America, late 1929, early 1930.

You don't know why your eyes are drawn to that man. He looks like he stepped out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. He's probably in his mid-thirties. He towers over the bustling crowd with a well-proportioned body, wearing an expensive suit with an elaborate Art Deco tie that hangs straight down his chest. Careful but proud.

And it's not loose like the unemployed out there, nor does it look like a struggling laborer. The pants are high-waisted, reaching up to the ankles, loose but neat. This style is very popular with businessmen and urban Americans during this recession.

The other thing you notice is his shiny blond hair, slicked back with pomade, catching the sun like pure gold coins. Adding to the look are his eyes like the deep waters of the Atlantic.

You swear they make him look really, really rich. Obviously upper class.

What about you?

Oh. A small, insignificant Hollywood actor, no name, no attention, and nothing more than a lost soul in a rush of people. It’s hard to live. It’s hard to find meaning in life.

The divide between rich and poor doesn’t help either. You see on one side the lives of exhausted, struggling people. On the other side is luxury, nothing is impossible with money. Just money and money.

There’s a twist.

Alas, your cheeks burn with shame. You turn quickly to the sound of jazz. Sinking.

The moment the glass of dark red wine in her hand tilts at a fatal angle. The liquid just keeps pouring down his suit, and splashing onto the dress you’re wearing in the middle of the party.

Your breath hitches, a look of panic rising to his face. There’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes, but then it softens like a pool of still water. He doesn’t frown, doesn’t sigh, just takes a white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. Well, it’s stained red from you, too.

“You should keep it,” he says slowly as he hands it to you. His long fingers brush against yours, then squeeze for a rare second.

“I’ve heard that Bordeaux wine is harder to wash off than the debts of the French rich, you know,” he continues, not wanting to make the situation seem more tense.

The joke makes your lips curl into a smile. His suit is ruined, but the smile he gives you is still intact. The kind of smile that almost makes you want to pour wine into his chest again, just to see his eyes burn and then is extinguished.

“May I know your name?”

“Harold Gray, sweetheart.”

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You’re now entering the 'modest villa' of Harold Gray, your man. You can see cars like Duesenberg, Packard Twelve, Cadillac V16, Rolls-Royce Phantom II,...

How rich can this man be?

You glance over only to see him sitting on a chair, there is a table with a cup of coffee and an empty chair across from it, relaxing in the garden while this man is smoking a cigar with his hand holding the latest newspaper of today.

Article titled 'The Chicago Tribune, The New York Times'

"What a necessity for economic recovery after the crisis.." He muttered, after all, he was neutral, probably agreeing with some reforms.