Jennifer Kady Stanton

First 11,777 words of a 56,341 word manuscript

Mitch

The man reached for the cell phone that he kept charged on the bedside table, knocking it to the floor, 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 reached for the phone while still lying in bed and clumsily pressed the button on its side to check the time. It was already 7:30 AM. 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 Pinedale, 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 often a neighborhood friend 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 meticulously 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, canned foods for the winter, cared for elderly neighbors, made homemade quilts for new babies, or baked 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 Pinedale, 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 granddaughter 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 it 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 National Trust 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 sent with increasing frequency, announcing those who had successfully navigated the ever-increasing metrics.

Although a recession gripped the country 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 National Trust 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 National Trust 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 countertop. 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 catch my flight. 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 bangs.

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 fingernail.

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 still clacking loudly on the cold travertine tile floor as she slammed the door behind her.

Mitch looked 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 were 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, even though 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 one day. “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 its ever-expanding budget. 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 National Trust 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, the magical feeling they had shared in the coffee house was never 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, she 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, 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 to tread lightly when asking Daddy 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 it 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 remembered, 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 realized, before reaching for the black bridle, placing the bit in the gelding’s mouth, and pulling it 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 cut back on his hours at work, possibly. 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 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 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 before 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.

Mitch sat in his car, looking apathetically at his phone, re-checking the morning’s emails. The first was from his direct manager, reminding him to meet with the executives in Arizona as soon as he landed. Mitch deleted it before bracing himself to read a message from the corporate office in Arizona. There would be a massive layoff today, with Mitch among several managers sent to the southwest bank to terminate employees, review their severance packages, and determine how many years of their lives were worth a small compensation 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 calculated into these equations. Their professional lives were being reduced to a cold and sterile spreadsheet, Mitch thought as he deleted the final messages, leaving them unread.

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 drained to fund basic living expenses. The gloomy economic news seemed to match the gray mist that enveloped Mitch’s sedan as it 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 economic 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 National Trust, 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 of money to ignore Johnson’s obnoxious behavior. He had been repeatedly told not to smoke or curse in the office, but the mandates had been brushed aside.  

“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 we’ve got to get it done. We have 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 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 rose to leave his office, promising to remain in contact as developments arose. As Mitch wearily shut the door behind him, he heard a quiet, “God Damn it,” and a flick of the lighter.

Mitch checked the airline app on his phone, noting that his flight was still on time, scheduled to depart 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.  National Trust would cover the cost of the ride share, but wouldn’t pay for 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 National Trust, 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 and slowly pulled into the space beside Brandi’s gleaming SUV.  He noticed an unfamiliar old Civic with peeling paint parked along the curb in front of the house. 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 within him. 

He entered the kitchen, set his keys and coffee cup on the counter, and walked to the coffee maker for the carafe to fill his mug. He could hear scrambling and urgent, hushed voices coming from Jessica’s downstairs suite, as he calmly refilled his travel mug with steaming brew. 

“Shh, be quiet, I think he’s here,” Mitch heard Brandi say in a coarse whisper.

A man laughed rudely, and Brandi screamed, then laughed with him, before the room fell silent. Mitch heard the door to the suite quietly open as he stood in the kitchen, looking into the empty kitchen sink. Brandi walked casually to the coffee maker, her hair messy 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 as she reached up to smooth the back of her hair.

“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.

The ride-share pulled alongside the curb at the terminal as Mitch retrieved his bag from the trunk and slowly began walking to his flight’s gate, passing other tired business-class travelers.  He pulled at the collar of his shirt as he lumbered behind a long line of passengers, who were slowly and methodically waiting to board 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. Splashes of pink and orange sprayed across the desert floor, framed by stately Saguaro cacti that looked like armed soldiers standing guard against the evening sky.  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 plush 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, placed a tiny pill under his tongue, and waited for it to dissolve. 

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 bag. 

“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 with a deep sigh, “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 $100 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 get the terminated employees 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 eyes shining in the fluorescent light.

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 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 pill.  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 said, 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 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 them in to you, in order of the files, since you don’t know any of them,” he said with a slight laugh, 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 for the bank, and realized the missed birthdays, anniversaries, and family vacations that would have warranted the accomplishments. 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 as they darted between Mitch and his file, which lay on the table before him.

“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.

“To begin, Trust Bank wants to acknowledge your service with the bank, “ Mitch said methodically, according to the script. “You have been a valuable employee and have been a tremendous asset to the bank,” he continued, his voice growing smaller with each passing word. 

David looked at Mitch skeptically, his eyes reflecting hurt and anger, at the hollow praise that was surely to be prefaced by devestation. Mitch drew in a deep breath before continuing. 

“Unfortunately, Mr. Patterson, I’m here because your position at National Trust has ended,” he said, 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,” Mitch said, the words leaving a sickly taste in his mouth.

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,” Mitch said, the words almost choking him as he slowly opened 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 demanded, his voice a mixture of grief and disbelief. 

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

“National Trust 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 photograph.

“I’m sorry, but your time is up,” Tyler said, his voice splintering in 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 earshot.

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

“It will get easier,” Tyler said without waiting for a reply. “You’ve got another one outside. I’ll bring her in,” he said, walking back to the door.

The breath caught in his chest as the room began to spin, and he turned abruptly to Tyler. 

“Give me a minute, please,” Mitch said, “I need a moment,” he said, the words barely audible. 

“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 quick 15-minute break, but hurry back because we still have 49 more employees 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 reasoned to himself. 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 as he walked rapidly from the building, beads of sweat beginning to roll down his back.

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 continued walking along the busy street, time evaporating in the Arizona sun. The mental break would do everyone good, he reasoned. The pain in his right temple seemed to be intensifying with each step as he rushed along the busy street. Dusty cars raced to seemingly nowhere in the glaring, sterile light.  

He had been gone for over twenty minutes now, and still hadn’t found a place to stop, but now his gait had slowed slightly, 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 constant 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.  Written in a thick marker, 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 handwritten 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. Now, a prison cell felt preferable, for the bank 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 the benefits and salary 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 cage, 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, and he felt his heart beating heavily in his chest.  With each heartbeat, the pain in his right temple intensified.  He felt his breathing quicken, but now 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 perhaps 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, as they 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 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 calmly 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 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. Suppose 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?”