Catching the California Wave

Mitch:

A flightless bird chirped incessantly in the darkened room, shattering the numbing silence from which the man lying in the bed found a temporary solace. He remained motionless in his cocoon, trying to orient himself and understand what kind of creature could be making such an invasive noise. It took more than the customary heartbeats to determine that the sound was not from a confused morning lark but his Android whose alarm was now chirping with increasing urgency. 

He groaned as he heaved his body over the side of the bed, reaching for his cell, before making his way to the bathroom to take a hot shower.  Moving his fingers ever so slightly as he gazed towards the ceiling, he calculated how many hours it would be before his day would be over and he could sit in a Jacuzzi sipping a glass of bourbon, his frequent respite from a particularly stressful day. He sighed heavily, flipping through the messages on his phone as he waited for the water to warm as the steam began to billow around him. He already had four texts regarding his trip to Arizona this morning. He tossed the phone onto a folded towel on the beautifully polished granite vanity before disappearing into the cloud of steam. 

He stood, eyes closed and head hanging low, in the stream as the tiny water needles tried to pierce his flesh. He hadn’t been back to Arizona since he visited his mother five years before her death. She had lived in the small, mountainous town of Pinetop. She and his father had built the tiny cabin two years before he was born. Although it couldn’t have been more than 900 cramped square feet, they still managed to fill it with aunts, uncles, cousins, and even for a summer or two, a friend from the neighborhood who had tagged along for an adventure-filled summer. Although he was an only child, the cabin was continually filled. They slept in beds lining the walls, shared one tiny bathroom, and the children only bathed only once every few days. They had spent their summers catching snakes by the river, fishing for rainbow trout, climbing trees, and building forts in the tall, swaying pine trees on the property. His mother would fry the trout they had caught during the day, and they would eat on the patio swings on the front porch while listening to pine trees whisper secrets to each other in the evening breeze. 

Mitch poured some pine-scented body wash into his hand, noting the irony of the scent, before rubbing it slowly over his arms and chest. He never could remember a time when the cabin had not been the center of the neighborhood. While Mitch has spent his days in the town’s neighborhood school, his mother tended to her massive garden, canning foods for the winter, tending to elderly neighbors, bringing homemade quilts for new babies, or making baked goods to sell at the farmer’s market each summer. Looking back, life was idyllic, although he didn’t know it at the time. Friendships were long-standing, and there was always time in the day to adequately maintain them, as they were a priority, but it was his mother who bound the neighborhood together. 

Mitch finished washing but was reluctant to leave the calmness of the shower. On his last trip to Arizona last year for a conference, he hadn’t even thought of Pinetop, even though he could have easily driven to the property on his day off. 

After his father died, his mother kept the cabin in the family for years, hoping to make it into a family summer home.  She called weekly, at first, saying that it would be good for his daughter Jessica to see where her father grew up, to fish in familiar ponds and streams so that she could teach her family recipes, and to spend some time just being a kid. Mitch would patiently listen, wondering how he could make time for a week to fly to Arizona from their New Jersey home. His wife, Brandi, would remind him that Jessica had riding lessons and tutoring and no one wanted to spend Mitch’s week off in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. Jessica would whine loudly that there would be nothing to do and Brandi said firmly that if he wanted to go, he’d go alone. As the years passed by, he thought he’d visit with Jessica, but Brandi had her schedule so packed that finding any time to go seemed impossible until it was finally too late. On a Thursday afternoon, while alone in his office, he had received a call from the community hospital that his mother had been found unconscious in her driveway, later dying at the hospital from an apparent heart attack. A neighbor had come over to check on her after she had not answered her phone all morning, finding her with a fistful of weeds that she had pulled from the garden that lined her driveway. The guilt of those missed opportunities, which left his mother to recreate her family with friends and neighbors, only added to the weight of his life today, strangling him with obligations and servitude to the financial beast. 

In the years since her passing, Mitch and Brandi thought they would someday remodel the cabin, replacing the Formica countertops and dated oak cabinets and selling it to pay off an overpriced renovation to their Jersey home. What to do with the cabin was an ongoing argument, but was often pushed aside, like so many other problems that sat in the corner of their lives, noticed but neglected. The contrast between his life now and this forgotten world caused him to draw in a breath involuntarily, expelling it in uneven, ragged exhalations.    

The steam from the shower had now begun to billow around the mirror as Mitch stepped out of the stream, his pale skin blotchy and red. He sometimes wondered that if the water was hot enough, maybe it could sanitize his life. 

He reached for the towel and carefully blotted his heated flesh. His jaw clenched involuntarily as he saw the Xanax bottle on the vanity, the lid screwed on at an awkward angle. He was now using double the prescribed amount just to get through the day.  Three coffees in the morning, Xanax during the day, and a few drinks at night; it was the cold recipe for survival. 

Once his hands were dry, he checked his phone again. He already had another email from Rekcus Bank discussing a recent increase in sales quota. The pressure to survive at the bank was showing in the thinly veiled self-congratulatory emails that were being sent in an increasing frequency, announcing those who had successfully navigated the constantly increasing metrics. 

Although the country had been gripped in a recession for almost six quarters, the bank had only managed to increase its profits, doing so by downsizing, furloughs, salary reductions, and increased workloads. Customers who had normally maintained their accounts for years were suddenly overdrawing them, causing overdraft and other penalty fees, which also contributed to the bank’s profitability. Despite this, the bank, which had become an insatiable consumer, was still always looking for ways to keep its bloated belly filled while its customers worked and starved to keep it fed. They were locked together, the customers who depended upon the bank for mortgages, checking, and retirement accounts, and the bank who would never stop feeding upon them. They were inextricably linked together, the bloated and the starving, each trapped inside the role each of them played. 

Mitch finished dressing before walking numbly to the kitchen for his first brew which he had programmed to be ready when he set his alarm.  He reached for his Celebrating 50 Years of Greatness mug that Rekcus had given him at a holiday party last year. Unlike the executives at the bank who received six-figure bonuses that year, he received the mug, which was filled with Reckus pens. Next year, as long as projections were met, a more significant bonus could be expected, they announced at the annual meeting. With the collapse of the economy and the housing market in the toilet, assets were dripping off the page, like the coffee he had just spilled on the polished granite countertop.  

Brandi sauntered into the room just as Mitch limply dabbed at the mess.

“God damn it, Mitch,” she said more as a statement than a complaint. He knew it was best to say nothing, especially since there were only a few minutes left until he needed to head into the office.

“When are you going to be home?” she asked, looking at the stainless-steel coffee maker with disgust.

“I have to be in the office in 30 minutes, have a quick meeting, and then I’ll be home in a few days,” he said, throwing the paper towels into the stainless-steel trash can.

“Which is?” she asked looking at him with wide eyes, underneath a swatch of bleached bang. “What-day-are-you-coming-home?” she asked, accentuating one word at a time, staring at him with unblinking, tinted eyelashes.

“Friday”.

He was coming home on Thursday. Screw her, he thought, moving into the unused dining room for his briefcase. 

“John called,” she said while examining a chipped nail.

John was their patient accountant who had been reviewing their accounts before Mitch and Brandi had concluded that they could no longer afford to keep working with him.

A few months ago, the idea of working with John, who promised a plan that would turn their financial lives around, offered hope at a time when there seemed to be none.  Money was pouring out of their accounts faster than Mitch could fill them.  Since Brandi did not work, the crushing responsibility of keeping their lives not only afloat but up to the standards set by their peers fell completely on Mitch.  After filing some late tax returns and setting them up on a payment plan, they had concluded that John’s expert advice was no longer something they would be able to afford.  If things didn’t change and change soon, they would have no other choice other than to file for bankruptcy.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Mitch asked. “I don’t know. I’m sure he wants money for some account,” she said tiredly.

Mitch did a quick mental inventory of their current account balances. Although he was a senior executive at the bank, their lifestyle, this image that they were trying so hard to maintain, had not only bankrupted them financially but the bloated master that they served had robbed them of the creativity that they needed to find an escape. 

Mitch and Brandi both knew that bankruptcy was probable, even though they had yet to communicate it to each other. Communication had been yet another casualty of their lives.

A tall, blonde, and lanky young woman stormed into the kitchen, the heels of her riding boots clipping sharply on the travertine-tiled floor.

“Where’s Dad?” she demanded breathlessly.

Brandi motioned silently toward the living room. Mitch watched his 26-year-old daughter charge toward him as he checked his files to make sure he had everything that he would need for the meetings later today.

“Hey, Daddy,” Jessica asked sweetly, quickly changing her tone.  She always called him Daddy when she was about to ask for money.

“Schmitz is coming to the barn next week. I want to make sure that I can train with him. Leonardo’s having a lot of trouble with his flying changes.”

Jessica rode in the sport of dressage, and Schmitz was a former United States Equestrian Team coach. He also came with a $250 an hour price tag. This fee, added to the board for Leonardo, shoeing, lessons, tack, feed, medical care, and various other items that Jessica deemed to be a necessity, made Leonardo’s care exceed the living expenses of anyone in the family, even Brandi’s. 

Mitch pulled a checkbook from his briefcase and without hesitation, wrote a check so that Leonardo would have flawless flying changes.

Whatever the hell those were.

Brandi

Brandi watched Mitch walk to the garage from the kitchen window as she poured herself a third cup of dark French roast. She turned her cell over in her hand, pressing its side button to see if there was a message bubble from Brad, even though she had not heard the familiar chime, which could instantly cause excitement to rise up from her chest and into her throat. After a few text exchanges, he would come over for sex and lunch before sunning himself by the beach entry pool, chilled pinto in hand, before Jessica or Brad was expected home.  

But now, she hadn’t seen him in over a week; the growing worry that he was seeing other women was starting to gnaw a pit in her stomach. Theirs was a relationship built on lies, uncertainty, and mistrust. She knew that Brad must be seeing other women. The constant text messages when he was with her, his vague excuses for not seeing her, despite only working at the Verizon store 25 hours a week, and his refusal to define their relationship past casual sex that they shared a few times a week, were all evidence that she was being taken advantage of. What wasn’t as clear was why she continued to see him.

“Oh my God, Brandi, If you are not happy, just get a divorce,” said Alex, the closest person she had to a best friend. 

“It’s not that simple,” Brandi had snapped back defensively. “Jessica is in training, and Mitch is about two seconds away from either a nervous breakdown or getting laid off. I haven’t worked since Jessica was born.”

“You could go back to school,” her friend offered with a softer tone, “start a new career. You are still young enough.”

Brandi stopped telling her anything about Brad after that conversation, leaving her feeling even more isolated as she inexplicably began to long for Brad between his sporadic visits.  

During the last few years, her relationship with Mitch had disintegrated to the point that it probably wouldn’t have mattered if she had told him that she was going to screw Brad later that day. He would probably have nodded, kissed her on the cheek, and left for the office without any effect. 

She had converted the downstairs guest room into her own suite over the last two years, right around the time she started seeing Brad. She had even called in an interior designer, creating her own private sanctuary, complete with Egyptian cotton sheets, a silk comforter, and a tufted chaise. 

“I don’t understand why you need your own room,” Mitch had said tiredly before leaving for work. “Our room is fine,” he said looking into her eyes for the first time in months. 

Brandi noted the lines and dark circles around his weary eyes. 

“It doesn’t mean anything, Mitch,” Brandi said, breaking his gaze.

“Look, I just need my own space, we’ll talk about it when you get home,” she said before disappearing down the hall. 

They never talked about the suite again before the contractors arrived. When it was finished, it had a large, stand-alone claw-footed antique steel tub in the attached bathroom, which was perfect for soaks with Brad on cold fall days. Brandi spent countless hours looking online for the perfect duvets, wallpapers, accent furniture, and lamps for mood lighting. 

In the end, the suite, like her life, hid in beauty and ugliness that lay just beneath the surface.

“When are you coming home?” Brandi remembered asking, frustrated when he only stared at her blankly.

“When-are-you-coming-home?” she had snapped, frustrated at her own bitchiness, but also at Mitch’s lack of response.

She had softened when she learned she had until Friday to spend with Brad.  She needed a break and having a few days alone in the house would help.

Mitch had silently walked into the dining room to get his briefcase without saying a word.

The overwhelming emotion that she felt for Mitch was now indifference; she couldn’t even summon rage for him. Rage would have been far better because at least then there would be some passion left between them. Now the only thing that remained was crushing mutual obligation. 

They truly loved each other once when life seemed limitless and pregnant with possibility, and his passion was contagious to anyone around him.

On a Friday night when they were still undergrads, they drove to a bluff overlooking the beach. He had placed a twin mattress in the back of his Tacoma and spread an old quilt on top. They lay together that night, watching the sky and smoking weed. 

“When we graduate this May, I don’t want to rush into a job or grad school,” he said slowly between long drags. 

“Let’s go to Europe. If we stay in the hostels, we will have enough to last us at least six months, maybe longer. We can backpack through and travel cheaply, eat like locals, and even hitchhike if we can,” he said dreamily, his eyes squinting softly as he placed the joint to his lips.

They never did go to Europe, although Brandi wasn’t sure why, even though they spent the next few months planning the trip with intricate detail.

“I found a map of all the hostels throughout Western Europe,” Mitch said breathlessly one afternoon when they met in the Memorial Union coffee shop between classes, his faded green canvas backpack slung over his shoulder. He slid the folded brochure across the tiny wooden table towards her. 

“Hostels of Europe,” it said in faded gold letters. 

“I found it in the discard section of the library. It’s a sign that we need to do this now. Let’s go the day after graduation,” he said, his eyes brightly shining in the dimmed light of the room.

That afternoon over coffee was the last conversation they had about Europe. Graduation was less than three weeks away, and they soon found themselves running out of money and discussing jobs they would need. An apartment would be necessary since they would each no longer be able to stay in their dorms after the end of the semester.

“I found a studio twenty minutes from campus,” Brad said tiredly when calling her from his dorm on a Monday night. 

“My uncle said that there is a position opening up at Reckus Bank and it’s mine if I want it,” he said. He sounded so much older than 23, Brandi thought. 

“Let’s move into the apartment together,” he finally said, “I’ll take the job, and you can keep looking. We can go to Europe next summer.” 

Even though they didn’t become pregnant with Jessica until almost seven years later, giving them the money and the freedom to travel, that magical feeling that they had experienced together in the coffee house never could be recreated. Already, career demands, thoughts of attending graduate school, mortgages, car payments, and career advancement took its place. 

For the first few years, Brandi had reluctantly taken a job for the state, processing unemployment claims. It suited her degree in sociology, but she found it meaningless, tired work. Dreams of backpacking through Europe were replaced with discussions involving decor for the new home they were saving for, expensive club vacations at exotic beach locations, and the monotonous details of their everyday lives. 

When she finally became pregnant with Jessica and Mitch was an executive at the bank, she quit her job and hasn’t worked since, but her exhausted, bored outlook on life remained until she met Brad.

Brandi took another sip of her coffee which had now grown cold. She emptied the cup into the sink and walked back into her suite to lay on her down-filled chaise. 

Jessica

After her father had given her a check for $1,200 to cover Leo’s board and the upcoming clinic, Jessica snatched her black Coach bag, which she kept on a hook by the door, ran outside, and slid onto the leather seat of her cherry-red Mustang convertible. She wanted to get to the barn before her father either changed his mind or gave her another lecture about her grades. Jessica drove lightly over the winding tree-lined suburban roads that led to the stables, tapping her manicured nails on the wheel to the music from her Sirius, which was set to a heavy metal station.

When she arrived, she pushed open the heavy, wrought gate and found her favorite parking space, which was perfectly nestled between two oak trees. She walked confidently to the expansive first barn, which had glossy mahogany stable doors and brass nameplates for each inhabitant. She found Leo as she did every morning, dozing quietly in the corner of the large stall atop a fresh layer of clean, sweet-smelling shavings.

Not wanting to startle the large Dutch Warmblood as she approached from behind, Jessica called quietly to the large bay, “Hey, boy”. Leo shifted his weight, turning slowly to greet her, a low rumble coming deep from his chest. Jessica pulled a heavy leather halter, which had a small matching brass nameplate, over his muzzle and let him out of his stall to the tacking area where she could groom him before her morning ride. 

She began to methodically brush his coat while he stood impatiently in the crossties. With every stroke, the gelding turned and nipped the air behind him in a mock bite.  Jessica half-heartedly smacked him with the back of her brush.

“Knock it off!” she scolded the muscled gelding as he turned and looked at her wearily through his left eye.

Dressage was the equine version of the ballet, and Leonardo had demonstrated tremendous promise.  It was a promise that would take a team of trainers, equine chiropractors, massage therapists, farriers specializing in corrective shoeing, supplements, and veterinarians to coax it out of his delicate, massive frame.  

Schmitz would be coming next week, and she’d need the extra coaching if Leo was going to qualify for the State Championships, she thought as she continued to curry his coat, pulling the accumulated hair from the rubber comb as she worked.

The problem was that Daddy hadn’t been too eager to pay for more training when her last semester’s college grades arrived in the mail. He didn’t understand the urgency of getting through to the Championships before she could focus on school.

She had been forced to tread lightly when asking for money for the clinic. He had been unapproachable ever since he found out that he had to go to Arizona for the massive layoff, but she still needed the money for the clinic and board for next month. As Jessica leaned down to pick the gelding’s hooves, she realized he was once again due to be shod. 

The thought that this lifestyle would not only contain a beginning but also an end never occurred to her on these busy fall days. Her mornings always began at the barn, where she groomed and rode Leo; Wednesdays and Saturdays were reserved for a one-hour private lesson with her coach, Dorie. She almost always had a monthly lesson with visiting clinicians. She rarely worried about the finances of it all, and as long as she passed a few courses at her community college, her parents did not expect or demand more of her. 

But now, at 26, most of her friends that she had grown up with at the barn had left for college and were now even completing grad school. Many were now beginning residency programs after graduating from medical school, were married and starting families, or had new businesses that she had seen advertised around their town. Even they still found time to ride on the weekends, keeping old horses that they had through college, but riding more sporadically when work, travel, and family obligations permitted. Most of those who were able to ride midday at the barn were either housewives whose finances afforded such a lifestyle or those who had retired after spending decades in demanding yet high-paying fields. Jessica was the only 20-something who rode each morning, who wasn’t working, married, or in other ways contributing to a life outside the barn.

Only in fleeting moments did she wonder how long she could sustain her lifestyle. Her mother, she knew, was having an affair with Brad who was almost 20 years younger than she was. It was disgusting, she thought, although she never turned that judgmental scrutiny inward. 

She hated her coursework at the community college, and even there, she found herself in isolated company. Most of the students whom she began classes with had either left to begin careers or had transferred to the state university. 

She was moor-less and isolated, yet, like her mother, she buried her hollowness in new tack for Leo, going to the club afterward to work out and occasionally going to swank bars with a few friends on the weekends. She and her mother often would go to the local outdoor mall to find trendy outfits to wear out, silently inspecting the racks of clothing for its suitability to impress. 

Like her father and mother, there seemed to be no other life, as she was also bound by the escapeless role that she played. 

Leo had fallen back asleep again as she slowly pulled a finishing brush over his glossy hide. He’d need new supplements, she noted, before tossing the brush into the box and heading to the tack room for her polished black Passier saddle. 

John

John dialed the desktop phone with the end of an unused pencil to the home number for Mitch and Brandi, two of his newest clients. Mitch had been referred to him through friends, and on their first meeting, without Brandi present, requested assistance with tax debt.  He had an indulgent 26-year-old daughter who was not attending her community college classes and spent most of her day riding her dressage horse or staying out late, partying with friends.

They lived an exorbitant lifestyle, filled with Mercedes, Gucci, Maldives, and dressage, and all of it was designed to be ostentatious.  The problem was that since Mitch was the only one in the family drawing an income, their expenses far exceeded his typically adequate salary. The amount of debt that they carried was not insurmountable, as they had quite a bit of equity in their homes, but their spending was ungovernable. If they stayed on this path, they would eventually find themselves in bankruptcy court. 

On their first meeting, he could see the stress and exhaustion carved into the deep furrows of Mitch’s careworn face, suggesting a much more advanced age than the birth date listed on his financial paperwork. Mitch told him that he didn’t know how much longer he could keep working over 60 hours a week and his company was experiencing layoffs and budget cuts. If he lost his job, he wasn’t sure he would be able to find another position with a comparable salary. They had discussed his debt, concerns for the future, and options, which he seemed to believe, were few. 

John had an entire client list full of Mitches and Brandies and most of them seemed to be living the same life. They had created a self-imposed snare made from debt, long work hours, and the maintenance of an excessive lifestyle. Not one client had yet realized that they were not only the trapped but the trap master, and so they remained. 

After some careful discussion, John hesitatingly suggested they could sell the house and use the equity to buy a modest home. John also advised that they could sell Leonardo, have Jessica and Brandi get jobs, and purchase more affordable sedans or even use public transportation until they regained their financial footing. This option would allow them a chance to start a new life debt-free. They could rebuild a new life slowly, with savings, enjoyable work, fewer hours, and an affordable lifestyle as its bedrock.

Mitch calmly listened to John before finally responding, “Brandi will never agree to sell the house,” he said as he gathered his paperwork, promising to follow up later with a phone call. John watched him leave from his deskside window, his gait heavy and measured. 

John reclined in his office chair, still watching through the window as Mitch cautiously pulled away from his parking spot before a new car quickly took its place. 

His chipped and scarred cherry wooden desk held framed photographs of two children and five grandchildren, all taken from various camping trips they had taken throughout the years. Missing was his wife, who had left him when he was about Mitch’s age, 20 years earlier. 

His life then had almost perfectly paralleled Mitch’s. His marriage could not survive the long hours, second jobs, and constant financial strain. When both of their children had left for college, thankfully both on scholarship, his wife had divorced him, leaving them each with a small amount of money to begin new lives. John had left his large accounting firm, found this small office, and began to take on private clients with the hope of turning financial lives around and saving them from his fate. 

He adored his work which afforded the luxury of being able to set his own schedule, but very few clients seemed willing to transform. Like those who had recently embarked upon a new diet program, each came with grandiose promises and an initial eager willingness, in the end, precious few would. Most continued their same lives filled with even longer hours, crippling debt, strained relationships, and for some, eventual bankruptcy. 

John sat back up in his chair, tossing his pencil into a ceramic Anderson Accounting cup that he had been given from the firm prior to his departure, and sighed deeply before making a mental note to try to call Mitch again next month. 

Mitch

After handing Jessica her $1,200 check, Mitch latched his briefcase, sighed deeply, and lumbered to his car, walking heavily over his freshly trimmed lawn.

Jessica was now a 26-year-old sophomore at her community college. Barely a sophomore he duly noted, since she had failed most of her classes, which needed to be repeated, with mandatory tutoring from the academic probation center. When confronted last week, she whined in a grating nasal pitch that riding took so much of her time that little energy could be devoted to writing research papers or even to attending remedial math classes. She was spoiled and simple and had not yet been given the opportunity to discover talents that could only be unearthed through deprivation and hard work. Mitch knew he had failed her. 

Brandi had stopped working when Jessica was born and lived vicariously through their daughter via his checkbook. He also knew Brandi was seeing someone, although he didn’t particularly have the energy to devote to the details. His marriage, daughter, finances, and career were deeply enthroned in crisis, and even more troubling, he no longer felt that he had the bandwidth to handle even the simplest details of his life. This reality seemed escapeless, with no viable path to improvement to even the slightest degree, let alone resolution.

His name was Brad, Mitch noted.  

It seemed like such a young name for someone who was screwing a woman in her mid-40s. Brandi hid it well, though, through a series of hair bleaches, mini-facelifts, Pilates, and a general lack of stress.  It seemed as if her only constant and nagging worry seemed to be if Mitch would someday lose his job.

He wondered if Brandi was insulted that he had not bothered to acknowledge her blatant affair. Did she assume that he was too busy or too dense to notice the late-night phone calls, evenings out, and the constant attention to her appearance?

The truth was he had stopped contributing to the relationship long ago and knew that her affairs had started about two years after Jessica was born, but didn’t feel invested enough in the relationship to do much about it. Brandi must have remodeled the nursery five times in the first two years after Jessica’s birth. They were both deeply unhappy, attempting to find comfort in designer clothes, expensive restaurants, and exotic trips to numb the pain until it was barely noticeable.

Today was going to be hell. When he arrived in Arizona, he and the team would be announcing a massive layoff. His job had been to determine how many years of their lives equated to a severance package, dental, and medical benefits.  Days spent impressing the boss, spending extra hours at the office, or quietly and graciously foregoing vacation time would not be calculated into these equations. Their professional lives were being reduced to a cold and sterile spreadsheet.  

Mitch drove to work while NPR reiterated the current economic gloom. The unemployment rate was higher than it had been in years and many people were losing their homes to foreclosure. First-time unemployment claims were also up. The Dow was down, and 401Ks were being depleted to fund basic living necessities. The gloomy economic news seemed to match the gray mist that enveloped the BMW as Mitch barreled down the highway. 

When they first bought their house when Jessica was born, they never imagined the economy would downturn this drastically. During the years before that, they eagerly took on more debt when Mitch’s future at the bank seemed limitless.

They used the extra money to do some home renovations and another room makeover for Brandi bought Leonardo, who came with a five-figure price tag, and took vacations to Hawaii, Bali, Greece, and Brazil.  Then the economy collapsed, leaving in its path a trail of red ink, denial, and a refusal to adjust their lifestyle to their current circumstances.

Soon, they found themselves deeply underwater in every imaginable sense. Even though they were one of the few lucky ones who still had some equity in their home, mainly due to its massive size and trendy neighborhood, they were drowning in newly charged credit cards, equestrian and college expenses, and an extravagant lifestyle that Mitch’s job could barely support.  It was exhausting, and the strain of it was beginning to pull at the very fabric of Mitch’s being. In the last few years, his blood pressure was up, as well as his weight, and about the only thing that he looked forward to was a weekend of drinking with some co-workers on the golf course or going to Happy Hour after a brutally long day. He and Brandi had become business partners and not even good ones at that.

Mitch pulled into the same garage that connected to the office buildings at Rekcus Bank, as he had done for the past 24 years. His parking spot had black tracks from his worn tires where he had pulled in five or more days a week with few breaks in between. Mitch walked robotically into his office, dropping his briefcase on his desk.

Sally, his middle-aged secretary, came into the doorway holding a 44 oz. Coke in her hand.

Despite the massive shot of caffeine she was sipping through the wide, striped straw, Sally unenthusiastically said, “Mr. Johnson wants to see you in his office as soon as you get in.”

“OK, tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Mitch answered. Sally shuffled off, her flip-flops clopping behind her.

Johnson was a walking stereotype. He was a 55-year-old smoker who had been forced to attend more sexual harassment courses than anyone else in company history. It was rumored that HR paid out tidy sums of money to several young secretaries to ignore Johnson’s obnoxious behavior. He had been told repeatedly not to smoke or curse in the office. Mandates that had fallen on deaf ears.  

“Sit down, Mitch” Johnson barked, while chewing on the end of an unlit cigar. “HR won’t let me light these damn things in the office,” he said while fingering the silver lighter on his desk.  “Here’s the deal, Mitch. What you’ve got to do in Arizona will be problematic, but it’s going to need to be done. We’ve got men over there waiting to start the layoffs, but it’s going to be up to you to meet with the managers to pull the trigger.”

Mitch listened to Johnson explain the mass volume of casualties. When all was said and done, there would be 500 layoffs in Arizona alone. After his trip to Arizona, Johnson would be sending him to Utah a few weeks later to repeat the process.  

Johnson proceeded to detail the gory specifics, all while chewing on his unlit cigar and spraying the room with profanity.  

“Some of these people have been with the bank for decades,” Johnson spat, seemingly oblivious to his own involvement in the process. 

“Corporate wants one week of salary for each year of payment, but in this market, they won’t be able to find anything comparable, and they know it.” 

Johnson turned his chair to look through the double-paned glass of the parking lot.

“So many of them, especially the older ones, bought into this system,” he said, still speaking his words to the window. 

“But there never was a promise, only a lie that was told over the decades that ensured that only a few would ever really profit from this system; the rest would pay for their extravagance with their lives.”

Mitch wearily left his offices with promises to remain in contact as developments arose. As he left Johnson’s office, he heard a quiet “God Damn it” and a flick of the lighter.

His flight was to leave in three hours. He’d need that much time to get to the airport and get through security, he thought, as he felt a dull pit in his stomach. He felt like the executioner heading to death row, a slimy, sickening feeling. He would need to get a ginger ale once on the plane.

Mitch flipped his cell phone over, quickly checking the time.  He wanted to leave his car home, grab his bag, and take a cab to the airport so he could save a few bucks on the parking fees.  Before pulling out of his parking space, he called a Yellow Cab and ordered a taxi to be waiting back at his house in 20 minutes.  Rekcus would cover the cost of the cab but wouldn’t pay for the long-term parking at the airport.  

Mitch drove numbly back home. At a red light, Mitch swallowed a Xanax, chasing it with the last of his lukewarm black coffee from his chrome travel mug. It would take about 20 minutes before he could feel his muscles relax and feel a small amount of the tension leave his body. 

Life had become overwhelming.  The finances, Brandi’s affairs, working at Rekcus, the increasing demands due to the faltering economy, worries about Jessica, and a life devoid of any meaning or intimacy had made his life unbearable. Even sex with Brandi had become mechanical.  This wasn’t an issue, as sex had become as routine as showering, shaving, or going to work each day.  It was just something that needed to be done to maintain the status quo. But as the years rolled on, the loss of an emotional connection became more and more difficult to ignore.

Mitch flicked the garage door opener as he approached his driveway.  He noticed an unfamiliar old Civic with peeling paint was parked along the curb. He didn’t know which was more disturbing, his realization the car likely belonged to Brandi’s boyfriend or that this realization aroused neither passion nor furry within him. 

He entered the kitchen, setting his keys and coffee cup on the counter, walking to the Cuisinart for another hot cup. He could hear scrambling and urgent, hushed voices coming from Jessica’s downstairs suite. Hearing the door to the suite quietly closing, Brandi suddenly appeared in the kitchen with messy hair and her robe hastily tied around her small frame.

“What are you doing home?” she asked breathlessly while attempting to maintain a casual air.

“I’m dropping the car off, so I don’t have to pay for the parking,” Mitch answered mechanically.

“Oh, OK,” Brandi said as he reached towards her, placing his hand on the curve of her back and kissing her lightly on the cheek. She stood there dumbfounded and unmoving from her spot on the polished kitchen floor.

“Have a safe trip,” she said softly before returning to her suite. Mitch could smell him on her, a mixture of sweat, Axe body spray, and sunscreen, and like everything else in this house, except for Jessica, he felt indifferent to it.  

Mitch looked out the window and noticed that the cab was waiting outside. As he left the house before shutting the door gently behind him, he smiled at the absurdity that he was leaving them quietly out of respect. Walking to the cab, he passed Brad’s car, noticing the Club Tattoo sticker on the back of the aged Civic.  As he walked by, Mitch poured the rest of his hot coffee over its surface. When this failed to arouse any emotion, he threw his mug at the windshield, watching it bounce impotently from the surface, not even causing a chip in the glass, which already had a large crack across its surface. 

Mitch rode the 45-minute trip to the airport in numbed silence.  He no longer had the fresh sense of panic that he had when he first discovered that Brandi was having an affair, or later when he realized that they were in financially desperate straits, or even when Jessica began failing her community college classes.

No, the real panic had set in when Mitch realized that he was not only miserable but had forgotten how to be happy. He was lost, with no known way to find himself back to contentment. 

The last time he could remember being happy was during those last few weeks in college when he had dreamed of traveling with Brandi to Europe for adventure and a life that was not bound by the restraints of traditional thinking.   

He had had so little in college, yet he found himself inspired to create and dream, living a debt-free life with few financial obligations, the desire to climb the proverbial corporate ladder, or the need to impress. He was definitely happy then, he remembered, even though he lived off Ramen noodles, slept on sofas, and rode a bike to classes. Time not spent pursuing these things left him free to think creatively, outside of the status quo.  It was as if he had shed the skin society had told him he must wear, finding underneath it an abundant life that held limitless potential.

All of that changed when he met Brandi.  He wondered if the young man he once was would be ashamed of who had become.

Mitch slowly made his way to his gate for his 1:00 flight, passing the other tired business class travelers.  Once on the plane, he found an aisle seat as close to the exit as possible.  This would allow him to get off quickly, check into his hotel, and go over the information he would need for tomorrow’s meeting. He felt so heavy that he wondered how the plane would become airborne with him inside, crushed by his responsibilities.

Once he was pressed into his business class seat and the plane was in the air, he saw the stewardess begin to make her way down the aisle taking the drink orders.  Mitch thought about ordering a whiskey but remembered the Xanax he had taken earlier. He would wait until he was back at the hotel room for that. He needed something to settle the sickness he felt in his stomach as the stewardess approached for his order.

“Ginger ale, please”.

“Ok, that will be $8, sir”.

“$8 for a soda, I thought they were complimentary?” Mitch asked in disbelief.

The stewardess looked at him blankly with unblinking eyes.

“Oh, she laughed, “We haven’t had complimentary soda for over a year,” she said lightheartedly. 

“OK, what still is complimentary?” Mitch asked.

“Tap water?” she answered lightly.

“Fine,” he said, reaching for his credit card in his wallet. “I’ll take the ginger ale,” he answered dejectedly.

He’d need a settled stomach once they landed. He would have just enough time to check into the Home Towne Suites, get some sleep, and be ready for a long day at the Arizona headquarters. 

Mitch mechanically checked into the hotel, a frequent guest of this particular chain. Thoughts of relaxing for an hour at the gym or even in the hot tub after the long flight had long lost its appeal.   After placing his single bag inside the room, which contained a comfortable-looking king-sized bed, he wandered into the hotel bar for the long-awaited bourbon.

He took it out onto the bar-side patio, which framed a gorgeous Arizona sunset. Normally, this would have been the relaxation he needed to unwind after the flight, but the bourbon in his hand failed to work its magic this evening and left a strange metallic taste in his mouth. He tossed the remainder into a planter and headed up to his room.

The room felt cold. The desert night air could be chilly, even at this time of year, so Mitch took another too-hot shower and slid between the cool sheets.

After a mostly sleepless night, despite the Posturepedic mattress, he was up early to pack. He wanted to get to the office early and get this over with. These types of mass layoffs were never easy, but the full gravity of the task felt crushing this morning. Mitch quietly walked into the lobby, the way one might walk into a funeral, and found the coffee in a far corner. After getting a mug to go, he called a cab and made his way to the bank where the layoffs would occur. 

Once he arrived, he was met by a man who appeared to be in his 20s, sporting spiky bleached blonde hair.  He waited for Mitch outside the office doors of the enormous glass and brass building.  Mitch carried his briefcase in one hand, with his bag slung over his left shoulder.  It had long been a habit to never leave anything in his room while on these types of trips.

“Hiya, there, Mitch, I’m Brad,” he said, extending a hand. Mitch tensed, remembering the other Brad who frequented his wife’s bed. 

“I’m going to get you inside and go over some data and documents with you before the meetings. We have a lot of layoffs to announce this afternoon,” he said energetically as he bounced along the walkway. “We want to make the announcement before most of the employees leave at five.”  

His eyes were shiny with excitement. 

To him, the unaccustomed was exhilarating, while Mitch guessed he was likely impotent in most other areas of his life, either ignorant or uncaring of the devastation he was inflicting. 

Not that he was in a spot to pass judgment, Mitch noted, walking beside Brad, noticing the differences in their stride. 

Brad grew more breathless as he described the layoffs, talking more rapidly in a high-pitched tone.

They would be laying off the most seasoned employees who were still under the old pension system. The bank would keep the newer, younger employers after their benefits package had been decimated. 

Mitch began to feel a pain deep in his right temple as Brad held open the door to the office.  He needed air, and he needed it badly. He wasn’t ready.

The air inside the bank through the open door suddenly felt thick and heavy as sweat began to pool around his too-tight collar.  He wondered if it was too late to duck into the office bathroom and take another Xanax.  His breath felt tight in his chest, and his tie was rubbing against his Adam’s apple. 

“Hey, um, Brad, give me a few minutes. I’m going to go around the corner and grab a quick smoke before we go in,” he said, stumbling over his words as he already turned away from the building.

“Sure thing, Mitch. I’ll tell the crew that you are here, and you will be ready to begin in a few minutes,” Brad said before bouncing ahead, grinning broadly.

Mitch turned and walked back toward the parking lot, his footsteps uneven and rushed.  He would go back in a few minutes once he got his mind settled. He could get some water and get some fresh air once he got away from the building.

Brad’s enthusiasm was making him ill. So much excitement when he was about ready to detonate the worlds of 500 Arizona families.

Mitch continued walking in the Arizona sunshine, looking for a place to sit and rest. He found himself in a massive parking lot without a bench or sitting area in sight.

He only needed ten minutes, he thought, as his legs carried him toward the main thoroughfare. The Arizona sun was brilliant as it bounced off every reflective surface: cars, road signs, and surrounding buildings.  He felt blinded by the light as he intensified his steps, looking for a shady resting spot.

They wouldn’t miss him if he needed an extra twenty minutes, thirty tops, he thought as he walked along the busy street. The mental break would do everyone good, he reasoned.

The pain in his right temple seemed to be intensifying with each step as he walked quickly along the busy street. Dusty cars raced to seemingly nowhere in the glaring light. 

He had been gone over fifteen minutes now and still hadn’t found a place to stop, but now his gait had slowed to a more relaxed stroll as he continued to walk, the street now tree-lined.

His cell phone began to ring from inside his jacket. He reached for his pocket, noting the Caller ID.  It was from the office in Arizona.

He firmly pressed the ignore button as he continued to walk down the sidewalk.

He had no plan. He was not thinking but only reacting, feeling his mind powering down from the strain of indecision.

The phone began to ring again as Mitch approached a dusty homeless man sitting on the curb. Mitch could feel his chest tighten as his anxiety built.  The homeless man looked to be one of the city’s recent homeless, still dressed in clean jeans and wearing a fresh haircut.  His sign read, “I need a job. Will work for food. No job too small. God Bless.” The man stood, looking humiliated on the corner. A stack of dirty resumes lay on the concrete next to him.  Mitch instinctively reached for his wallet while avoiding the temptation to answer his cell. He silently handed the man a $20.

“God bless you,” the man said softly.

Mitch walked a few more yards down the sidewalk to the garbage can on the corner, briefcase still in hand. His phone was continuing to ring incessantly. He could feel his heart beat heavily in his chest.  With each heartbeat, the pain in his right temple intensified.  He felt his breathing become faster but much shallower.  If he had any hope of getting back into the office, he would need another Xanax and more time to pull his thoughts together. 

He began to panic, wondering what kind of lie he could manufacture to explain his now 30-minute absence. He wondered if they would believe he got lost while out for a smoke or became ill.  He could feel his crushing world close in around him as he recounted the conversations from yesterday. 

“Daddy, Schmitz is coming this week, and Leonardo needs shoeing.” 

“God Damn It, Mitch!  When are you coming home?” 

He remembered pouring scalding coffee over the peeling black surface of Brad’s Civic.

Mitch wondered if he was having a heart attack or possibly a nervous breakdown.  A trip to the emergency room would certainly explain his absence, be something forgivable, and certainly less embarrassing than snapping mentally. 

As he walked faster, he felt himself growing more unsteady.  He wondered if he would faint.

“God bless you, man,” the words echoed in his mind.

Mitch suddenly froze mid-step, standing stupidly on the cracked sidewalk. He stood looking down at the ground, his eyes averting the blinding sun. He felt paralyzed in his tracks, knowing that this exact moment in time was defining.  He could walk back to the office and live the life of the living dead, or he could make a break, not knowing what the future held or even what he would do in the next few hours. 

That thought, the naked idea of freedom, danger, risk, and uncertainty, suddenly calmed him.  He made the decision to no longer carry his crushing load. 

To refuse.

The remainder of the novella is available on Amazon.