Catching the California Wave

First 70 pages of a full manuscript

Mitch

The man reached for the cell phone that he kept charged on the bedside table, as its alarm shattered the early-morning stillness. He had his routine: check the time, his news app, and the weather before he crawled out of bed. He clumsily pressed the button on its side to check the time. It was already 7:30 AM. He realized he had overslept by an hour, so he skipped the rest of his ritual and heaved his body over the side of the bed, staggering into the bathroom to start the shower. The aging pipes groaned as they struggled to provide warm water, giving the man a few extra minutes to check his email. There were already over 15 new messages in his inbox, he noted, before checking the news app, leaving them unread. It would be over 14 hours before he would be back at the hotel, where he could sit in the hot tub, sipping a glass of bourbon, his frequent respite after a particularly stressful day.

Sighing heavily, he flipped through the messages on his phone as steam began to billow around him. The first four texts were from his secretary about his trip to Arizona later this morning. Ignoring them, he tossed the phone onto a folded towel on the sterile-white, polished granite vanity before stepping into the shower and disappearing into the cloud of steam.

He stood, eyes closed and head hanging low, in the stream of water 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, where she and his father had built the tiny cabin as a summer retreat two years before he was born.

Although the cabin 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. They slept in beds lining the walls, shared one tiny bathroom, and the children bathed only once every few days. They 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 the pine trees whisper secrets to each other in the cool evening breeze. When Mitch went off to college, his parents moved into the cabin full-time to spend their retirement years; his father passed away soon after, robbing him of the retirement he had spent decades planning.

Mitch poured some artificially scented pine 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. His mother tended to her massive garden, canning foods for the winter, caring for elderly neighbors, making homemade quilts for new babies, or baking goods to sell at the farmer’s market each summer. Looking back, his summers were idyllic, although he didn’t know it at the time. Friendships were long-standing, and there was always time in the day to maintain them adequately, as they were the top priority. But it was his mother who bound the neighborhood together.

Mitch finished washing, reluctant to leave the calmness of the shower. During last year’s conference in Arizona, he hadn’t even thought of Pinetop, although he could have easily driven to the property on his day off.

After his father died, his mother invited Mitch and his family to visit every summer. She called weekly at first, saying it would be good for his daughter, Jessica, to see where her father spent his summers, 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 find time in his schedule to fly from their New Jersey home to Arizona for a week. 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 could 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 received a call from the community hospital that his mother had been found unconscious in her driveway. She died later that day at the hospital from an apparent heart attack before Mitch could even book a flight home. A neighbor had come over to check on her after she had not answered her phone all morning, finding in her hand a fistful of weeds that she had pulled from the flower garden that lined the 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 that now owned him.

In the years since her passing, Brandi insisted that they sell the cabin to pay off an exceedingly expensive renovation of their New 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 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 onto the plush bath mat, his pale skin blotchy and red. He sometimes wondered 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 had already received another email from Rekcus Bank about a recent increase in quotas for the entire department. The pressure to survive at the bank was evident in the thinly veiled self-congratulatory emails being sent with increasing frequency, announcing those who had successfully navigated the ever-increasing metrics.

Although the country had been gripped by a recession for almost six quarters, the bank had only managed to increase its profits by downsizing, furloughing employees, reducing salaries, and increasing workloads. Customers who had long maintained their accounts suddenly overdrew them, resulting in 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.

Mitch finished dressing before walking numbly to the kitchen for his first brew, which he had programmed to be ready five minutes after his alarm. Since he was an hour late, the coffeemaker had already turned off automatically, leaving it ice-cold. He reached for his Celebrating 50 Years of Greatness mug, which Rekcus had given him at a holiday party last year, to reheat the coffee in the microwave. Unlike the bank executives who received six-figure bonuses that year, he received the mug filled with Rekcus pens. Next year, as long as projections were met, a larger bonus could be expected, the bank announced at the semi-annual meeting.

As Mitch placed his briefcase onto the counter, he knocked over the mug, spilling coffee onto the white granite. Brandi sauntered into the kitchen as Mitch dabbed limply at the mess with a clean paper towel. She already had the news on, blaring from the family room, as it did every morning. Every few moments, a red banner flashed across the screen, announcing a breaking news segment. The Dow was down almost 700 points again this morning, triggering the announcement of more layoffs from over a dozen large corporations, a fact that didn’t seem to concern Brandi.

“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 spilled coffee in 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 soaked paper towels into the stainless-steel trash can.

“Which is?” she asked, looking at him with wide eyes, underneath a swatch of bleached bang.

Mitch looked at her blankly. 

“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, ironically, concluded that they could no longer afford to continue working with him.

A few months ago, the idea of working with John, who promised a plan to turn their financial lives around, offered hope 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 also up to the standards set by their peers, fell squarely on Mitch. After filing some late tax returns and setting them up on a payment plan, they concluded that John’s expert advice was no longer affordable. If things didn’t change, and change soon, they would have no other choice but 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, motioning towards the theatre-view TV that was airing a segment on the morning’s economic numbers.

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 had robbed them of the creativity that they needed to find an escape.

Mitch and Brandi both knew bankruptcy was likely, even though they had not yet communicated 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 towards Mitch as the girl charged 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, and abruptly 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 competed in dressage, and Schmitz was a former United States Equestrian Team coach. He also came with a $250-per-hour price tag. This fee, added to the board for Leonardo, including shoeing, lessons, tack, feed, medical care, and various other items that Jessica deemed necessary, 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.

Jessica snapped the check from his hand. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said before slipping out the side door in the kitchen for her daily trip to the barn, her Pietre boots clacking loudly on the cold travertine tile floor as she slammed the door behind her.

Mitch snapped his briefcase closed, looking at Brandi tiredly.

“Life’s expensive,” Brandi sighed, justifying the expense, taking her coffee to the couch, where she began her day of doing God-knows-what. They had a full staff of cleaners and gardeners, and she had even once hired a professional organizer to keep the 4,500-square-foot home in showcase condition.

Mitch snapped his briefcase closed and walked to his car without saying goodbye.

Brandi

From the kitchen window, Brandi watched Mitch walk to the garage as she made herself a third cup of coffee. She turned her cell over in her hand, pressing its side button to see if there was a message notification from Brad, even though she had not heard the familiar chime, the sound of which could instantly cause her heart rate to increase. After a few brief text exchanges, he would ask to come over for sex and lunch, before sunning himself by the beach-entry pool, chilled pinot in hand, before Jessica or Mitch was expected back 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 Pilates-toned stomach. Their relationship was built on lies, uncertainty, and mistrust. She knew that Brad must be seeing other women. The constant and mysterious text messages when he was with her, his vague excuses for canceled visits, despite the fact that he was only working at the Verizon store less than 20 hours a week, and his refusal to define their relationship past the casual sex that they shared, were all indisputable evidence that she was one of many women. She knew she was being taken advantage of, but old demons that continually questioned her core worth kept the reality of the situation at bay. Despite the obvious flaws ingrained in the relationship, he provided something no one else could: validation that she could still attract men and avoid a solitary life.

There was also the financial aspect. While Mitch helped to support her financially, Brad gave her excitement and sexual energy; it often seemed like the perfect combination until, on days such as these, when Brad hadn’t texted or made plans to come over in over a week.

“Oh my God, Brandi, if you are not happy, just get a divorce,” said Alex, the closest thing that she had to a best friend when they went to brunch and drinks at the club the day before yesterday.

“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, and I haven’t worked since Jessica was born. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, and I’m not about to take a minimum wage job,” she fired back, with more anger than she had intended.

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

Brandi took a long sip of her chilled pinot, avoiding eye contact with her friend in the busy restaurant.

Brandi stopped telling Alex anything about Brad after that conversation, leaving her feeling even more isolated as she longed for him between his sporadic, unpredictable 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, droning his way to the office awash in a sea of monotony and mediocrity. There was no longer any energy between them, or even within Mitch himself. He seemed to walk through his day in a robotic, consistent way that left no room for anything novel, exciting, or sexual. There was not even the slightest alteration in his day-to-day routine.

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, who created 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 heavy 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 hallway, escaping the conversation.

They never discussed the suite again until the contractors arrived, and Mitch complained about the ever-expanding budget for it. When it was finished, it had a large, stand-alone claw-footed antique steel tub in the attached bathroom, which Brandi hoped would be 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 an ugliness beneath the surface.

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

“When-are-you-coming-home?” she had snapped, frustrated at her own bitchiness, but also at his 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 had 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. He held her gently against him, and she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder.

“When we graduate this May, I don’t want to rush into a job or grad school,” he croaked 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 slowly to his lips.

They never did go to Europe, 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 read 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 excitedly, 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 to survive. An apartment would be necessary, since they would no longer be able to stay in their dorms after the semester ended. 

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

“And my uncle said that there is a position opening up at Rekcus Bank that is mine if I want it,” he said. He sounded so much older than 23, Brandi thought as he called her that day.

“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,” he finally conceded.

Even though they didn’t become pregnant with Jessica until the next year, giving them the money and the freedom to travel meant the magical feeling they had shared in the coffee house could be rekindled. Already, career demands, thoughts of attending graduate school, mortgages, car payments, and career advancement took their place.

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

When she finally became pregnant with Jessica, and Mitch began climbing the corporate ladder, she quit her job to stay home with the new baby. Brandi hadn’t worked since, but her exhausted, bored outlook on life had remained until she met Brad, who was a brilliant escape from her monotonous world, despite his painfully obvious shortcomings, which she conveniently chose to ignore.

Brandi took a last sip of her coffee, which had now grown cold. She emptied the cup into the sink and walked back into her suite to lie on her down-filled chaise, her phone in hand, hoping to hear the familiar ping from a text from Brad.

Jesssica 

After her father had given her a check for $1,200 to cover Leo’s board and the upcoming clinic, Jessica snatched her black Gucci 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 reach the barn before her father 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 steering wheel as she streamed music from a heavy metal station.

When she arrived, she pushed open the heavy wrought-iron gate and found her favorite parking space, 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 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 slowly 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 ballet, and Leonardo had demonstrated tremendous promise.  It was a promise that would take a team of trainers, equine chiropractors and massage therapists, farriers specializing in corrective shoeing, supplements, and veterinarians to coax that talent from his delicate, massive frame.  

Schmitz would be coming next week, and she needed the extra coaching if Leo were 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 her classes, she thought as she continued to curry his coat.

She had been forced to tread lightly when asking for money for the clinic. He had been unapproachable ever since he learned 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 feet, she noted that his hooves were looking a little long, realizing that he was due again for shoeing. 

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 the 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 moved away for new careers, marriages, businesses, or grad school. They still found time to ride on weekends, keeping the old horses they had through college, but rode more sporadically as work, travel, and family obligations permitted. Most of those who rode midday at the barn were either housewives whose finances could afford such a lifestyle or retirees who had spent 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.

Her mother, she knew, was having an affair with Brad, who was almost 20 years younger than she was. It was disgusting, she thought, as she walked to the tack room to get Leo’s bridle and saddle. 

Jessica threw the white saddle pad over the gelding’s back before gently placing the black dressage saddle on top of it. As she reached under the gelding’s belly to grab the girth so that she could cinch tightly, she noticed with disgust that her nails, two of which had broken when she rode yesterday, were dirty. She had an appointment to get her nails done later this afternoon, she noted, still giving her plenty of time to ride.  

Leo had fallen back asleep again as she slowly pulled a finishing brush over his glossy hide. He’d need new supplements, she remembered, before reaching for the black bridle, placing the bit in the gelding’s mouth, and pulling over his ears.  

John 

John dialed the home number for Mitch and Brandi, two of his newest clients, using the end of an unused pencil on his desk phone. Mitch had been referred to him through friends and, at their first meeting, without Brandi present, requested assistance with their 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, staying out late, and partying with her friends.

They lived an exorbitant lifestyle, filled with Mercedes, Gucci, luxury vacations to the 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. 

At their first meeting, he could see the stress and exhaustion carved into the deep furrows of Mitch’s careworn face, suggesting a much older 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 austerity measures. If he lost his job, he wasn’t sure he would be able to find another position with a comparable salary, Mitch had told him during their meeting. 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. He explained that the home’s equity would allow them to get completely out of debt and provide enough income for Mitch to possibly cut back on his hours at work. 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 give them a chance to start a new life, debt-free. They could rebuild slowly, with savings, enjoyable work, fewer hours, and an affordable lifestyle as its bedrocks.

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 desk-side 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 for his next appointment. 

His chipped and scarred cherry-wood desk held framed photographs of two children and five grandchildren, all taken on various camping trips over the years. Missing was his wife, who had left him when he was about Mitch’s age, 15 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 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 taking on private clients, hoping to turn their financial lives around and save them from the same fate he had. 

He adored his work, which afforded him the luxury of setting his own schedule, but very few clients seemed willing to follow his suggestions and transform their lives. Like those who had recently embarked on a new diet program, each came with grandiose promises and an initial eagerness; in the end, precious few were willing to make even modest changes. Most continued their same lives filled with even longer hours, crippling debt, strained relationships, and, for some, eventual financial and emotional collapse. 

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 allowed 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, though he didn’t have the energy to get into the details. His marriage, daughter, finances, and career were all in crisis, and, even more troubling, he no longer felt he had the bandwidth to handle even the simplest details of his life. This reality seemed inescapable, with no viable path to even the slightest improvement, let alone a resolution.

Brandi’s lover’s name was Brad, Mitch noted. It seemed like such a young name for someone who was screwing a woman north of 50. Brandi hid it well, though, through a series of salon visits, mini-facelifts, Pilates, and a general lack of stress.  It seemed as if her only constant and nagging worry was that 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. Still, he 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. Previously, 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, extra hours at the office, or quietly and graciously forgoing vacation time would not be counted in these equations. Their professional lives were being reduced to a cold and sterile spreadsheet.  

Mitch drove to work while NPR continued to reiterate the economic gloom from earlier that morning. 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 had fallen further in the last hour, and 401(k)s were being depleted to fund basic living expenses. 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, they never imagined the economy would tumble so drastically. 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, including another room makeover for Brandi. When Jessica was in high school, they bought Leonardo, who came with a six-figure price tag. There were also vacations to Hawaii, Bali, Greece, and Brazil.  Then the economy collapsed, leaving a trail of red ink, denial, and a refusal to adjust their lifestyles to their current circumstances.

Soon, they found themselves deeply underwater in every imaginable sense. Even though they were among 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 incurred credit card debt, 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 27 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 several young secretaries tidy sums to ignore Johnson’s obnoxious behavior. He had been repeatedly told not to smoke or curse in the office, but the mandates had fallen on deaf ears.  

“Sit down, Mitch,” Johnson ordered, 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 needs 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 as Johnson explained the large number of casualties. When all was said and done, there would be dozens of layoffs in Arizona alone. After his trip to Arizona, Johnson would send 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 profanity throughout the room.  

“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 employment, but in this market, those laid off 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, pausing for a moment of reflection before continuing.

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

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

Johnson turned again to face Mitch, his eyes moistened and his face slightly flushed. 

“I suppose it’s just part of doing business,” he said in a resolved tone, returning to a file that lay on his desk. “Let me know when you land,” he said before opening the folder.

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 pain 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 he got in the air.

Mitch flipped his cell phone over, quickly checking the time.  He wanted to leave his car at home, grab his bag, and take a ride-share to the airport to save a few bucks on parking fees.  Before pulling out of his parking space, he ordered a ride to arrive at his home in 20 minutes.  Rekcus would cover the cost of the ride but wouldn’t pay for the long-term parking at the airport.  

Mitch drove numbly back home, swallowing a Xanax at a red light, chasing it with the last of his lukewarm black coffee from his chrome travel mug. It would take about 20 minutes for his muscles to relax and for a small amount of tension to leave his body. 

Life had become overwhelming.  The finances, Brandi’s affairs, working at Rekcus, the increasing demands of the faltering economy, worries about Jessica, and a life devoid of meaning or intimacy had made his life unbearable. Even sex with Brandi had become mechanical and 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 increasingly difficult to ignore.

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

He entered the kitchen, set his keys and coffee cup on the counter, and walked the coffee maker to fill his mug. 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.

“Hey, 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, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She stood dumbfounded, 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 ride-share 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 his ride, he passed Brad’s car, noticing the Club Tattoo sticker in the back of the aged Civic.  As a test to see if he could feel anything, Mitch poured the rest of his hot coffee over the hood, watching the liquid carve a path through the dust. When this failed to arouse any emotion, he threw his travel 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. He still felt nothing.

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 a path back to himself. 

The last time he could remember feeling content was during those last few weeks in college, when he had dreamed of traveling with Brandi to Europe for adventure and a life 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 life free from debt, 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 tight skin society had told him he must wear, finding beneath it an abundant life with limitless potential.

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

Mitch slowly made his way to the gate for his flight, passing the other tired business-class travelers.  He pulled at the collar of his shirt, remembering. He joined the other travelers as they slowly and methodically boarded the Airbus. He was relieved when he discovered he had an aisle seat, which would allow a quick exit. Once he landed, he could check into his hotel and go over the information he would need for tomorrow’s meeting before the scheduled layoffs. 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 drink orders.  Mitch thought about ordering a whiskey but remembered the Xanax he had taken earlier. He would wait until he was back in 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 stunned 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, but mechanically, as if it were something she had said hundreds of times. 

“OK, what is complementary?” Mitch asked.

“Tap water?” she answered lightly, a slight smirk at her lips.

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

He’d need a settled stomach once they landed, he reasoned. 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 checked into the hotel mechanically, 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 their 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, he thought as he reached into his briefcase for the Xanax, placing a tiny pill under his tongue. 

Mitch waited outside the hotel for his Uber, still sipping lukewarm coffee from a paper cup with a plastic lid, the sedative’s taste mixing with the cheap coffee. 

A red Tesla with a flashing Uber sign in the windshield pulled up along the curb. 

“Mitch?” the driver asked, as he popped the trunk for his suitcase. 

“Yep,” Mitch answered, keeping his briefcase with him as he slid into the backseat.

“You’re going to Center Street, right?” he asked, adjusting the map on the screen.

“Yes, thank you,” Mitch answered methodically.

“I’ll have you there in ten minutes,” he answered, pulling out onto the main road.

“What brings you to Phoenix?” he asked, looking back cautiously at Mitch, seemingly to determine if he wanted to chat on the short ride.

“Our bank is announcing layoffs this morning,” Mitch answered, surprised by the admission to a stranger.

The driver stared ahead at the road without answering.

“It’s rough out there,” he answered after a few moments.

“I was in tech,” he said. “Got laid off earlier this year. Right after that, my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer,” he stated in a way that suggested that he had told his story countless times.

“I’m sorry,” Mitch answered. “Is your wife doing OK now?” he asked tentatively.

“Stage four,” he answered, “but she’s fighting hard. Since she can’t work, I’m taking rides for as many hours as I can get. My daughter had to drop out of college, but she’s been a big help,” he added. Mitch thought of Jessica, who was getting ready for the riding clinic at the same moment.

They rode in silence the last few moments of the trip, before he pulled down Central Street, which was lined with high-rise, shiny buildings that almost seemed to blind him in the Arizona sun.

“Here ya go,” he said, pulling alongside the curb and popping the trunk again. “Good luck.”

“You too, man,” Mitch answered, pulling his bag from the trunk, feeling its heaviness, as he walked to the front door of the mirrored skyscraper. He stopped before entering to leave a five-star review and a $90 tip for the driver.

Mitch quietly walked into the lobby, the way one might walk into a funeral. He sat in one of the leather chairs as he waited for Tyler, who would help him set up for the day. 

A man in his early 20s, sporting bleached blonde, spiked hair and a cheap suit, bounded into the lobby. 

“Hiya, there, Mitch, I’m Tyler,” he said, extending a hand for a hard shake.  

“I’m going to get you inside and go over some data and documents with you before the meeting. 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,” he said, his eyes shining with excitement.   

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

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

Tyler grew more breathless as he described the layoffs, speaking faster and in a high-pitched tone.

“We have a meeting with the execs right now,” he explained. “After that, we are going to set you up in the conference room on the 15th floor. We don’t want to tip anyone off by sending an email, so I’ll go get them and bring them to you. While they are meeting with you, security will box up their things and meet them outside the door when you are finished explaining the steps in the severance,” he explained, his excitement escalating.

Mitch tried again to loosen his collar, which felt as if it were slowly strangling him as they walked. He tried to hide his labored breath, which had almost become a pant, as they made their way to the conference room for the meeting. 

Tyler paused at the closed door to the meeting room, taking a deep breath as a slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“You ready?” he asked, before slowly opening the door.

“Mr. Graves?” a man at the head of a long, polished table asked, half-standing to shake his hand.

“Yes,” Mitch answered as Tyler found a seat at the end of the table. 

“Burt Johnson, and we are happy to have you here,” the man added.

Thick files lay on the desk in front of him. 

“We will be laying off fifty employees today,” he began. Fortunately, most of them are present today.

“This should come as no surprise to them,” he added. “They have been well-informed of the status of the economy and that austerity measures may have to be implemented for the benefit of the company. They understand that,” he reasoned.

Mitch felt a sickening pull in his chest at the implication that the unwitting employees should have known their careers, and possibly their financial lives, would end today. 

Burt continued to explain the process. They would be laying off the most seasoned employees who were still under the old pension system. The bank would keep the newer, younger employees after its benefits package had been decimated; it would now only offer a 401(k) with no company match. Their insurance premiums would increase, and vacation time would be drastically reduced for those who chose to stay, he explained.  

Mitch began to feel a pain deep in his right temple, wondering why the Xanax had not reduced any of his anxiety.

The air in the room suddenly felt thick and heavy as sweat pooled 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.

“This is a very strong package,” Burt announced, holding up one of the folders. “Most companies are not giving much of anything, even to the employees who have been there for decades. I don’t think they are going to give you too much trouble, Mitch,” he added. 

“Tyler over there will help you out,” Burt added, motioning towards Tyler, who was sitting at the end of the table with a hyena-like smile.

Mitch nodded numbly as he continued to listen to the details of the anorexic package: three months of health insurance and $1,000 for each year of service, a paltry sum for decades of loyalty to the beast that would now devour them.

“We will also be offering one year of career counseling,” Burt added lightly. “It’s hell out there, so this is a very generous offer, and one we didn’t have to offer at all,” he concluded.

“Tyler is going to help you to get set up in the conference room upstairs, and you can get started. I’m going to need you to be finished with all fifty employees before five tonight,” he added coldly.

Mitch did the math, realizing he’d have only about 10 minutes with each employee, a meeting that would abruptly end their careers.

Tyler and Mitch placed the files into four large cardboard boxes before carrying them to the conference room, where the slaughter would take place.

Once inside, surrounded by the files, Mitch sat heavily at the head of the table.

“You’ll do great,” Tyler said enthusiastically. “I’ll send the employees to you, in order of the files, since you don’t know any of them,” he said, still out of breath from his excitement.

“You know what to do, the first one will come in a moment, I’ll be right back,” he said, bounding out the door.

Mitch slowly opened the first file on the table.

David Patterson, the first file read. Date of hire, February 12, 1993. Mitch began to read through his file, filled with accolades and accomplishments for the bank, and realized the missed birthdays, anniversaries, and work vacations that would have warranted them.

He heard a light knock at the door before Tyler opened it, leading a cautious-looking man into the room. He walked apprehensively beside Tyler, his eyes reflecting only uncertainty.

“Please, sit down,” Mitch instructed.

“I’m Mich Graves,” he began, feeling his heartbeat flutter in his chest, as he wiped his sweating palms discreetly on his thighs.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Patterson, I’m here because your position at Rekcus Bank has ended,” he began, noticing his trembling hands as he placed them on the folder.

The man’s expression lines deepened.

“I’ve been with the bank for my entire working career,” he said, his voice cracking.

“While we recognize your accomplishments and loyalty to the bank, we have determined that it is in the bank’s best interest to reduce its workforce,” he began.

The man sat in his seat, his shoulders slumped forward, his eyes cast downward.

“Mr. Patterson, I think you will see that this is quite a generous package,” he explained, opening the folder.

The man’s lips began to tremble slightly as he looked apathetically at the paperwork.

“Do you know how many weekend hours I gave up for this job?” he asked, his voice small and shaking. “My wife has surgery coming up, what am I supposed to do when we lose our insurance?” he asked, his voice a mixture of grief and disbelief. 

“Mr. Patterson,” Mitch said, feigning authority that he didn’t believe in himself.

“Rekcus is in a position to…” Mitch began, as he was interrupted by another soft knock at the door.

Tyler stepped into the room, a security guard by his side, holding a box of the man’s possessions, thrown haphazardly: a plant with partially spilled soil, and a photograph of a smiling woman and a young girl on top of the pile. 

Mitch remained transfixed on the photo, imagining their reactions when he came home before noon today. He had to force his gaze away from the photo.

“I’m sorry, but our time is up,” Tyler said, his voice splintering the air.

“Mr. Patterson, I’m sorry, but you will find everything you need inside the folder. We will be in contact with you in the coming weeks.”

The man paused for a moment before picking up the folder, smoothing his tie, and following security out the door.

“How did it go?” Tyler asked excitedly before the man was out of ear-shot.

It took a moment for Mich to speak, the gravity of his actions weighing on his chest.

“It will get easier,” Tyler said. “You’ve got another one outside. I’ll bring her in,” he said, walking back to the door.

“Tyler, give me a minute,” Mitch said, feeling the room spin around him.

“I’m going to take a quick break before you bring her in,” he said, stumbling over his words as he rose from the table, closing his briefcase. 

Tyler looked carefully at Mich, as if he was unclear why he did not share his excitement. 

“Sure thing, Mitch. We can take a 15-minute break, but hurry back because we still have 49 more to get through today,” Tyler said before walking out the door, grinning broadly.

Mitch took his briefcase and satchel and took the elevator back to the lobby, 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 crushing reality that lay inside the building.

Tyler’s enthusiasm was making him ill. So much excitement when he was about ready to detonate the worlds of 50 Arizona families, he thought as he walked outside into the Arizona sunshine, looking for a place to sit and rest. He found himself in a massive parking lot with no bench or seating area in sight.

He only needed ten minutes, he thought, as his legs hastily 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, still 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, sterile light.  

He had been gone for 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 and the air cooler.

His cell phone began to ring from inside his pocket. He reached for it, noting from the display that 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 shut down under the strain of indecision.

The phone rang again as Mitch approached a tired-looking homeless man sitting on the curb. Mitch could feel his chest tighten as his anxiety built.  The 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 stoically on the street corner, and 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, which lay next to it. He silently handed the man a $20.

“God bless you,” the man said softly.

Indecision had reached a fevered pitch as it mixed with the embarrassment that he had been gone far too long for a break. He wondered if Tyler would call the police, as if he were an escaped prisoner from the shiny building with soft leather chairs in the lobby.

It had been worse than prison, for they had hired him to do the work of destroying lives that they didn’t want to do themselves. In exchange, he had been handed a lifestyle, complete with kitchen remodels, European vacations, and lessons for perfect flying lead changes on glossy dancing horses.  

Mitch thought back to the two men who had each told them that their wives had cancer. He felt the burning shame that either of them would have done just about anything to have his salary and benefits, for they were truly lifesaving. 

It wasn’t too late to return, he reasoned. He could tell them that he had become ill, maybe Burt would give the employees a reprieve from their sentence, for a crime that they hadn’t committed.

He began to turn back, slowly walking to his concrete and glass cell, a prisoner returning to the only familiar home he had known. 

Mitch walked heavily back to the office, his bag and briefcase feeling heavier than he had remembered. His phone began to ring again, jolting him out of his stupor, feeling his heart beating heavily in his chest.  With each heartbeat, the pain in his right temple intensified.  He felt his breathing quicken, but it was 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 could feel his crushing world closing in around him as he recounted yesterday’s conversations. 

“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, the liquid slicing through the dust.

Mitch wondered if he was having a heart attack or 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, wondering if he’d faint. 

He walked past the man with the sign again, as their eyes met. He saw concern in the man’s eyes, not for himself, but for Mitch, for their eyes recognized something in each other. Although their lives were vastly different, the system had failed them both. 

“God bless you, man,” the man repeated. 

Mitch suddenly froze mid-step, standing stupidly on the cracked sidewalk. He stood looking down onto the ground, his eyes averting the blinding sun. He felt paralyzed in his tracks, knowing that this moment was defining.  He could walk back to the office and live the life of the living dead, or he could make a break, plunging all of their lives into uncertainty. 

That thought, the naked idea of freedom, danger, and risk, suddenly calmed him, calling him back to the emotions that he felt when planning trips to Europe decades earlier.  

He could choose to no longer carry his crushing load.  

To refuse. It could be his greatest unrealized power. 

Mitch walked slowly to a steel garbage can on the edge of the road. He placed his briefcase on top of the dirty lid, took out a few glass pens and a credit card, and then dumped the rest into the trash. He tossed his phone back into the briefcase, along with some more cash, placed his satchel on top of it, unzipped it, and removed the khakis and the cream-colored generic polo shirts.

Mitch walked quickly back to the man. “Here, I thought you might be able to use this for your job search.” 

The man reached for the briefcase and clothing, skeptically opened it, and found a cell phone and cash inside. 

“I thought you could use the phone in case anyone needs to call you back for an interview.”

The man wordlessly placed the briefcase and folded clothing on the grass, gently laid his neatly handwritten resumes inside, and put the cell phone in his pocket.

“Hey, man, thank you. Thank you so much. Things have just been…ever since I got laid off, I haven’t been able to find any work,” he said, stumbling over his words.

“Maybe this will help to start to turn things around,” Mitch offered as he reached for the man’s shoulder, patting it firmly before turning away, noting the lightness of his satchel.

“Wait!” the man called back to Mitch. He turned to see that the man was handing him a piece of paper.

”My resume.  If you know of anyone, man.  Anyone at all,” he said. 

Mitch politely accepted the paper from the man. In large, awkwardly bolded letters, “Jim Dawson” was written at the top of the resume.

“Carpenter”.

“I’m really not in this field, but if I know of anyone, I will let you know,” Mitch answered.

“You know my number,” Jim said, as Mitch slowly turned again, heading away from the dazzling light reflecting off the Arizona glass office buildings.

As he walked away, he heard his phone ringing again from Jim’s pocket. 

“Hello?” he heard him answer slowly.  “Who’s Mitch?”

Brandi

Later that afternoon, Brandi received one of the most anomalous calls of her life, one that would have alarmed most wives. The man had told her that Mitch had arrived for the meeting in Arizona, had gone outside for a break, but had never returned. She also said that when they called his cell, someone named Jim answered, and he gave a somewhat incredulous account that Mitch had simply handed him the phone and walked away.

“Mitch wouldn’t just walk off the job,” Brandi exhaled, with irritation. 

“Has Mitch been upset or had any other signs of depression?” the woman from human resources pressed.

“No, umm…not that I know of,” Brandi stammered. 

“Has he given you any indication that he might want to leave his position, or does he have any friends or family in Arizona that he might be visiting?” she continued to press.

“He has an old cabin about four hours outside of Phoenix, but it’s not inhabitable,” Brandi explained, feeling her patience begin to evaporate.

“Look,” she finally responded, exasperated, “Mitch isn’t going to go off himself, if that’s what you are implying. He probably had some sort of emergency and is dealing with it. I really think you all are overreacting,” she spat impatiently. 

“This is the wife of Mitch Graves?” the woman gently asked. “Don’t you think if he were having a family emergency, he would have contacted you?  You are his wife.” Brandi paused for a moment, offended that this stranger seemed to be making a derogatory comment on her marriage, despite the statement’s accuracy.

“No,” she finally answered, “If you must know, he probably wouldn’t call me if there was an emergency.”

“We pulled his emergency contact information. He has Jessica listed as his contact.  Would this be his daughter?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, Jessica is our daughter,” Brandi exhaled in a puff of indignation. “She is at the barn riding now, but you can probably reach her on her cell. I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything.”

“Will you let us know if you hear from him?” the HR director asked, her voice tinged with sympathy.

“Of course,” Brandi answered.

Brandi hung up the phone, knowing immediately that her marriage was over.

HR had explained that they would call the police, suspecting foul play, if Mitch hadn’t returned by the end of the day. They suggested that a man named Jim might have some sort of involvement in his disappearance, since he answered Mitch’s phone.

“Who is Jim?” Brandi said aloud in disgust.  She wanted this time to be about Brad, not spent wondering about where her husband may be at this moment.  Her anger began to mix with irritation as her anxiety began to build.   Normally, Mitch left for the office and arrived home with such precision that it was easy for Brandi to time Brad’s arrival. 

However, this morning, for some reason, Mitch decided to leave his car at home and take a ride-share. She felt her muscles tense when she realized Brad had parked outside the house. Maybe he had heard Brad or had grown suspicious after seeing his car. Brandi collapsed into the overstuffed couch, contemplating the events for a few moments. It would explain why Mitch left unexpectedly; maybe he was finally leaving her.

Brandi leaned back into the sofa, closed her eyes, and used her first two fingers to gently massage her temples. She could smell the Axe that Brad loved to use in abundance in her hair, and she could feel her heart rate begin to increase as she thought about an impending divorce. She hadn’t worked in decades and had no marketable skills or even a desire to begin a new career. She thought back to John’s call, which she had never returned, and realized she didn’t understand their finances, how much debt they had, or even how many assets could be split. She looked from her couch to the decor of the room, mentally calculating how many dollars and hours had been spent decorating and redecorating this room alone, hoping that in the comfort of the room, she’d find the solace that she sought. Brandi’s decorating budget, if one could call it that, was a frequent argument. 

A few months ago, Brandi had the overstuffed couch for the family room delivered from a boutique furniture store by the shore.

“It was on clearance, Mitch,” she snapped when he saw the fee on the credit card statement. 

“You may be fine living on an old, ratty couch that’s almost five years old, but I’m not living that way,” she said, pushing the couch a few inches in several different directions through the room until she finally settled upon the perfect placement. 

“The old couch was fine, Brandi,” Mitch said while still looking at the statement. “I’m not sure who it is you are trying to impress; we never have anyone over, so I’m not sure what the point is.”

“The point,” she said, her cheeks beginning to flush in anger, “is that I do not ask for much. This is my sanctuary and one of the few things that I have,” she said, her eyes flashing in rage. 

Mitch thought of her weekly nail appointments, spa treatments, laser hair removal, Botox, and massages. 

“If you want to keep spending like this, why don’t you get a job,” Mitch said, knowing that he would be opening a fresh argument. 

Brandi stopped adjusting the position of the couch again to glare hard at him.

“What exactly is it that you expect me to do, Mitch?” she seethed. 

“You could get a job in customer service or even at one of the stores you like. I’m sure you’d even get an employee discount,” he said, seeing her rage deepening. 

“I’ll take the fucking couch back,” she snapped.

Mitch drew in a long breath, “Brandi, you don’t need to take the couch back, but you need to contribute to this household. You are still young enough to start a new career and find what it is that you want to do.”

Brandi slowly turned to him, her eyes shiny with unbridled fury. 

“Ok, so you want to retire while I can start a totally new career and work for the next 20 years,” do I have that right?” 

Mitch felt himself losing control of his calm as he found himself being sucked into the old argument.

“Brandi, God Damn it, neither of us is going to retire at this point, and if we don’t turn things around, we are both looking at bankruptcy, yet you continue to spend like nothing is happening, and the very mention of you getting a job sends you into a rage.”

The inferno in her eyes seemed to dim, only to be replaced with something that seemed a mixture of sadness and wild fear. 

“I’ll start looking for something this week,” she finally said, “but I’m not taking the couch back. I deserve at least this for myself,” she said, before walking into the kitchen.

She never did look for the job, Brandi remembered, still sitting on the couch. 

Her life was indefinable. Now that Jessica was grown, she couldn’t define herself as someone’s mother and had no career that could offer that definition either. She had no hobbies other than the gym, and aside from a few close friends, nothing in her life gave her meaning. 

In college, before she met Mitch, she had wanted to study interior design and had even taken a few classes at the university. She would spend hours studying decor styles, looking at how fabrics, colors, and furniture could enhance a room, envisioning owning her own decor business along the Jersey shore. 

None of it had ever materialized, however, when she found a much easier path allowing Mitch to tend to the financial details of their lives, never noticing that she lacked what provided passionate energy to her life, an energy that she was now trying to recreate in her relationship with Brad.

Brandi slowly rose from the couch, stress beginning to stiffen her muscles, as she arched her back in an attempt to relieve the strain.  

A few weeks ago, Brandi saw an ad for a certificate program in interior design at Jessica’s community college, she remembered as she grabbed her laptop from an unused table in the dining room.

She hadn’t used the old laptop in almost a year, causing it to cycle through a few software updates before sprining to life. Brandi went to the community college’s website, where a teenager on the landing page smiled, holding a textbook. Brandi searched through the website, which was clearly designed for a teenager just out of high school, she realized, feeling foolish even to contemplate returning to school over 50. 

A quick search found the program at the college. It was not a degree program, but an eight-week certificate, costing $750. She had no idea what she would do with the certificate when she earned it, but she had always had a knack for interior design, she thought, remembering the remodel of the house over the past 25 years. 

Despite a love for interior design, starting over at her age seemed impossible, she thought, shutting her laptop heavily. Even her own daughter was almost too old to be taking community college classes, she thought, heading towards the kitchen for a glass of pinot.

She really could use a visit from Brad, she realized, sipping the pinot on the overstuffed couch, as she looked around the family room, admiring the down-stuffed armchair, coordinating artwork, and silk rug. It had everything that a room could want. All that was missing was a family.

Brandi turned to her bookmarked pages from several decorators whose style she hoped to emulate. She spent the next 45 minutes scrolling through a variety of styles, ranging from contemporary to modern, but she was always drawn to a more eclectic mid-century style with clean, simple lines and craftsmanship not found in modern furniture. The pieces seemed to be made deliberately, with time taken to craft them, not merely turned out en masse. When her back began to ache from scrolling for too long, she closed her laptop and began pacing the family room, her shoes echoing off the walls in the empty room. 

She checked her phone to see if there was a message from Brad. There was none. He had to work at Verizon today from 12 to 3, after his hours were reduced due to chronic lateness. The relentless uncertainty about where he was spending his days began to form in her mind. She pulled on a pair of her designer yoga pants and a sports top before grabbing her keys for the gym, knowing that she’d swing by Brad’s apartment to see if he was home. 

Once at the gym, Brandi climbed onto the Stairmaster for a warm-up. When she was out of breath, sweat streaking her face, she mounted the treadmill, running as if she were trying to escape demons. When her legs began to fail, she slowly dismounted the machine and headed to the locker to sit in the hot tub, then the steam room. 

After stopping at the gym’s cafe for a post-workout smoothie, she climbed back into her BMW to swing by Brad’s house, fooling herself into believing that he’d be happy to see her. 

Brandi pulled onto the cracked asphalt of his apartment complex, observing almost immediately that his car was not in its assigned parking space, even though it was now 4:00 PM, well after his shift. She contemplated knocking on his door to see if anyone was home, but instead, drove away, feeling jealous and small, wondering why she should care what a man 20 years younger was doing with his day.  

This realization left her feeling lost and hollow as she pulled out of the complex, flipping her Sirius to a classic rock station, only to realize, with a slight shock, that she had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and that no one was at home waiting for her. 

Jim

Jim lay on the hard park bench, feeling the coolness of the clean morning air on his face. The normally harsh Ariozna sun only felt warm and gentle this morning as he gradually roused himself from a heavy sleep. He lay under several thick layers of newspapers he had placed over his thin blanket for added insulation.  

One arm dangled beneath the blanket, firmly clutching a polished leather briefcase, inside which was a precious, uncharged cell phone. As soon as the lost man walking alone down the sidewalk had given him the briefcase and phone, he immediately went to the library to update his resume with the new cell phone number, but since he didn’t have a charger, he kept it turned off, only turning it back on twice a day to check for any messages. As soon as he found work, it would be his first purchase, connecting him again to the outside world.

Jim painstakingly let his legs slide over the edge of the bench, still holding the briefcase in his grip. His back had deep impressions of the metal criss-crossing over his spine, so he leaned over and slowly touched his toes, hoping to loosen the muscles that were beginning to seize.

He carefully placed the briefcase on the bench seat, pushing the two shiny brass buttons and springing the latch open. He firmly pressed the phone’s power button, then quickly checked for messages to save as much battery power as possible.

The first message had come in yesterday afternoon, its formality causing him to catch his breath.

“Hi Jim, this is Bob from Silverdale Construction.  Hey, umm, we came across your application and resume, and we’d like to schedule an interview this afternoon if possible.”

Jim urgently reached for a glass pen and a pad of paper inside the case, his hands slightly shaking with anticipation. He was to meet at 2 o’clock this afternoon.  It would be just enough time to try to clean up and get on that side of town.

With his fingers deeply embedded in grime, he scratched down the phone number and address before neatly folding his blanket and placing it in his backpack.  He gathered the newspapers, crumpled them, and threw them away in a nearby garage can.

He glanced at the time on the cell before carefully turning it back off and replacing it in the briefcase, realizing that he would need to hurry to catch the bus to make his connection. He looked down at his dirty, stained clothes, thankful for the khakis and polos the man gave him along with his cell phone.

Jim reached into a Ziplock bag he had placed in the briefcase that held his savings, plus some cash the man had given him. He carefully counted the contents of the bag. He had $106.32 cents. Even though it was only 7:00 AM, everything took longer when living on the streets. He would first have to make it to a dollar store, where he could buy soap, a brush, and a razor to get ready for the interview. Then he would have to find a public bathroom where he could change into the khaki pants and polo shirt, shave, and wash his face. The next task would be to figure out which bus would take him to the interview. Life on the streets charged a poverty tax, one that he knew he could no longer afford. 

After arriving at the dollar store, wearing an aged backpack that carried his only possessions over the last few months and the briefcase tightly clutched in his hand, he walked down the personal hygiene aisle, carefully inspecting the toothbrushes, toothpastes, razors, and shaving cream. A woman with a swath of bleached blond bangs turned into his aisle, turning to leave after seeing Jim. Since becoming unhoused, he had grown accustomed to the cautious looks from fear or sometimes, even disgust or anger. Jim placed the products on the conveyor belt as the cashier rang up the order of a man in front of him.

“How is your day going?” the cashier asked the man, who was busy looking at his phone as she rang up his order.

“Really good,” the man answered. “I’m enjoying this weather,” he added, stil distracted by his phone.

“Me too,” the cashier said as she scanned his products.

“I just took my grandkids to the shore last weekend, and we got in some good sunshine,” the cashier said, smiling.

“Well, thank you,” the man said, taking his bag. “Have a great day,” he said, walking from the store.

“You too,” the cahier called after him.

Jim looked at the woman as she began to scan his order. She sighed deeply, saying nothing to him.

“That’s $8.32,” she said sharply.

Jim carefully counted the money from the Ziplock bag.

“Put it on the counter,” the cashier said as Jim attempted to hand her the cash.

Jim placed the money on the counter as the cashier picked up each coin, carefully counting it.

“Have a good day,” Jim said, taking the bag. The woman said nothing as she greeted the next customer.

After two bus transfers, Jim walked across the parking lot, dressed in too-short pants and a cream-colored polo shirt buttoned up tightly against his throat, as he nervously opened the door to the office. Posted on the window was a green flyer advertising that they were hiring for a variety of trade workers for various jobs across town. 

 Jim walked into the comfortable construction office where he found a kind-looking woman in her 60’s sitting behind the desk.

“Hi, I’m…Um…here for an interview at 2,” Jim said quietly after clearing his throat.

“You are twenty minutes early”, the woman commented in a soft southern drawl.

“I take the bus, ma’am, and didn’t want to risk being late,” Jim said, a stained hat in his hand.

“It’s not a problem,” the woman answered warmly. “Please, take a seat.”

He found a seat over against the side wall.

“Can I get you some cold water?” the woman asked.

“No ma’am, I’m OK.  I don’t want to be a trouble,” Jim said in a light tone, ignoring the dryness in his throat, as he looked down at his cell phone, rubbing its sides with his fingers.

The woman rose from her desk and walked into the breakroom, quietly placing a bottle of water and two cookies on the chair next to Jim, before walking away wordlessly.

Jim unscrewed the lid to the bottle, drinking it all at once, as he shifted in his seat nervously, waiting to be called back for his interview, nibbling on the edge of a cookie. He could feel the dampness in his palms and hoped that the manager didn’t reach out for a handshake, he thought, looking down at his worn hands. 

The setting of the construction office was familiar: the old coffee maker on top of a chipped tan file cabinet, the hard plastic chairs for those waiting, a secretary whose desk was littered with invoices, and a manager’s office tucked behind her desk. He had spent his working life coming to the office for his bi-weekly paychecks or for a monthly meeting. 

It had been less than a year ago, and he had just started to get his life back on track after his divorce.  He had been seeing his daughter every other weekend, taking her to parks, movies, and even out to dinner from time to time. He had taught her to ride her bike and swim in their community pool, and he had even managed to scrape together enough money to move out of the old trailer and into a two-bedroom apartment, so Julia would have her own room when she came over to visit.  

It was a Friday, and Jim could still remember the silence in the office that day when he was pulled off the job site to speak to the construction manager. Seven other men, still dirty and stained from a long day on the job, stood awkwardly in the office as they all waited. Some wiped their hot faces with a handkerchief kept in a back pocket; others took a hasty drink from bottled water as they paced nervously in the room.

Finally, a man in a bright shirt, a fresh haircut, and clean jeans walked into the office.  

“May I have your attention, please?” he said in a loud, clear voice, holding up a hand with manicured fingernails.

“I want to thank you for coming in today,” he began. “These types of meetings are not always easy, but in this case, they are necessary,” he began.

“Unfortunately, due to the needs of the business, your positions have expired, and today will be your last day,” he said.

A man at the back of the room made a loud sound.

“Now I realize this transition is not always easy,” he continued. “We want to thank you for your time at Cartwell Construction, and we wish you the best in the future,” he said, a slight smile on his lips.

“What about our health insurance?” a man shouted angrily from the back of the room.

“The corporate office will reach out to you in the next few days,” the manager answered coldly.

“Thank you,” he said as he turned to leave the office through a back door. 

The men stood alone in the office, their faces red, some with wet eyes that they attempted to conceal by looking away from the others. Jim had remained silent through all of it. He nodded grimly as his co-workers spoke with indignation and fear about how they had been treated by their company, how difficult it would be to find more work, and how their savings had been decimated after the last major economic downturn. There were groceries to buy, the mortgage or rent to pay, car repairs, and medical expenses. A few of the older workers pondered aloud what would happen to their retirement accounts, since there had been no information on the matter, and the manager had left before answering any questions. One man said in a strained voice that his wife was permanently disabled and in need of ongoing medical care. Fighting a rising panic, he asked how they would afford her care. Another shouted angrily that he was already on the verge of foreclosure and was about to lose the house his family had lived in for 25 years. This was a death sentence, he claimed, in more ways than one. 

Jim and the other men filed out of the office as one might exit a funeral home. There was no money to pay next month’s rent on his new apartment, put food in the fridge for when his daughter came to visit, or put gas in the old truck. She probably wouldn’t even want to come over anyway, if there was no money to do anything fun, he thought, as he slowly walked back to the parking lot. 

He would have to sell his truck to the old used-car dealership for whatever he could get, knowing all the while that the sleazy dealership manager would give him only a few hundred dollars for the old blue Chevy, which he would then turn around and sell for far more. He had no choice and would need the cash until he could find more work. 

After he left the office that day, he drove to the dealership, the one with the cracked asphalt lot, where he met Bill, who offered him $500 for his truck. After some haggling, he finally agreed to $800 in cash, as Jim walked away with the money in a manila envelope, which he held to his chest as if it were his only lifeline. 

It was only a matter of months before the cash from the Chevy and a few hundred dollars that he had managed to save were gone, his ex-wife had cut off visitations with their daughter, and Jim was on the streets.  He had gone to the local library to make a resume, but building houses, making wooden furniture, and working on a construction site were what felt comfortable to him, not typing out a resume on a tiny keyboard with his large fingers, which still had dirt deeply embedded in their pores.

He had been on the street corner trying to hand out his resume, and maybe ask for a few bucks for a daily meal, when we first saw the man walking in a daze down the sidewalk, carrying a briefcase and a cell phone that was constantly ringing.  He noticed the man right away because he seemed to be in the middle of some sort of crisis, his breathing labored and ragged, his face flushed.  His gait was hurried, yet he almost appeared to be running from wherever it was that he was coming from.  Sweat poured down his face from the seemingly unaccustomed exertion as he rushed down the sidewalk, his eyes frantically searching until they landed upon Jim as he rushed by.

Unexpectedly, the man stopped, as people sometimes do when they have a few moments to think, and walked back, handing him his briefcase, some clothing, and a cell phone.  

Looking back now, Jim thought, that had been the moment things slowly began to turn around.  Later in the day, a couple had given him $10, just enough for Jim to get a value meal and drink at the McDonald’s by the used car lot.  He found a soft spot in the park that night and awoke with new hope for his future, knowing he now had a phone that future employers could reach him at.

Lying in the park at night, he began a mental list of things he could do once he had a job again, with spending time with his daughter at the top. He could get another trailer, or even an apartment, and maybe even an old truck again. The promise of what could be carried him through the lonely nights on the park bench. 

He had been given a lifeline, although a fragile one, to try again to escape the grip of poverty and the hopelessness that had begun to consume him. Although it appeared that they had been leading vastly different lives, he saw that same hopelessness in the man’s eyes as he fled from the invisible beast that chased him down the sidewalk that afternoon. 

“Sir,” the secretary called to him from behind the desk, a phone cradled against her neck, “he can see you now, good luck.”

Mitch 

Almost immediately, Mitch could feel the heaviness in his legs, arms, and chest ease with each passing step. The throbbing pain in his right temple was also dissipating, he noticed, as he walked with a renewed lightness to a grassy park that lay ahead. Under two sleepy Eucalyptus trees was a black, wrought-iron bench. 

His heart still beat wildly inside his chest as he sat back, feeling the coolness of the iron metal through his thin dress shirt. Slowly, his breathing and heart rate slowed, and his thoughts stilled. 

Mitch slipped off his loafers and socks before pushing his bare feet to the soft grass, digging his toes between the cool blades as he breathed in deeply, tilting his head toward the sun. 

He didn’t know where he’d sleep tonight, but one thing he was sure of was that there would never be a return to his former life, either by choice or necessity. 

He sat on the bench until the sun was directly overhead and the desert heat became too intense to tolerate. He still hadn’t eaten, and hunger pains began to dominate his thoughts.

Leaving the bench, he walked along the road next to the park until he found another Rekcus branch, where he kept most of his accounts. Between Brandi and Jessica, not to mention horse training expenses, college, and the house, the balances were lower than they had been in years. Mitch walked into the bright lobby, noting the shiny glass walls and a large water fountain cascading behind the tellers. 

A well-dressed man met him in the waiting area. “How can I help you today?” he asked, leading Mitch to an enclosed glass office. 

Mitch sat awkwardly across from the man, shifting in his seat. 

“I’m here to take my name off a joint checking and savings account and withdraw $50,000 from my savings,” Mitch began. “I also want to close my credit card,” he added.

“I’m happy to help,” the man began. “OK, let’s see what you have here. May I start with a photo ID and your debit card?”

Mitch reached into his wallet and slid both across the polished mahogany desk. The man spun around a small keypad, as Mitch reached for two small bright blue suckers that the man kept on his desk.

“Please enter your PIN number,” he instructed, as he typed mysteriously on his keyboard.

“Ok, I see that you have a joint checking account, a savings account, a savings bond, and a 529 for your daughter, Jessica?” he asked.

Mitch nodded numbly.  

“You also want to close your credit card?” he asked. “It looks like Brandi and Jessica are authorized users?” he asked more as a statement than a question.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mitch answered, feeling another pang of guilt at the idea of liquidating the funds, an irreversible dismantling of his life.

“I just want my name off the joint checking and savings account,” Mitch answered, as the teller looked skeptically at Mitch.

“Are we transferring the funds to another bank?” he asked cautiously.

“No, I just want to take my name off the accounts. I want to keep $18,000 in Jessica’s account and leave the balance in the joint checking for my wife, Brandi. I just want $50,000 from the savings account. My wife can keep the rest in that account as well,” he added.

The teller stopped typing and sat back in his chair.

“This is not an ordinary request,” he said at last.

“I must ask you, sir, are you under any sort of duress or are you doing this against your will?” he asked, his eyes narrowing and his lips tightening, erasing all traces of the relaxed man who had welcomed him into the office moments earlier.

“No, I’m not under any duress,” Mitch answered, realizing the hypocrisy of the answer.

“You want cash for $50,000?” he asked again.

“Yes, in small and large bills,” Mitch answered.

“I’m going to have to get my manager’s approval,” the teller answered, before turning his computer screen from Mitch and walking out of the office.

He returned less than a minute later with a woman wearing a suit and tan heels, as she sat in the man’s seat, with the teller standing behind her.

“I understand you want to take your name off your accounts and take $50,000 in cash from your savings account?” she asked slowly, staring at the computer screen.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Mitch answered. 

“OK, Mr. Graves. We can do that today, she said, typing onto the keyboard again, but may I ask why you are not transferring it to another bank. $50,000 is a large sum of cash,” she added.

Mitch sat with the question for a few moments before answering.

“I’m trying something new,” he answered simply. 

The manager paused, looking carefully at Mitch before answering.

“OK, I’ll be back in a moment,” she said with a small sigh. “Brian, here can finish taking your name off your joint accounts and close the credit card.”

Moments later, the manager returned with a large stack of cash, which she meticulously counted in front of Mitch. It was surprising how quickly such a large sum of money could be counted, and how thin the stack looked when placed upon the table.  Brian slid a medium-sized manila envelope across the table as Mitch carefully added the bills, sealing it tightly and holding it against his chest. 

Brandi would have the bulk of the money in accounts, which would be enough to cover basic living expenses until she could find a job. He knew she’d still have Brad, he remembered, and strangely, he found that comforting. 

He left the bank, still holding the cash against his chest, as he looked cautiously around him. It was funny, he thought, his immediate reaction had not been the tiny cabin in the mountains of Pinetop where he had spent his summers as a child.  Instead, he briefly considered renting an apartment or staying at a hotel.  He could get a new job, he reasoned, after he officially resigned from Rekcus, if they hadn’t fired him before sunset.  However, he realized that would simply be buying back the old life that he had just fled. 

His thoughts drifted to the tiny, dilapidated cabin in the woods.  He hadn’t been back to the cabin in years, and the only recollection he had about the tiny home was when the property taxes were due.  Mitch thought he could use it as a summer getaway someday, knowing a small cabin in the small town would never suit Brandi or the lifestyle she fought desperately to maintain.

Mitch doubted it was currently habitable since it was located at the end of a dirt road and had been neglected for so long, he thought, walking back to the park where he could sit under a tree. 

He would need a ride to the cabin, he determined, as he imagined a life where his days were spent tending to a garden in the summertime and splitting logs for the wood-burning fireplace in the winter.  

Mitch stood up from the bench and walked again in the direction of the bank, until he found just what almost all suburbs of a major metropolitan city contained: an old used car dealership, complete with a lot full of old trucks.

He walked onto the cracking asphalt, quickly scanning the small lot for an older four-by-four he could afford to buy in cash.  It was getting late, and it would be at least a four-hour drive to get to the old cabin.  It had been years since he had seen the place, and he worried whether he would still be able to find it in the darkness.  He was beginning to regret giving away his phone and GPS.

A man in his 50’s, with an enormous belly and spindly legs, walked out onto the lot, hand extended.  “I’m Tony,” he puffed, winded from the rapid walk to reach him. 

“How can I help you today?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’m looking for a late model Ford or Chevy, 4×4,” Mitch answered while looking around at the vehicles for sale.

“Those tend to go pretty quick, but we do have something in the back with some higher mileage that has been here awhile,” Tony said, leading him through a maze of newer cars and trucks until he arrived at a 2001 blue Chevy that seemed to be tucked away, out of sight.  It had a tow package, a cracked dashboard, ripped vinyl upholstery, and 256,000 miles. A large, splashy orange sticker on the windshield listed the price at $8,500 cash.

Mitch looked around the aged truck, wondering whether to kick the tires or look under the hood, and instead decided to inspect the window sticker.

“She’s got some miles on her,” Tony offered, “but these trucks will last forever,” he continued.

“Tires are only a year old, too. For a truck like this, they would cost over a thousand, easy,” he continued on with his sales pitch.

“I had three people in here today alone looking at this truck,” he added, deep in his pitch to make the sale.

Mitch looked helplessly at the truck, realizing that he only had another couple of hours left of daylight.

“Take $6,000 for it?” he finally asked.

“It’s a deal!” Tony answered, extending his callused and beefy palm. 

Mitch sat at the old laminate desk in a chair whose springs were poking through the vinyl as he signed a few forms, before painstakingly taking the cash from the envelope he still held at his chest. 

Tony handed him the key on a plastic keychain that read “Arizona’s Favorite Used Car Dealer.”

“Thank you,” Mitch said, taking the keys before climbing behind the massive truck, cautiously exiting the lot. As he left, he noticed that the next parking lot was a McDonald’s, as he remembered he had only eaten the two small suckers from the bank, an irony which did not escape him.

Mitch maneuvered the large truck in the tight drive-through, ordering two Big Macs, a large fry, and a Coke. He mentally calculated his remaining cash-$6,000 plus fees for the old truck, $15 for the McDonald’s, which left him about $43,000. Every penny would count. 

He placed the hot food on the bench of the truck and pulled into the gas station next door where he could park and call Dorie,  the owner of the barn where Jessica rode her horses, to make the appropriate arrangements for her and to top off the tank for the long drive. 

Mitch felt the air begin to cool as he drove from the city into the sanctuary of the mountains.  He wondered what had happened with Tyler at the Arizona offices.  He was sure he was either fired by now or they had a search team out looking for him; either option seemed possible.  He continued to drive in peaceful silence.  It felt strange not to have his phone ringing constantly.  He found himself mindlessly reaching for his phone a few times before remembering he had left it with Jim back in the city.

Mitch drove silently, as he left his world behind him, so engrossed in the stillness that he didn’t even bother to turn on the old truck’s radio.

He worried about Jessica and was committed to helping her get on her feet, but it was time for her to begin to learn resilience while he still had any influence in her life. He also knew that if he didn’t make this break now, there would be no turning back later. 

Mitch drove the rest of the four-hour drive humming to himself in the cool night air.  Slowly, the Sahuaro cacti began to morph into scrubs, which then grew into tall pines. The air began to thin, and the light began to fade. Even through the darkness, he could see the trees beginning to grow taller and fuller. 

Getting to Pinetop through the small town of Show Low was simple.  Finding the property after the sun had set was another matter.  He quickly found the turn off from the main road, but couldn’t find the dirt road that would take him to the tiny cabin. He passed the entrance a half a dozen times before he finally found the brush-covered turnoff. After clearing away the large dead shrubbery that blocked his path, he drove the truck down the heavily pot-holed dirt road until he reached the tiny cabin, standing alone in the night, its bright lights illuminating the cabin. 

Mitch involuntarily drew a breath when he saw the cabin.  It was completely covered with weeds and debris, and it appeared that someone had used the large lot to dump trash.  It was difficult to see much on the unlit property, with only the truck’s headlamps illuminating a large space. It looked as though the property would take months, if not years, to renovate. 

Crawling out of the cab, he stretched his stiff back and killed the engine, keeping the headlights on the property as he cautiously approached the front door.  He felt like a stranger and intruder on his own land. 

A large dead bush covered one window.  As he pulled it aside, something scurried across the floor from inside the cabin.  Mitch jumped back as something hissed behind him, and he turned to see the green glow of two spheres looking back at him. 

Raccoons. Damn. 

Spending the night in the cabin was not going to be an option tonight, and it was too late to head back in town, so he stumbled back into the safety of the truck, lying gingerly on the cold vinyl bench seat and covering himself with a jacket that he still had left in his bag.

He killed the lights, afraid he would drain the battery, only to realize the mountain’s night was vast. He could hear faint scratching outside the truck as he lay awkwardly on the cold, hard bench seat.

He pulled his jacket tightly around his shoulders, adjusting his body to try to avoid the springs that were pushing up through the seat.

His mind raced among Jessica, Brandi, and the bank. Coldness seeped into the truck, making him shiver. He sat up, reaching into his bag for another shirt, which he layered over the dress shirt he was still wearing from the meeting earlier today.

If he couldn’t sleep, he could at least rest, he reasoned, before falling into a fitful, light sleep.

Tyler

Tyler waited in the lobby for Mitch to return. He flipped through his phone, resting his elbows on his knees, looking impatiently towards the front door. After 30 minutes, he rose and walked outside into the blinding sun, letting his gaze scan the parking lot for Mich. 

There was an area along the side of the building where smokers would take their break, he thought as he walked alongside the building. Not finding him there, he went back inside to the office, where several other managers had gathered to go over the game plan for the mass layoff. 

Five men and three women sat with their laptops at a large, rectangular table in the conference room. His manager sat at the end of the table, his eyes straining at the screen in front of him. A younger employee stood, looking over his shoulder with a grim look on his face.

He looked up from the screen when Tyler walked in. 

“Where’s the new guy?” he asked. 

“I have no idea. He arrived and said he needed a break and never came back.”

“Oh hell,” the manager exclaimed, tossing his pen onto a pile of nearby papers. 

“OK, while I get on the phone with HR, I want you to get ready to take over his role,” he said to Tyler.

Tyler visually brightened with the unanticipated advancement. 

“Steve, I want you to work with Tyler and get him ready for this afternoon,” he said to the man who had been looking over his shoulder earlier. 

Tyler eagerly hurried to his side as he briskly left the office, only stepping outside once again into the parking lot to sit in his hot car before the final stretch of his workday in a shaded, obscure corner of the parking lot. He turned the auxiliary on his car and turned up the music on the stereo in his aging Camry. 

The opportunity that he had been working towards relentlessly came today, completely unexpectedly, courtesy of Mitch. 

Tyler tapped his hands passionately against the steering wheel to the music. The advancement at the bank would come with a massive salary increase, the largest in his lifetime. He couldn’t wait to get home tonight and tell his girlfriend where they lived in a small studio apartment near the tracks on the west side of town. 

He began to envision how his life could change with his newfound salary. He could buy a house, help his mom, take a vacation, and upgrade his car, one that would have a much better stereo system, even if he had to take a loan. 

Never once in his fantasies did he consider the mortgage, credit cards, or other debt that it would take to fund this new lifestyle as a trap. Never once did he consider the toll that working multiple jobs would have on his body and mind. 

Today, jamming out to his heavy metal soundtrack, he only dreamed of what seemed like today, a better life, and no potential cost seemed too great.

Jessica

Jessica got Leonardo out of the stall before clipping the round and muscled bay gelding into the crossties. He reached back to nip the air behind her, and she vigorously curried his coat, bringing up a layer of shedding hair. She had a lesson in 40 minutes, just enough time to tack and warm him up. Remembering the check from her father, she reached into her jeans pocket and placed the check into a metal-locked payment box, which was attached to a wall near the barn’s office.

As she groomed Leo, his head began to lower, and his eyes closed softly. She could also feel herself relax as she worked through her routine, which she had down cold by now. She always began by currying the gelding until a thick layer of dead hair and dirt formed over his glossy coat. Next, with a soft rag, she removed the hair and dust, then brushed his entire body with a soft brush. After picking his hooves and checking for rocks or sharp debris, she painted them with a moisturizing oil. She finished by wiping his eyes and nostrils with another clean cloth. She ended by applying a thin layer of Vaseline to the delicate, soft skin around his muzzle and eyes. 

When she was halfway through the process, her coach, Dorie, walked down the barn aisle, the heels of her tall riding boots clipping sharply on the concrete floor.

“Jessica,” she said, “please put Leonardo away, and come see me in the office,” she said before heading toward her air-conditioned office. Jessica quickly finished grooming Leonardo before returning him to his stall.  She found Dorie sitting at her large, antique desk, poring over a pile of bills, hay invoices, time cards for the farm workers, and vet bills.

“Please, sit down,” she said, motioning to the chair across the desk. “I got a rather interesting call from your father today,” she said, without looking up from the pile of invoices.

“He asked me if I would be willing to take you on as a working student, seeing as there will be no further checks coming from him,” she commented casually, still not lifting her gaze.

Jessica took in a painful, involuntary gasp. “Is this a joke?”

“I’m afraid not. Normally, I do not accept working students like this, but your father has been an excellent client at our academy for many years. I told him we’d start you with cleaning and chores around the barn. You may move up to teaching the new students at the academy as you progress,” she said, now looking sympathetically into Jessica’s eyes.

“But, when am I going to find time?” Jessica asked, stumbling over her words.  “I am in school, I am a student. I don’t have time to ride, go to school, and…”

“Jessica,” Dorie interrupted. “Your father has told me that you are failing all of your classes and rarely attend class. What exactly is it that you do all day, Jessica?” 

Staring at her numbly, she had no answer for either herself or for Dorie. Jessica continued to look dumbly across the massive desk at her trainer, who had now picked up the phone, muttering about an error on the hay invoice.  

“Jessica, you are going to be OK. Think of this as an opportunity to continue your training on your own terms, making your own way. Not many of our students have had this chance. We have a lesson in 20 minutes. I’ll see you in the arena then,” Dorie said, returning her attention to the paperwork on her desk. 

Feeling her face flush with embarrassment and rage, Jessica could not find her words, so she rose and left the office, slamming the door behind her, instantly regretting her decision as the barn doors rattled violently. 

She numbly made her way back to Leo’s stall, grabbing his leather halter from the hook outside the stall door. As soon as she had fastened the buckle of his halter, she fell into his mane, filling it with hot tears. 

Mitch knew how important riding was to her and that she was trying her best with her college classes, even though she only tolerated them long enough until she could return to the barn and the routine that riding and Leo provided. She felt betrayed, but even more, she felt fear begin to build in her chest as her breath quickened. 

Jessica used the sleeve of her riding polo to wipe away the last traces of her tears before leading Leo back to the crossties so that she could tack him up for her lesson. 

She was going to kill her father, she thought, as she briskly walked back to the tack room for Leo’s saddle. She’d call his cell the second she got in the car.

Rekcus

The bank was a parasitic living thing, composed not of legs, arms, torso, and a mind, but of whole living beings, which it consumed indiscriminately to stay alive. Unlike what most people envisioned, it was not unthinking or even unfeeling. It served only one master: to create a profit for its stockholders at any cost. To create a profit in any way imaginable was its sole objective. When the economy began to stumble, there were fewer dollars to feed on; it did what came naturally: it enacted mass layoffs and slashed budgets, oblivious to the human wreckage it left behind. 

Terminating employees was not done to stay alive; it was done to protect profit margins for stakeholders whose investments were its only priority. Those who were heavily invested in the bank could continue to count on their sizable dividends, among the largest in the industry, allowing them to keep their vacation homes and send their children to private schools and colleges, thus keeping the cycle intact. 

The bank paid only the required severance, nothing more. To do so would be a violation of everything that it represented. Hiring someone like Mitch to terminate its employees allowed it to remain unaffected and detached from the pain it inflicted upon those who served the machine. Mitch and others like him could absorb the tears, the anger, and the pleas from the workers to keep their jobs. He could bear all of it, while the bank merely erased a liability from its ledger. When the economy began to grow again, the bank would simply hire new people, with lower salaries and fewer benefits, keeping the cycle alive. 

The bank received notice that one of its Layoff Specialists had walked off the job and was nowhere to be found, so it took the legally necessary steps to protect its assets. Human Resources contacted his estranged wife and the authorities, the minimum necessary to keep it from being held liable. When the police informed the bank that Mitch had recently liquidated his accounts, Mitch’s name was removed from the employee ledger. Tyler, one of their newest employees who had exhibited signs of financial bloodlust, was oblivious to the consequences he had created and could step into his place within moments, at least for the time being. 

In a time of skyrocketing unemployment, the bank was thriving, feeding upon the never-ending supply of souls who tried to survive and possibly find ways to thrive. Even for those who had reached the highest salaries at the bank, it came at a cost that the bank itself never had to pay. None of them had ever escaped reality, even those who had earned six-figure bonuses. They remained inextricably trapped in the system of earning, spending, living, and dying, knowing there would never be an escape from the snare.  

Human resources began finalizing Mitch’s file for termination with no severance. Final documents and checks were mailed to his address on file.