Theme: Phrase - "The Red Brick Machine"
Initial thoughts: Is it a machine that makes red bricks? A machine MADE of bricks? Is this a thing that already exists, or something I need to make up? If I need to make it up, what does it DO - because, after all, that's the point of a machine - to DO something. What if the word, "machine" is a moniker? Perhaps it's not a mechanical device, but something else more "processed"? That's when it hit me, and the following is my unedited offering of the topic.
Andrew looked back as he walked across the
quad. It was the last time he’d ever
walk out that door, down those steps, and across the expanse of green that
served as the pastoral introduction to the school, and he couldn’t be
happier. Of course, it wasn’t really a
school at all, but a large mansion on a hill that overlooked the sleepy little
town of Tarrenton Plain.
The
town itself was nothing special. It was
your standard Hudson Valley town, whose mix of large and small colonial houses
set close together, their pitched roofs able to handle the winter snows of New
York, looked like every other sleepy little town. It didn’t stand out in any way. The town itself was a leftover of the old
Tarrenton Planation, from where it took its name. The Tarrenton family was long gone, now, and
the land was broken up so that the plantation boundaries were no longer of any
relevance, but vestiges of old stacked stone fences could still be found here
and there. If you looked hard enough,
you might see how Washington Irving could have written his more famous
works. The inspiration was all around,
and Andrew knew he would never see it again.
He
waved at the uppermost window of the great house, a tradition that every one of
his predecessors did. They all joked
about it, what they would feel when they were finally allowed to leave the
house and set out into the world. Andrew
now knew what that felt like. It was
nothing like what he imagined. There was
a certain finality to it, to know you would never be back, to never be allowed
to write a letter to your younger compatriots.
Those were the rules, and they were held to strictly.
The
rules of the Mansion were clear, and once you were there, you spent years
having them drilled into you, to the exclusion, often, of the rules of anywhere
else. Andrew knew the rules backwards,
forwards, upside-down, in a mirror, and even in his sleep. He dreamed of them. He knew they could never be broken, and that,
of course, was the point of the Mansion.
It was a school, and it was a lifestyle.
Those selected to the school were brought in and secluded from the
world, where they were educated in economics, business, leadership, and many of
the finer things in life. But above all
were the Rules.
The
rules were so important, so essential to the track of every student who passed
through the doors, that the school earned a nickname amongst its alumni: The
Red Brick Machine. It was precise, it
was succinct, it was brutally efficient.
Now that he was out, Andrew’s responsibility for his years at the school
were simple: Make money, amass power, and provide for one future tenant of the
school, both financially and as a mentor when the student was ready to
leave. And, of course, never talk about
the Mansion. Not even in private. Secrecy was of the utmost importance, and you
never knew who was listening.
Andrew
turned his back to the Mansion, and began his walk down the hill into
town. It was the way they all left the
school, with nothing but a knapsack and the few personal belongings they were
allowed to have. He was to catch the bus
to the city from there, and then, his life would begin in earnest. It was a life of privilege, of wealth, or
prosperity, all guided by the Rules that ran the Mansion. He was a member of the most elite class,
now. They ran everything from the New
York Stock Exchange to the policies of the federal government. They were untouchable, protected. Safe in their financial castles, they set the
policy for the United States. From
there, they spread out to the world, and their influence was felt
everywhere. Andrew could now call
himself one of them.
The
walk into town was faster than he imagined it would be. He paid for his ticket at the post office
that doubled as the Greyhound station, and took a seat on the bench to await
the bus into the city. He pulled the
small package he was given from his bag, and opened it. It contained a pen, a notebook, and a leather-bound
copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince.” He
understood it immediately. Rule
Seven. He recited it in his head, and
put the package back in his knapsack as the bus pulled up to the building.
Thanks for reading,
Me
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