hold it in place.
It flapped grotesquely and then dampened and clung clung to his forehead and cheeks.











Now . . . The twilight had merged to dripping dusk . . . black as pitch.
He began to walk quickly back toward town, not waiting to remove the mask but watching the road with difficulty through the jagged eye-holes.
He was not conscious of any nervousness . . . the only tension was caused by a desire to do the thing as soon as possible. He reached the first sidewalk, continued on until he saw a hedge far from any lamp-post, and turned in behind it.
Within a minute he heard several series of footsteps — he waited — it was a woman and he held his breath until she passed . . . and then a man, a laborer.
The next passer, he felt, would be what he wanted . . . the laborer’s footfalls died far up the drenched street . . .
other steps grew nears grew suddenly louder.















Dalyrimple braced himself.
“Put up your hands!”
The man stopped, uttered an absurd little grunt, and thrust pudgy arms skyward.
Dalyrimple went through the waistcoat.
“Now, you shrimp,” he said, setting his hand suggestively to his own hip pocket, “you run, and stamp — loud! If I hear your feet stop I’ll put a shot after you!”
Then he stood there in sudden uncontrollable laughter as audibly frightened footsteps scurried away into the night.
After a moment he thrust the roll of bills into his pocket, snatched of his mask, and running quickly across the street, darted down an alley.
Yet, however Dalyrimple justified himself intellectually, he had many bad moments in the weeks immediately following his decision.
The tremendous pressure of sentiment and inherited ambition kept raising riot with his attitude.
He felt morally lonely.












The noon after his first venture he ate in a little lunch-room with Charley Moore and, watching him unspread the paper, waited for a remark about the hold-up of the day before. But either the hold-up was not mentioned or Charley wasn’t interested.
He turned listlessly to the sporting sheet, read Doctor Crane’s crop of seasoned bromides, took in an editorial on ambition with his mouth slightly ajar, and then skipped to Mutt and Jeff.
Poor Charley — with his faint aura of evil and his mind that refused to focus, playing a lifeless solitaire with cast-off mischief.
Yet Charley belonged on the other side of the fence.
In him could be stirred up all the flamings and denunciations of righteousness; he would weep at a stage heroine’s lost virtue, he could become lofty and contemptuous at the idea of dishonor.



















































On my side, thought Dalyrimple, there aren’t any resting-places; a man who’s a strong criminal is after the weak criminals as well, so it’s all guerilla warfare over here.
What will it all do to me? he thoughts with a persistent weariness.
Will it take the color out of life with the honor?
Will it scatter my courage and dull my mind? — despiritualize me completely — does it mean eventual barrenness, eventual remorse, failure?











With a great surge of anger, he would fling his mind upon the barrier — and stand there with the flashing bayonet of his pride.
Other men who broke the laws of justice and charity lied to all the world.
He at any rate would not lie to himself. He was more than Byronic now: not the spiritual rebel, Don Juan; not the philosophical rebel, Faust; but a new psychological rebel of his own century — defying the sentimental a priori forms of his own mind ——
Happiness was what he wanted.
A slowly rising scale of gratifications of the normal appetites and he had such a strong, albeit utterly failed conviction that the materials, if not the inspiration of happiness, could be bought with money.











and life
was burried dollar by dollar


The night came that drew him out upon his second venture, and as he walked the dark street he felt in himself a great resemblance to a cat — a certain supple, swinging litheness.
His muscles were rippling smoothly and sleekly under his spare, unhealthy flesh — he had an absurd desire to bound along the street, to run dodging among trees, to tarn “cart-wheels” over soft grass.
It was not crisp, but in the air lay a faint suggestion of acerbity, inspirational rather than chilling.
“The moon is down — I have not heard the clock!”
He laughed in delight at the line which an early memory had endowed with a hushed awesome beauty.
He passed a man and then another a quarter of mile afterward.











He was on Philmore Street now and it was very dark.
He blessed the city council for not having put in new lamp-posts as a recent budget had recommended.
Here was the red-brick Sterner residence which marked the beginning of the avenue; here was the Jordon house, the Eisenhaurs’, the Dents’, the Markhams’, the Frasers’; the Hawkins’, where he had been a guest; the Willoughbys’, the Everett’s, colonial and ornate; the little cottage where lived the Watts old maids between the imposing fronts of the Macys’ and the Krupstadts’; the Craigs.











Ah . . . THERE! He paused, wavered violently — far up the street was a blot, a man walking, possibly a policeman.
After an eternal second be found himself following the vague, ragged shadow of a lamp-post across a lawn, running bent very low.
Then he was standing tense, without breath or need of it, in the shadow of his limestone prey.
Interminably he listened — a mile off a cat howled, a hundred yards away another took up the hymn in a demoniacal snarl, and he felt his heart dip and swoop, acting as shock-absorber for his mind.
There were other sounds; the faintest fragment of song far away; strident, gossiping laughter from a back porch diagonally across the alley; and crickets, crickets singing in the patched, patterned, moonlit grass of the yard.
Within the house there seemed to lie an ominous silence.
He was glad he did not know who lived here.











His slight shiver hardened to steel; the steel softened and his nerves became pliable as leather; gripping his hands he gratefully found them supple, and taking out knife and pliers he went to work on the screen.
So sure was he that he was unobserved that, from the dining-room where in a minute he found himself, he leaned out and carefully pulled the screen up into position, balancing it so it would neither fall by chance nor be a serious obstacle to a sudden exit.
Then he put the open knife in his coat pocket, took out his pocket-flash, and tiptoed around the room.
There was nothing here he could use — the dining-room had never been included in his plans for the town was too small to permit disposing of silver.
As a matter of fact his plans were of the vaguest.
He had found that with a mind like his, lucrative in intelligence, intuition, and lightning decision, it was best to have but the skeleton of a campaign.
The machine-gun episode had taught him that.
And he was afraid that a method preconceived would give him two points of view in a crisis — and two points of view meant wavering.











He stumbled slightly on a chair, held his breath, listened, went on, found the hall, found the stairs, started up; the seventh stair creaked at his step, the ninth, the fourteenth.
He was counting them automatically.
At the third creak he paused again for over a minute — and in that minute he felt more alone than he had ever felt before.
Between the lines on patrol, even when alone, he had had behind him the moral support of half a billion people; now he was alone, pitted against that same moral pressure — a bandit.
He had never felt this fear, yet he had never felt this exultation.











The stairs came to an end, a doorway approached; he went in and listened to regular breathing.
His feet were economical of steps and his body swayed sometimes at stretching as he felt over the bureau, pocketing all articles which held promise — he could not have enumerated them ten seconds afterward.
He felt on a chair for possible trousers, found soft garments, women’s lingerie. The corners of his mouth smiled mechanically.
Another room . . .
The same breathing, enlivened by one ghastly snort that sent his heart again on its tour of his breast.
Round object — watch; chain; roll of bills; stick-pins; two rings — he remembered that he had got rings from the other bureau.











He started out winced as a faint glow flashed in front of him, facing him.
God! — it was the glow of his own wrist-watch on his outstretched arm.
Down the stairs.
He skipped two crumbing steps but found another.
He was all right now, practically safe; as he neared the bottom he felt a slight boredom.
He reached the dining-room — considered the silver — again decided against it.
Back in his room at the boarding-house he examined the additions to his personal property:
Sixty-five dollars in bills.
A platinum ring with three medium diamonds, worth, probably, about seven hundred dollars. Diamonds were going up.
A cheap gold-plated ring with the initials O. S. and the date inside —‘03 — probably a class-ring from school.
Worth a few dollars. Unsalable.
A red-cloth case containing a set of false teeth.
A silver watch.
A gold chain worth more than the watch.
An empty ring-box.
A little ivory Chinese god — probably a desk ornament.
A dollar and sixty-two cents an small change.











He put the money under his pillow and the other things in the toe of an infantry boot, stuffing a stocking in on top of them.
Then for two hours his mind raced like a high-power engine here and there through his life, past and future, through fear and laughter.
With a vague, inopportune wish that he were married, he fell into a deep sleep about half past five.













































































Though the newspaper account of the burglary failed to mention the false teeth, they worried him considerably.
The picture of a human waking in the cool dawn and groping for them in vain, of a soft, toothless breakfast, of a strange, hollow, lisping voice calling the police station, of weary, dispirited visits to the dentist, roused a great fatherly pity in him.
Trying to ascertain whether they belonged to a man or a woman, he took them carefully out of the case and held them up near his mouth.
He moved his own jaws experimentally; he measured with his fingers; but he failed to decide: they might belong either to a large-mouthed woman or a small-mouthed man.











On a warm impulse he wrapped them in brown paper from the bottom of his army trunk, and printed FALSE TEETH on the package in clumsy pencil letters.
Then, the next night, he walked down Philmore Street, and shied the package onto the lawn so that it would be near the door.
Next day the paper announced that the police had a clew — they knew that the burglar was in town.
However, they didn’t mention what the clue was.
At the end of a month “Burglar Bill of the Silver District was the nurse-girl’s standby for frightening children.
Five burglaries were attributed to him, but though Dalyrimple had only committed three, he considered that majority had it and appropriated the title to himself.
He had once been seen —“a large bloated creature with the meanest face you ever laid eyes on.”
Mrs. Henry Coleman, awaking at two o’clock at the beam of an electric torch flashed in her eye, could not have been expected to recognize Bryan Dalyrimple at whom she had waved flags last Fourth of July, and whom she had described as “not at all the daredevil type, do you think?”











When Dalyrimple kept his imagination at white heat he managed to glorify his own attitude, his emancipation from petty scruples and remorses — but let him once allow his thought to rove unarmored, great unexpected horrors and depressions would overtake him.
Then for reassurance he had to go back to think out the whole thing over again.
He found that it was on the whole better to give up considering himself as a rebel.
It was more consoling to think of every one else as a fool.











His attitude toward Mr. Macy underwent a change.
He no longer felt a dim animosity and inferiority in his presence.
As his fourth month in the store ended he found himself regarding his employer in a manner that was almost fraternal.
He had a vague but very assured conviction that Mr. Macy’s innermost soul would have abetted and approved.
He no longer worried about his future.
He had the intention of accumulating several thousand dollars and then clearing out — going east, back to France, down to South America.
Half a dozen times in the last two months he had been about to stop work, but a fear of attracting attention to his being in funds prevented him.
So he worked on, no longer in listlessness, but with contemptuous amusement.











The life that was freely chosen

Then with astounding suddenness something happened that changed his plans and put an end to his burglaries.
Mr. Macy sent for him one afternoon and with a great show of jovial mystery asked him if he had an engagement that night.
If he hadn’t, would he please call on Mr. Alfred J. Fraser at eight o’clock. Dalyrimple’s wonder was mingled with uncertainty.
He debated with himself whether it were not his cue to take the first train out of town.
But an hour’s consideration decided him that his fears were unfounded and at eight o’clock he arrived at the big Fraser house in Philmore Avenue.











Mr. Fraser was commonly supposed to be the biggest political influence in the city.
His brother was Senator Fraser, his son- in-law was Congressman Demming, and his influence, though not wielded in such a way as to make him an objectionable boss, was strong nevertheless.
He had a great, huge face, deep-set eyes, and a barn-door of an upper lip, the melange approaching a worthy climax if a long professional jaw.
During his conversation with Dalyrimple his expression kept starting toward a smile, reached a cheerful optimism, and then receded back to imperturbability.
“How do you do, sir?” he laid, holding out his hand. “Sit down. I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted you. Sit down.”
Dalyrimple sat down.











“Mr. Dalyrimple, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“You’re young. But that doesn’t mean you’re foolish. Mr. Dalyrimple, what I’ve got to say won’t take long. I’m going to make you a proposition. To begin at the beginning, I’ve been watching you ever since last Fourth of July when you made that speech in response to the loving-cup.”
Dalyrimple murmured disparagingly, but Fraser waved him to silence.











“It was a speech I’ve remembered. It was a brainy speech, straight from the shoulder, and it got to everybody in that crowd. I know. I’ve watched crowds for years.”
He cleared his throat as if tempted to digress on his knowledge of crowds — then continued.
“But, Mr. Dalyrimple, I’ve seen too many young men who promised brilliantly go to pieces, fail through want of steadiness, too many high-power ideas, and not enough willingness to work. So I waited. I wanted to see what you’d do. I wanted to see if you’d go to work, and if you’d stick to what you started.”
Dalyrimple felt a glow settle over him.











“So,” continued Fraser, “when Theron Macy told me you’d started down at his place, I kept watching you, and I followed your record through him. The first month I was afraid for awhile. He told me you were getting restless, too good for your job, hinting around for a raise ——”
Dalyrimple started.
“—— But he said after that you evidently made up your mind to shut up and stick to it. That’s the stuff I like in a young man! That’s the stuff that wins out. And don’t think I don’t understand. I know how much harder it was for you after all that silly flattery a lot of old women had been giving you. I know what a fight it must have been ——”











Dalyrimple’s face was burning brightly. It felt young and strangely ingenuous.
“Dalyrimple, you’ve got brains and you’ve got the stuff in you — and that’s what I want. I’m going to put you into the State Senate.”
“The WHAT?”
“The State Senate. We want a young man who has got brains, but is solid and not a loafer. And when I say State Senate I don’t stop there. We’re up against it here, Dalyrimple. We’ve got to get some young men into politics — you know the old blood that’s been running on the party ticket year in and year out.”
Dalyrimple licked his lips.
“You’ll run me for the State Senate?”
“I’ll PUT you in the State Senate.”











Mr. Fraser’s expression had now reached the point nearest a smile and Dalyrimple in a happy frivolity felt himself urging it mentally on — but it stopped, locked, and slid from him.
The barn-door and the jaw were separated by a line strait as a nail. Dalyrimple remembered with an effort that it was a mouth, and talked to it.
“But I’m through,” he said.
“My notoriety’s dead. People are fed up with me.”
“Those things,” answered Mr. Fraser, “are mechanical. Linotype is a resuscitator of reputations. Wait till you see the HERALD, beginning next week — that is if you’re with us — that is,” and his voice hardened slightly, “if you haven’t got too many ideas yourself about how things ought to be run.” “Very well. I’ll take care of your reputation then. Just keep yourself on the right side of the fence.”











Dalyrimple started at this repetition of a phrase he had thought of so much lately.
There was a sudden ring at the door-bell.
“That’s Macy now,” observed Fraser, rising. “I’ll go let him in. The servants have gone to bed.”
He left Dalyrimple there in a dream.
The world was opening up suddenly.
The State Senate, the United States Senate — so life was this after all — cutting corners — common sense, that was the rule.
No more foolish risks now unless necessity called — but it was being hard that counted.
Never to let remorse or self- reproach lose him a night’s sleep — let his life be a sword of courage — there was no payment — all that was drivel — drivel.
He sprang to his feet with clinched hands in a sort of triumph.











“Well, Bryan,” said Mr. Macy stepping through the portières.
The two older men smiled their half-smiles at him.
“Well Bryan,” said Mr. Macy again. “How do, Mr. Macy?”
He wondered if some telepathy between them had made this new appreciation possible — some invisible realization . . . .
Mr. Macy held out his hand.















“I’m glad we’re to be associated in this scheme — I’ve been for you all along — especially lately. I’m glad we’re to be on the same side of the fence.”
“I want to thank you, sir,” said Dalyrimple simply. He felt a whimsical moisture gathering back of his eyes.
And as our story unfolds, that dear children, is the untold truth of the wasted insides of many polished leaders and equally deprived shiny on the surface looking suburban lives and careers that we can find, scattered throughout our globe.











But perhaps, just perhaps, Mr. Dalyrimple will be one of those that grows step by step and slowly, to, one day wield his choices with wisdom and heart.
You can always hope, and make sure to make better choices for every turn and fall that you take through life, for we all will fall at times, and that is ok, it´s just life after all, and what matters is not falling, but being able to see the brand new steps we can make each day from that moment on, and not to dwell upon yesterday for far to long.


























































a Norse View Imaging and Publishing


established 2013








Copyright 2017
a Norse View, Mike Koontz

'Dalyrimple', A strange tale of not making real dreams come alive.

Thank you for reading.



Author
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Photography & minor writing
Mike Koontz
To the daisy that is my sun and inspiration

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Last Few Published Books and Articles

  • Fine Art & living room products by Mike Koontz. Available for purchase now.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes


    Your living room
    contemporary art & style



    Every person carries with them their own style and touch, in person, clothes, fitness, thoughts, sex, books, movies, passion, music and life.
    The way you are and see the world, it carries through in everything.
    It shows in the gym, and the board room, the way you handle your lover, and in the style and feel of your living room.
    The person that you are is not just reflected in those things, but your surroundings in life and nature and home speak back to your inner self and carries with it real significance for how much you in turn will enjoy both life and the castle you call your own home.




    This is my contribution to your life.
    Fine art for the living room walls.
    Duvet covers for the continental bed and snugly warm blankets for both autumn nights and the cold winter.







    My 'life is your art' products whisper with the wilderness and serendipity of the Scandinavian soul that each Viking knows so well.
    Mike Koontz is a writer and creative author & fine art photographer.
    Health & fitness, science and sustainability advocate | a Norse View.

  • Short story: 'The Gateway Earth Chaebol, 2028AD'. a short stand alone sci-fi story from the near future book universe 2028AD created by Mike Koontz.

    Quality time needed: 14 minutes


    The Gateway Earth Chaebol
    A 2028AD stand alone sci-fi short story.



    'The Musk colony' as it was informally called could right now be thought of as a real but still very challenged success simply because the fleet had actually managed to reach their destination and somewhat to his own surprise, the entire fleet was still operational, bruised but functional.
    And considering how space travel and logistics had been prone to so many errors in the decades leading up to their unparalleled launch, the fact that they were all here, it was nothing but amazing. Taken for granted by the crew, by now at least, but still nothing but amazing.

    And while it was true, that they still had not actually put any human feet on the ground. Or even landed a single ship or UAV.
    We had reached our destination.

  • Warfare by Megaponera analis. A day in the life of termites and ants and what it can tell us about the importance of Earth day, science and fact based education.

    Quality time needed: 9 minutes


    Warfare by Megaponera analis.
    The Science of healthy living.



    They came marching in at dawn, shoulder to shoulder they formed long winding columns of wordless but well-armed soldiers in gleaming dark armor that stretched as long as the eye could see. 500 men passed us by with the rising sun painting the light of this new day behind their backs. But this would not be a day of peaceful tranquility under the light of the rising sun, instead, the sun rose up from beneath the horizon as the herald of war and death in what we all knew would turn out be just another day in their relentless campaign.

  • Healthy living: The bad health curse of smoking, almost 7 million dead people and 150 million health related issues in one year due to smoking.

    Quality time needed: 5 minutes


    150 million health related issues in one year.
    The Science of healthy living.



    Almost 7 million dead people around the world in one single year ( 2015 ), due to smoking.
    Making it account for 11.5% of worldwide deaths during 2015.
    Out of the roughly 7 million dead people, 52.2% lived in four countries, China, India, the USA, and Russia.

    13 countries, Australia, Brazil, China, Denmark, Dominican Republic, Iceland, Kenya, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, and the USA have showed significant year-to-year rates of decline of smoking between 1990 and 2015.

    But while an increasingly lower percentage of the global population keep up with the filthy and unhealthy habit of smoking, as time goes by due to our global population increase the total number of smokers is still going up, and it is now close to 1 billion people!.

  • This is a story of salt: The female perspective, your health and the 2.5 million people that die worldwide every single year due to excessive salt consumption.

    Quality time needed: 12 minutes


    A story of salt, the outcome, your health & the female picture.
    The Science of healthy living.



    Let us start from the tail of the end. Because we all know that every good tale comes equipped with an end that makes the rest of the story worth reading.
    And as such, the developing story of salt is a story of the roughly 2.5 million deaths around the world which could be prevented each year if global salt consumption was to be reduced below the recommended levels.

  • Health: A life of health and fitness is in truth exactly like a game of chess.

    Quality time needed: 5 minutes


    A life of fitness is a game of chess.
    The Science of healthy living.



    When it comes down to health and fitness, and the cerebral battlefield of chess the simple truth is that they are very much alike.
    There are no unearthly and illogical surprises waiting in the dark of night that will upend and change the actual fabric of the landscape.
    Your opponent can not cast fiery magic and summon demons from the netherworld to do their bidding.
    Instead what we have is a beautifully defined field of known and still developing, yet for now, unknown for you and me facts and variables, and the vast amount of personal choices those known, but evolving facts allows us to make.

    And at every step of that personal journey, chess and fitness will leave you standing as the sole commander, at a vast field made up of pure facts and deductive knowledge and the cause and consequences that every single choice will give birth to.

  • MMA and 'The People that Bleed': Meet Brad Picket.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes


    The People that bleed
    UFC fighter Brad Picket



    'The people that bleed' is our own label for a series of videos, all produced by UFC, that I feel show us a more real and nuanced, intimate perhaps view of the actual soul and personality of the real human being that makes up the flesh and bone, heart and thoughts behind the bravado and attitude of the MMA fighter persona.

    In this 9 minutes long video, we get to meet Brad Picket (25-14 MMA, 5-9 UFC), a tiny blue collar sized UK based fighter whom retired after his final UFC fight on march 18, 2017 against Brandon Vera.

  • Health & Fitness: The unhealthy reality of the MMA style weight cut. A BBC documentary.

    Quality time needed: 7 minutes


    The Unhealthy Practice of MMA weight cutting
    The Science of a Healthy Life



    For most people getting a bit more fit, and healthy by eating cleaner food and less calories and working out more is a great life improving choice.
    And for most, that will lead to health improving reductions in unhealthy body fat levels and body weight. But as we previously talked about in another article, when you are already in shape, rocking a fit and toned body, eating healthy amounts of healthy food, doing weights and cardio, there comes a limit where dropping even more in body weight and body fat becomes damaging and unhealthy instead of health and fitness improving.

    And beyond that basic reality, you have the insanity of MMA and Boxing weight cuts that far to many pro fighters go through just so they can fight in a weight class that they are to athletic and big to actually be fighting in.
    I am saying that because MMA style weight cutting is not something that anyone interested in health and fitness should ever do.
    Period.

    Neither should pro fighters in my own opinion. In a ideal world you would be the only one doing MMA style weight cuts, allowing you to fight people 20 to 30 lbs smaller than you, with much shorter leg and arm reach, 20+lbs less muscle mass and all the disadvantage that would give them in strength, endurance, strike impact and absorption.
    But you see, when every other fighter do the same weight cut, no one benefits, and everybody suffers from the exact same detrimental and unhealthy exhaustion that MMA style weight cuts are. With less fitness come fight night and potentially worse health for the long haul as the only real result.

  • Health & Fitness: Daily Milk, Fruit and Vegetable consumption, in relation to your mortality rate and health.

    Quality time needed: 10 minutes


    Dairy for the fit and healthy guidelines
    The Science of a Healthy Life



    Time and science continually march forward, and that is a thing of utmost beauty. But that simple fact also requires all of us to keep an open mind towards the way we do our own fit and healthy life so that we can continually adapt and improve as we uncover new layers of scientifically established health and fitness knowledge, and at times, accept that new health and fitness science-based knowledge might force us to change direction and toss out old established "truths".

    So today we find ourselves in a brave new world where a comprehensive Swedish study covering the health impact of daily dairy and fruit consumption ended up giving us so much new scientifically based knowledge about our health and food choices that the time has come to update our "dairy for the fit and healthy guidelines".

    Organic and sugar-free yogurt is still with us, while milk is completely tossed to the side, yes even lactose-free milk gets the boot out my door.
    Why you might ask?
    Well, the answer is simply put science baby, adapt or die :).

    Milk is as far as we understand it right now causing real health issues over time that simply do not happen when you consume sugar-free yogurt or no dairy at all.
    This Swedish study involved close to 200 000 people, and the accumulated data over several years indicates that a high milk consumption shortens individuals life span through increased oxidative stress and inflammation caused by that daily milk consumption.
    And as such milk has to go since yogurt provides all the same high-quality nutrition as milk and thus, all the benefits of dairy can be met through organic, sugar-free yogurt without risking the by now, strongly implicated long-term health issues associated with drinking milk.

  • Science: The Euphoric Flight of Creativity and what hides inside our mind.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes


    The Essence of Creativity, Hides Inside our Minds
    The Science of a Healthy Life



    The Cerebellum inside our individual selfs will dance its very best only to its own bidding. Hidden away, inside and behind the curtain of what we consider our conscious thoughts, our "little brain" powers on with magnificent poise.

    The small, behind the scene part of what we think of as our brain, is despite its small size (The Cerebellum makes up about 10% of homo sapiens total brain volume) commandeering the majority of our brains neurons.

  • Science: Air Pollution and dementia. Global pollution and unhealth, and the link to mortality rates for children under 5.

    Quality time needed: 7 minutes


    Air Pollution and our health
    The factual Science of a Healthy Life, updated with WHO data, march 2017



    Science continually spits out more reasons in a never ending string as to why anyone interested in their own health and body should also be caring for a sustainable society and world.
    As if it is not already bad enough with modern day life´s annoying sidekick, air pollution, causing cancer, asthma and respiratory diseases and crazy smog in a growing number of cities. We can now add dementia to the list of unpleasant and unhealthy effects that life in any unsustainable society will cause through air pollution.


    Swedish researchers at Umeå University have uncovered compelling evidence for a direct link between air pollution and dementia. The run down is that if you happen to live in an area that leaves you exposed to air pollution you will run a 40 percent greater risk of developing Alzheimer's disease and vascular dementia compared to if you would have chosen to live in a city with healthier air and environment.

  • Book: "Legend of the Stone Cutter'', is a short fantasy adaptation of a man that wished for ever more . Originally written by the authors Brother Grimm with minor writing by Mike Koontz. This is an 1 hour long bed time read.




    Kid Friendly
    UHD book reading video TBA
    Short story ( coffee break bite )
    The legend of the stone cutter is often thought of as a Japanese folktale. But there are also seeds of pagan Europe and other parts of Asia in its many origins and crossroads.

    It weaves the tale of a poor man, plagued with unhappiness for his own lot in life. This man worked as a highly skilled but poorly paid stonecutter, and one day he simply came to the conclusion that enough was enough and that he deserved so much more than who he was. His wish for transformative change came to be through the aid of a supernatural being, and with that his greedy appetite for a world of ever more was awoken, until one day he had come full circle and reached a state of peace with himself.
    Written by no one, and everyone.
    Before this slightly altered version, the German authors Brothers Grimm put their thoughts to the pen, but you also had the Scottish author Andrew Lang writing his very own version of the stone cutter. And there have been countless of Asian authors and Nordic ones throughout history, before and after the Brothers Grimm. And as such, I am sure, many others that told their own version of this old folktale, because like the wind, this is an ageless story about life and man, and like the wind I am sure that it will both transform and stay the same for thousands of years to come.
    Enjoy the read!.

    Photography and web adaptation and minor writing by Mike Koontz
    2017, a Norse View Imaging and Publishing

  • Healthy living: When protein face off with protein, what comes out on top? Red meat, plants, nuts, dairy?. And how will it impact health, strength and even the effects of old age.

    Quality time needed: 6 minutes


    Meat vs Plant when Protein gets to battle Protein & age.
    The Science of a healthy Life



    In a recently published study, we got to take a pretty comprehensive look at nearly 3,000 men and women all aged between 19 and 72.
    The study participants complete protein intake as well as all the various protein and food sources they consumed was measured. Including various dairy products, red meat and the healthier fish & chicken and plant-based protein sources. Beyond that the study also made sure to measure each participants lean muscle mass, their bone density, and individual strength.

    The takeaway?.
    When looking at the complete study, it was evident ( and to no surprise ) that the less protein you consumed the lower amount of muscle mass and strength. But to the surprise of some, the type of protein each person favored did not have any impact on their strength and musculoskeletal health, and there were no differences based on gender or age group.

    So keep active, eat healthy and make sure to include enough protein, and yeah, skip that red meat based protein right away because it provides zero health and fitness benefit for anyone.

  • Book: "Ligeia'', is a strange tale of love and those who cross back from the realm of the dead. Written by author Edgar Allan Poe. This is an 1 hour long bed time read.




    Suitable for teens and up. Explicit storytelling and events.
    UHD book reading video TBA
    Short story (One Evening Bed time read)
    Ligeia is an hour long read, taking us through a haunted dream when the beloved dead will rise again and make the journey back across the river, from the realm of the dead. And perhaps in this story it is in truth that we get to meet the tormented man that was Edgar Allan Poe.
    Enjoy the read!.

    Photography and web adaptation: Mike Koontz
    2017, a Norse View Imaging and Publishing

  • Space & Science: The flight across the black void and Kaguyas observations of Earth and the way we shower our lunar friend with oxygen.

    Quality time needed: 7 minutes


    On continuous gusts of solar wind mixed with terrestrial ions Earth shower the moon with earthborn oxygen
    The Science of Life



    Outside our blue wonders shielded atmosphere, the coldness of space is filled with the burning solar wind. The dust and speckles of stars, radiation, vacuum and alien stuff like dark matter and gigantic black holes. It is a marvel of glorious destruction and life that continuously mix and merge outside our calm home, organic chaos tearing down and building new life things across the vastness of time and our Universe.

    And amongst it all, somehow, each month, Earth fires up its magnetic shields as we position ourselves between the sun and the moon, and for five whole day´s we Earthlings shower our cute little friend with Earthbound oxygen and organic matter.
    In other words, we colonize and shape the very fabric of the alien entity we call the moon with Earthborn biological life and air, organic matter traveling from our blue marble all the way to the moon through the dark void on the winds of the sun.

  • The global Environment Performance Index: Scandinavia sweeps the top 4 as the worlds best.

    Quality time needed: 8 minutes
     
     

     

    Environmental Performance Index
     Scandinavia leads the world
    The Science of a healthy life

     

    2016 years Environmental Performance Index tells us in one more way, what we already know, and that is that Scandinavia is one hell of a wonderful place to live. The world's four best nations according to the index are all Scandinavians with Finland, Iceland, and Sweden being the only 3 nations in the world with an EPI score above 90.
    ( All three still have plenty of room to improve much more, and obviously do need to improve much more. )
    And just behind that trio, ranked as number four in the world is Denmark. So, just what is the Environmental Performance Index? Read on to find out.

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