The Elephant Island Chronicle

presents

The Tomorrower

By Conrad Hannan

Narration by Eleven Labs

Chapter 1: Harry

The year was 1893, and New Orleans was a city dressed in its Sunday finery yet crumbling at the seams. The carriages creaked along cobblestone streets, rattling past vendors hawking pralines and fruit. The scent of chicory coffee mingled with the sharp, earthy aroma of tobacco, wafting over iron-wrought balconies and curling through the narrow alleys of the French Quarter. Laughter and muffled jazz spilled out from the dimly lit saloons, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and the shuffle of footsteps.

This was New Orleans—a decadent, decaying heart pumping with languid indifference, where the past haunted every step like a specter. Grand colonial homes with fading pastel hues stood tall, their plaster chipping, wrought iron gates rusted at the hinges, as vines slowly strangled their facades. It was a place where history lingered in the very air, a blend of hope and entropy. And it was in this contradictory place—equal parts life and decay—that Harry Delacroix lived, or rather, existed.

Harry was known as a "tomorrower," a title he wore with the same shabby charm as his moth-eaten suit. His neighbors in the Vieux Carré muttered the word with an affectionate derision, a mix of sympathy and resignation. To be a tomorrower was to master the art of the defer—a smile, a shrug, and always, "I'll get to that tomorrow." It was never spoken with remorse but with the casualness of someone who believed that time was always on his side. A wink, a nod, and "tomorrow" rolled off his tongue like honey dripping from a spoon.

It was his manner, and people laughed, a laughter tinged with something else—an undercurrent of pity, perhaps fear. For what was more tragic than a man of promise who never fulfilled it?

Harry had once been a figure of promise, a young man with ideas that could have reshaped entire businesses, romances that could have forged families, and dreams that might have touched the sky—but always tomorrow. He lingered in the shadowy recesses of society, a fixture at the cafés and riverbanks, a man forever on the cusp of doing something worthwhile. He could often be seen standing at Jackson Square, beneath the looming silhouette of St. Louis Cathedral, looking out at the tourists, traders, and sailors who bustled through the city. He watched but never acted.

To the unknowing eye, Harry appeared to be just another dapper gentleman of the Quarter, his frock coat brushed enough to make an impression but never truly crisp. His mustache was well-groomed, his hat tipped just so, but the small creases in his trousers and the dull scuffs on his boots suggested a man too comfortable with where he stood to bother improving his station.

Harry sauntered from his dilapidated apartment to the grand halls of high-society gatherings, always in his worn frock coat, always greeted with the same mix of exasperation and amusement. He attended the soirees of the city’s well-to-do, hovering near the edges of rooms bathed in the warm glow of chandelier light. He nursed glasses of champagne and exchanged pleasantries with acquaintances who had grown too used to seeing him idling at the periphery.

“Harry, my boy!” boomed Alphonse Devereaux, an old friend from school whose ruddy face always glowed a shade too red after an evening's libations. “You’re just in time for a round of cards!” But Harry merely smiled, waved his hand dismissively, and replied, “Perhaps tomorrow, Alphonse.” And Alphonse would laugh, slapping Harry on the back, but there was a tightness, a flicker of something like pity behind the laughter.

Even as a child, Harry had shown great promise. He was quick-witted, sharp with numbers, and blessed with a natural charisma that drew people to him. The city's old buildings seemed to groan as they settled in their foundations, the plaster flaking, the paint curling, as though the city itself had grown tired of waiting. And Harry, with his potential that once burned bright, drifted among the crowds, his hands in his pockets, watching opportunities pass him by like the steamships on the Mississippi—coming in loud, gleaming, full of promise, and leaving without him.

His mother, Madame Delacroix, had once been proud of her bright-eyed boy. She had imagined a future for him that was gilded and certain—perhaps a merchant or lawyer. But when her husband passed, Harry’s studies had become inconsistent, and the responsibilities of business fell on her tired shoulders. She would look at Harry with a sigh as he rambled on about a new idea he would put into action “tomorrow,” and she knew, somewhere deep down, that her son would not fulfill those promises.

Harry himself was not blind to his situation. He was acutely aware of the sideways glances, the forced smiles, the hopeful suggestions of his few remaining friends that perhaps he should “find himself some occupation” or “do something worthwhile.” But Harry always had a reason, an excuse—a thousand tomorrows laid out before him, each sparkling with potential, each good enough to hold off on action.

One particularly hot afternoon, Harry found himself wandering down Esplanade Avenue, his hat tipped low to block out the sun. The cicadas droned in the oak trees above, their song a reminder of the passing time. He ended up at a small café, a place he frequented far too often. The café owner, an older man named Jacques, knew Harry well. He had watched him grow from an ambitious young man into the tired figure who now slouched at his tables.

“Same as always, Harry?” Jacques asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Harry nodded. “You know me, Jacques. One more cup of coffee, and then I’m off to change the world.”

Jacques snorted, shaking his head. “Tomorrow, eh?” He set the cup down with a thunk.

“Tomorrow,” Harry echoed, raising his cup in a mock toast, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile.

New Orleans seemed to embody Harry’s mindset—a place forever teetering between grandeur and ruin, where past triumphs cast long shadows over an uncertain present. The French Quarter, the pulse of the city, was filled with music, laughter, and decay. The brass bands blared from barroom doors, mingling with the cries of peddlers and the steady clip-clop of carriage horses, and the streets were alive, filled with a hundred stories, each more pressing and more real than Harry’s endless tomorrows.

Harry was content to drift through this tapestry of decadence and decline, never quite stepping into the fabric of life itself. He wandered past the raucous parties, the laughter echoing through windows, the drifting smoke of cigars, the chatter of deals made and broken. He liked to imagine himself a part of it, yet was too comfortable on the edges.

And so Harry lingered—watching, smiling, always a spectator. He was a master of deferment, the consummate “tomorrower,” and it suited him well. His friends—those who still considered him a friend—would see him at gatherings and ask about his plans, to which Harry always replied with enthusiasm. He spoke of new ventures, ideas, and dreams, always with the same ending: tomorrow.

There were moments when, late at night, after a third or fourth drink, Harry felt a gnawing emptiness—a sense that the opportunities he let slip past were piling up behind him, a mountain of what-ifs that grew heavier each day. He would shake it off, light a cigarette, and reassure himself that he had time. That tomorrow, everything would be different.

But in the city that wore decay like a second skin, Harry's tomorrows were starting to grow thin.

Chapter 2: Glimpses of Potential and Stagnation

Harry’s life had always been about moments—a lifetime filled with fragmentary vignettes of potential where everything seemed poised, just waiting for him to take the reins. One such moment came with the prospect of a partnership. His old friend, Bernard, had recently come into ownership of a small dry goods shop just off Decatur Street. Bernard was practical and shrewd, the sort who could build from almost nothing. He had offered Harry a stake—a chance to help turn it into something more than a humble merchant’s shop.

Harry had stood at the foot of the stairwell leading up to Bernard's office. He had looked up, the door to opportunity open before him, the muffled sounds of Bernard bustling about inside. Harry had hesitated—was this really what he wanted? Was it enough? He had stood there, calculating the risks, the uncertainties, the effort. By the time he finally made up his mind, the stairs felt daunting. He took a step, then another, but as his hand reached for the doorknob, it was already too late. The "Closed" sign was hung. Bernard had moved on, tired of waiting, unwilling to rest his hopes on a man who lived for tomorrow.

And that was not the first time. Harry often found himself on the brink—just on the cusp of doing something real, something tangible—but then something would pull him back, keep him from crossing that line from thought to action. He remembered the day he stood on the levee, watching the riverboats come in. An old friend, Pierre, called to him from the deck, a grin on his face, motioning for Harry to join him on an adventure to Baton Rouge. Harry had thought to go—it seemed impulsive, exciting, maybe exactly what he needed. But his feet felt heavy, rooted to the spot. “Perhaps another time, Pierre,” he shouted back. The boat pulled away, and Harry remained where he was, watching as the river swallowed his chance for something different.

The grandeur of the Devereaux Mansion was always a reminder of the choices others made—choices that led them to places of prestige and wealth, which Harry never dared to make. The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the ballroom, the silk gowns and dapper suits swirling, laughter punctuating the air. Harry wandered the edges, his fingers brushing the rim of a half-full champagne glass. He watched people he had once known—Thomas, for example, the young railroad magnate whose fortunes had ballooned after a calculated risk in rail expansion. Thomas laughed, a hearty booming sound that resonated through the hall, but Harry noticed something else in his old friend’s eyes—an emptiness, a hollow gleam that whispered of burdens too heavy for even the richest of men.

Thomas was surrounded by admirers, and Harry knew the success was not without cost. But at least Thomas had tried, had taken action, while Harry had been content to remain adrift. Across the room, Marie appeared. The sight of her stole Harry’s breath—her gown was emerald, her hair gathered in elegant coils, her eyes the same familiar blue that held traces of melancholy. She looked at him and smiled, a gentle upturn of her lips. They did not need to speak—everything was there, in the small wistful acknowledgment between them, in the momentary flicker of her gaze. They danced—a slow, deliberate waltz, a dance of regrets that neither voiced. She spoke of her children—two little boys, full of laughter and promise. Harry listened, a smile playing on his lips, but it never quite reached his eyes.

The music swelled around them, the world feeling both immediate and far away, as though Harry was just a ghost passing through. When the music ended, Marie touched his hand, a whisper of something lost, and then she turned and was swallowed by the crowd.

Harry ended the evening on the balcony, away from the laughter and the music. He shared a cigarette with a man whose name he did not catch—a man whose face bore the sunken look of lost ambition. The stranger spoke of a failed enterprise, the story slurred by too much whiskey and bitterness. The man spoke of the opportunity that had slipped through his fingers, and Harry nodded, smiled half-heartedly, and murmured, “Perhaps tomorrow.” Below them, the streetcar rattled along the tracks, the streetlamps casting long shadows that seemed to pull at Harry, stretching out the moments like an endless evening.

And, just like the streetcar, Harry imagined his life—always moving but never pursuing anything. He was tired, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to change or reach for something more.

Chapter 3: A Fleeting Spark of Determination

One morning, something shifted within Harry for a fleeting, unexpected moment. It was early—far earlier than Harry usually awoke, and the first rays of sunlight were filtering through the grime-streaked windows of his narrow apartment. That day, the air had a strange quality, a clarity that seemed almost unreal. As Harry stood at the window, staring at the city awakening below, a thought seized him—he could change things. He could finally take action, seize control of his life, and do something real. The feeling was foreign, a hot, anxious urgency that bubbled up inside his chest and spread through his limbs.

Harry washed quickly, straightened his best shirt, and made a plan. He would meet with Edward LaFont, a man of means who had mentioned an opportunity the last time Harry had seen him. Edward had connections and enough wealth to help someone like Harry start fresh—a business, perhaps, a chance to move up in the world. Harry felt his pulse quicken as he imagined the possibilities. For once, it felt within reach.

He made it as far as the street. His shoes clicked confidently against the cobblestones as he walked, his shoulders straighter than they had been in months. He had a sense of resolve, a determination almost foreign to Harry Delacroix. The smell of freshly baked bread from the nearby bakery filled the air. He passed by the familiar sights—the flower vendor setting up her cart, the butcher already hacking away at cuts of meat, the postman, the neighbors. They greeted him, and Harry responded with curt nods, his mind too focused on what lay ahead to be distracted.

The café came into view, and it pulled at him. The sight of it, the inviting warmth, the smell of chicory coffee, felt like an anchor to his old self. He paused at the door, his hand hovering just for a moment. He looked down the street—Edward's office lay just a few blocks further. But the lure of the familiar was too strong, too comforting. He hesitated for a moment, then turned, pushed the door open, and walked inside.

The barista, Jacques, nodded at him knowingly, setting down a cup before Harry even had to ask. Harry took a deep breath, sat down at his usual table, and let the weight of the world slowly lift from his shoulders. It was so easy to let go of the urgency, to tell himself that tomorrow would be good enough, that tomorrow would be his day. The anxiety that had filled him that morning slowly ebbed away, replaced by the warmth of comforting inaction.

He could always try again tomorrow.

Chapter 4: The Slow Unraveling

And so, the unraveling began in earnest. New Orleans sweltered under the summer sun, the oppressive heat soaking into the worn bricks of the city, making the air feel thick and slow. It was a heat that seemed to sap the energy from the streets, and Harry sank deeper into his life's comfortable stagnation. The brief flicker of resolve was forgotten, buried under the habitual routine of his days. He found himself visiting Jacques' café more frequently, finding solace in the rituals of ordinary life.

Opportunities, once plentiful, began to grow sparser. Old friends who had once offered him a hand now stopped sending their invitations. Would-be partners ceased their inquiries, their patience long since exhausted. Harry spent long afternoons alone, watching the riverboats churning down the Mississippi, their smokestacks trailing black plumes against the sky. The current was restless, constant, and contrasted painfully with his own stillness.

The inheritance from his father had once provided Harry with security, but now, it too dwindled. The small trinkets that held some sentimental value—his father’s pocket watch, his mother’s pearl brooch—were gradually sold, pawned for money to pay rent or to buy the next round of coffee. Harry’s apartment, once a place of comfort, seemed to close around him—the chipped plaster walls and faded wallpaper a visual echo of his decline. The vibrant life of the city and the bustle of people moving on with their lives became more distant with each passing day.

Marie was married now, her life filled with new experiences, a husband, and children—things that Harry could never be a part of. He would sometimes pass by her house, see her through the window, laughing with her children, the image framed by the warm light of a life lived fully. Harry, in contrast, was left with long, empty nights and the haunting echoes of what might have been.

One particularly oppressive evening, Harry stumbled upon a beggar seated in the shadow of a crumbling brick wall—a blind man with an old, battered violin. The man played a haunting melody, the notes thin and reedy but undeniably beautiful. It was a melody that seemed to speak of loss, wasted time, and a life that never quite was. Harry stood there, transfixed, the music wrapping around him, filling him with a sense of unease.

The beggar paused, his fingers stilling on the strings, and he seemed to sense Harry's presence. He turned his head slightly, his unseeing eyes hidden behind a pair of darkened spectacles. His voice was gravelly, rough from disuse. “You think tomorrow will always come, boy?” he said, each word heavy with certainty. “It’ll come, sure enough, but not for you.”

Harry felt a chill run through him, and for a moment, he was aware—acutely, painfully aware—of just how many tomorrows had slipped through his grasp, of how each one had left him a little emptier, a little further from the man he had once wanted to be. The laughter and music of the city seemed more distant than ever, swallowed by the gathering dark.

Chapter 5: The Final Turning Point

The letter came on a damp Tuesday morning, the envelope slightly frayed at the edges. Harry had been sitting at his window, watching the mist rise from the cobbled streets below, when the knock on the door startled him. It was a letter from a law office, the kind of formal correspondence that Harry rarely received anymore. The message was curt, a legal formality stating that his estranged uncle—an uncle Harry barely remembered—had passed away and left him a small but meaningful inheritance. Enough, they wrote, to make a fresh start, perhaps to move elsewhere or invest in something new.

Harry looked at the letter for a long while. He traced the embossed name of the law firm, feeling the weight of the opportunity within his grasp. He could leave New Orleans behind—this crumbling city that mirrored his own stagnation—and find something new, something that wasn’t haunted by the ghosts of his past inaction. It was a spark, a flare of hope that made his heart beat faster for a moment.

But the inheritance wasn’t the only thing to arrive that week. A few days later, Marie appeared at his doorstep. It was late evening, the air heavy with humidity, and she looked just as he remembered—perhaps even lovelier, framed in the golden glow of the streetlamp. She spoke quietly, her voice carrying the wistful nostalgia that had always lingered between them. Her marriage had soured, and she found herself thinking of him—of what they could have been, of the love they had left unspoken. She smiled sadly, her eyes soft with an almost fragile hope.

“Harry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “maybe it’s not too late for us.”

He felt his chest tighten, a thousand thoughts flooding his mind. There was something so achingly beautiful about the moment, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he could have what he had always wanted. Marie’s hand brushed his, and he could feel the warmth of her skin, the years between them melting away as if they had never existed.

But then there was another thought, an idea that had been simmering in his mind for some time—a brilliant notion for a business that could change everything. Harry had been toying with it for weeks, scribbling notes and plans on scraps of paper, envisioning what could be if he just took that first step. He could almost see it now—a small office, a team of bright young men, a business that could bring him respect and meaning.

He stood at the crossroads—a literal one, at the intersection of two worn streets. One road led to Edward LaFont’s office, where he could invest his newfound inheritance and implement his plans. The other led to the cozy little café, where his seat, cigarette, and usual cup of chicory coffee awaited him, along with the comfortable familiarity of his old habits.

And then there was Marie, standing just beyond, her eyes filled with longing, with the promise of a future that might be bright if only he could reach out and take it.

Harry lingered there, caught between two tomorrows—one that demanded action, risk, and change, the other that offered reprieve, warmth, and the comfort of the known. The seconds stretched into eternity as he hesitated, torn between what could be and what was.

A breeze swept down the street, carrying with it the scent of the river, the laughter from a distant tavern, the murmur of the city that seemed always on the verge of something it never quite achieved. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of it all—the choices unmade, the paths not taken, the life that lay before him, waiting.

When he opened his eyes, the city seemed quieter, the streets emptier, and Harry felt himself take a step. But whether it was towards the café or towards Marie, whether it was towards action or towards comforting inaction, he could not quite tell. The moment was both real and not, a choice that hung in the balance, neither here nor there.

The End.

From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this original short story by Conrad Hannon. Until next time, stay gruntled.

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