Danny Johnson bio coming soon!

The American Dream (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)

CAUTION! What you are about to read can be hazardous to your mental health. I’m going to tell you a story, spin you a yarn, some for you to believe, some not. It begins in a mental state, and ends in one; the time is anytime and the place is yours. Yours, that is, if you’re a true child of the flower, a babe of the boom, a member of the class of ’65. I know you. You are suffering and need answers. Go see a psychiatrist if you must, but if he has a thing for Leary, he may be as fucked up as you are.

This is not funny, then again it could be. If you want funny, read Andy Rooney or Art Buchwald. Maybe some of it is funny. Maybe some of it is true. The beginning is the middle, the end a beginning. Read on to recognize yourself. If you say this can’t be me, you are full of shit.

It was one of those miserable Southern July days when the temperature and the humidity were about the same. Two bodies glistened with sweat as they parried in the withering heat. “But Joe, you know you are going to need it.”

“Nah. What the fuck do I need it for; I got all I can use now. There is a recession in case you haven’t heard yet.” Joe was a greasy swarthy-faced fat man. Beads of brown-stained fluid streaked from his temples in a dash to the edge of his bloated jaws.

“Do it for me, Joe. I’ve got my ass on the line. I’m a month behind on the mortgage and Dives is busting my balls.”

“Why should I give a shit? We all got problems.”

I wanted to get a good grip beneath Joe’s fat face, except I would have to touch his disgusting body. “I’ll tell you what,” says Joe. “I’ll take it if you’ll stay the hell away from here for a few weeks and quit worrying the shit out of me.”

“You got it, old buddy.” I smiled my biggest and brightness and wrote the order for two thousand dollars worth of heating pipes, then kowtowed all the way to my car. Once inside, I rolled the windows up tight and cranked the air conditioner to full blast. “Joe Blemus, I hate your fucking guts, you fat sonofabitch.” My glare shot intense killer darts at the door of Joe’s shop, daring him to come back out. I slithered off down the two-lane blacktop in my salesman’s standard dark blue Cutlass with silver trim, that matched my gray slacks and Navy sports jacket, that matched my dark blue loafers and dark blue socks.

“Dave Garrick, you are a slimy, low-life, worthless piece of shit. You haven’t got enough balls to keep a two-fingered juggler busy.” I muttered to myself. I implored the cracked white and blue skies, “God, please don’t let this be the way I have to live the rest of my life. Give me a sign.” Nothing happened as I braked the car at the stop sign of the country crossroad. Right would lead me to the interstate and home. Left was another customer and more ass kissing. I let go of the wheel and stepped on the accelerator. The tire bounced on a rock and swerved right. Good, the decision was made. It must have been a sign.

My mind wandered, my vision captivated by endless lines of telephone poles and billboards. At the edge of the next town that looked just like all the other towns in the Eastern armpit of North Carolina, I wheeled into the big “M” for a burger. It was three o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday, but somebody was in front of me at the drive-up window. No matter what I did, there was always someone else in front of me.

The burger had a taste to match my mood. While I munched, a sign across the street caught my eye. The painted letters on the wood had lost their battles with sunshine and rain, but I could make out “old books.” Chucking the remaining bun to the birds, I moseyed over. A bell tinkled above the painted, peeling doorframe, announcing my arrival as I pushed it inward. The mustiness of old cloth and paper assaulted my senses. It was a comfortable and warm space with books filling every conceivable nook and cranny. Books were stacked on tops of tables, in boxes, scattered on the floor, as if saying “just chuck your troubles at the door and find your peace.” Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the power of the written word. It was staggering just to imagine the hours of blood, sweat, and tears expended by the people it took to write all these pages. Writing had always been a secret passion of mine, yet, in the presence of Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Conrad, I felt embarrassed to have even considered myself worthy of being in their company. How could I ever dared to consider putting my feeble thoughts into volumes along side them? Yet, the desire to do so was overwhelming, wanting, knowing, believing I must have a true talent for something.

As I strolled amongst the shelves, a little blue book pushed itself out towards me. It had blue clouds on the cover and the title was As A Man Thinketh. I looked on the spine and the author was James Allen. I thought he should have penned a little more imagination into his name. I flipped open to a chapter called Visions and Ideals, and began to read.

The dreamers are the saviors of the world. As the visible world is sustained by the invisible, so me, through all their trials and sins and sordid vocations, are nourished by the beautiful visions of their solitary dreamers. Humanity cannot forget its dreamers; it cannot let their ideals fade and die; it lives in them; it knows them as the ‘realities’ which it shall one day see and know. The words hit me like a sack of stones, like the writer was talking directly to me, like he knew me and had come into my life at exactly the right time.

The drive home was interminable. I had found my calling. My enthusiasm bubbled. Visions of plaid shirts, blue jeans, a ponytail, and having great intellectual conversations about James Joyce danced in my head. Sybil would not warm to this life right away, but I was sure she would come around.

That night after dinner, the local news, two scotches, and the kid was in bed, I got up enough courage to tell Sybil of my intentions to open a used book store and pursue a writing career.

She was not impressed. “Don’t hand me that bullshit. You get your ass back to work tomorrow morning. If you weren’t so damn lazy we’d have a new car like Roger and Anne. Books! Shit! You know as much about books as you do about buffalo crap.”

Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. Sybil had spent the first five years of our marriage being the childless martyr. Then, after a surprise pregnancy, she had spent the last five wishing she’d take advantage of the first five. I could never understand what it takes to make them happy.

To convince Sybil I had truly found the Holy Grail, I spent many sleepless nights over the next several weeks pounding out the great American novel. Each day I would update her on the brilliance of my Muse, but, now totally convinced I was going insane, she went on binge after binge of insatiable credit-card-o-mania. The tactic was simple, keep him in debt and keep him working.

It took its toll, but I continued to preserver. My new mustache had hardly started to shade my upper lip when I spent eighty dollars at the opticians for proper literary spectacles, rimless of course. Months passed. I got nearer exhaustion, but no nearer anything remotely readable; my ego was taking an ass kicking. What I needed was some encouragement, just a quick fix to renew my depleted confidence. A short story published in some small magazine should to the trick. I whipped out a fast paced Vietnam adventure of three thousand words and zipped it off to Playboy, then sat back and waited for the check. Scenes of me and Sylvester Stallone knocking back a few played in my head. The only thing that would convince Sybil was money, and the check would do nicely. I waited confidently as weeks passed.

One evening I came home from a really shitty day, shaking water from my umbrella at the door. Sybil called to me from down the hall, “you got something from Playboy.” Could it be? I dashed along the carpet, nervous pain filling my stomach. Quickly brushing aside the rubber shit pile Sybil had so lovingly sat on top of the brown manila envelope, my heart sank. Sybil had already opened it and drew a smiley face on the mimeographed rejection note.

Since my window was only ten feet from the ground, I opted for a quick pistol shot to the head. Then I remembered I was out of bullets. And it was too rainy to go out again.

“Where’s the check, Shakespeare?” Would the woman give me no peace? Maybe I would go buy bullets after all. At least in prison I would have time to write. Upon reconsideration, however, I decided better vengeance would be to cut up her credit cards after she was asleep.

Lying crumpled across the bed, my head buried beneath two pillows, I decided to toss in the towel. My life was destined to be enslaved by others, manacled by debt in order to keep up with Roger and Anne. God, how I hated Roger and Anne.

“What’s the matter with daddy?” Our five-year-old Samuel had wandered into the bedroom. “Mummy, why does daddy have his head under the pillows? Is he sick?”

“Yes, dear, your dad has a rare disease. It’s called ‘dummio assio’, and in his case, it’s incurable.”

Later that night I stumbled down to the basement to preserve my languorous mood with substantial portions of scotch and soda. I pulled out my precious manuscript, and smoothed the pages to read it one last time before casting it to the winds via the fireplace. Soon, however, the papers and I were having a conversation, Silenus and Bacchus. Finally, they won and I extinguished the fire. Sometime later, I passed out.

A peeping sun pried my protesting eyelids open the next morning. An African tribe was beating on drums somewhere inside my temples; they must have started up to let me know a lion had shit in my mouth. I dragged my weary body up the steps and into the bathroom, searching desperately for aspirin. In the pursuit, I knocked over a glass bowl full of scented soap balls.

“Will you shut the hell up you clumsy asshole. If you wake up the child, you’re going to regret it.” Sybil was not a morning person.

With malice toward all, I chose a large piece of the broken glass whilst an evil smile crept across my face. Saliva foamed at the corners of my mouth. As I turned towards the door, holding my weapon in the stabbing position, a jagged edge ripped into my big toe.

“Son of a bitch! Ow! Goddammit!” When I hopped, another piece plunged itself into my other foot. I was under attack by scented soap and it was beginning to be a bloody battle. In a flash, Sybil was at the doorway, hair rollers askew.

“Stop hopping around and sit down.” She always knew how to assume control of any situation. She swept up the glass and applied iodine with a vengeance. Beaten and bloody, I heeled and side-footed to the bed. There was no way I could go to work today. I dialed the phone. “Dives, Dives, and Dives,” answered the nasal voice on the other end.

“Shirley, this is Dave Garrick. Let me speak to Dave, Jr., please.”

“One moment, Sir.” I had worked there ten years and every time I called, she acted like she had never heard of me.

After a short rendition of “The Way We Were,” without lyrics, the phone clicked. “Dave Dives here.”

“Hello Dave, this is Dave Garrick. I’m calling to let you know I’ve had a little accident and won’t be in today.”

“What’s the matter, Dave?”

“Well, this is going to sound silly but I’ve managed to cut both my feet, and I don’t think I can wear shoes, much less drive the car.”

“Gosh, Dave, I hate to hear that. We really need you out there selling. You’re not going to let a little cut keep you down are you?”

“I’m afraid it’s more than a little cut, Dave, and very sore.”

“I really think you need to be at work, Dave. What happened, drop a glass or something?”

“Actually, Dave, I was on my way home from work late last night when I chanced to see a car had run off the road into the river. Naturally, I stopped to see if I could help. Heck, Dave, it could have been a customer. Anyway, there was a woman and baby trapped inside, so I had to kick out the windows in order to rescue them. The reporters wanted to get my name and picture, but I said no, just doing my duty as a citizen.”

“Gee whiz, Dave, that’s really something. Go ahead and take some time off, but try to get in by lunchtime. You can work your customers over the phone. I would appreciate it.”

“I’ll try.”

“Goodbye, Dave.”

“Goodbye, Dave.” I cradled the phone and just sat staring at it.

After a breakfast of soda water and crackers, I settled onto the couch for a dose of Oprah. Naturally, she was interviewing some unknown author who had become an overnight success. That pushed me into a further state of depression, so I waddled into the kitchen. It was time to go for it.

“Sybil,” I began, “I’m going to open the bookstore.”

“That’s it. I’ve had it. You can take care of the kid; I’m going to check into the hospital. You have finally driven me crazy.” She threw the spatula at me.

“Come on, honey. Try a little understanding.”

“What I understand is the bills that come in the mail every day, the washing machine that is broken, and Samuel needs braces. What else is it that you want me to understand?”

“That I am not going to live the rest of my life in the shitpile of Middle America, being flushed from one septic tank to another. I’m either going to sink or float, but I’m going to get my ass off the toilet.” I was flailing my arms like a Georgia preacher.

A roar of silence swept over us. Our canary stopped chirping for the first time in its miserable life. He was keeping one eye cocked, knowing some heavy shit was going down. Sybil’s shoulders slumped noticeably, her head rolled back to crack her neck. “Okay, you want it, you do it.”

“Thanks, honey. I won’t let you down.” I squeezed her tight. She lifted up to give me a peck on the cheek. I couldn’t help but wonder if the fact that she never put down the double bladed paring knife was a clue to her real feelings.

For the next several days, I attacked each obstacle to opening my store. First, I found several dealers from whom I could purchase used books. Then I spent afternoons searching for a place to rent. Most of the property owners reminded me of the movie “Deliverance”; they wanted me to spread my cheeks and squeal like a pig. My pressing problem was money, I didn’t have any. It looked like it would be mortgage the house or nothing. Since Christmas was only a month away, I decided to wait until after the first of the year to again do battle with Sybil.

December went about as planned, Sybil tried to wear the plastic off every credit card we had. I had alternating days of depression and euphoria, wondering if reality was going to jump up and bite me in the ass. After the holidays, all the sales people were forced to spend a week in the office, making new business plans and getting pep talks and general crappola. Dave Dives enjoyed himself by seeing just how big of a prick he could be. I made it until Friday without serious confrontations. “Garrick, how about letting me see you in my office at eleven.” Old Dave had a serious look in his eye.

“Sure, Dave.” Oh Jesus, here it comes, I thought. I headed to the coffee pot. By the time I worked my way through five or six cups and I could feel my heart doing the salsa, it was time.

I rapped sharply on Dive’s door. “Come in, Garrick.” There were a couple of straight back chairs in front of his desk. Most of us believed he had the legs shortened intentionally so he could look down at you while he talked. I sat down in one, and took out my imaginary shovel to start emptying the shithouse.

“Dave,” he began, his big nose constantly twitching to support his eyeglasses, “I wanted to talk with you in hopes it would help improve your performance. I don’t mind saying we haven’t been pleased.”

Frustration bolted out of my gut, streaked past my heart, and galloped out of my mouth. “Well fuck it. I’ve had all this shit I can stand anyway.” Was I really saying this?

“What did you say, Garrick?” The fire flush on his face told me he had heard every word perfectly. He just didn’t believe it.

“I said I quit. Take your job, your phony bullshit, and shove it up your ass. I’m sick of you and this company.”

“Dave, you better calm down. You better think about what you’re doing.”

“I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it every time you rage on about some nit-picking shit when you don’t have the brains God gave a dog’s ass; I’ve thought about it alright, and, the more I do, I wonder why I don’t punch you right in your ugly face.”

“Get out!” Dives screamed. “Take your personal effects and get out!”

“I’m going, but before I leave, I’m going to do something I’ve always wanted to do.” I walked over to his desk which he kept neat and wiped down with alcohol the way an anal asshole like him would. He especially kept his phone clean, spending at least five minutes each day wiping and polishing the gold mouthpiece until he was absolutely sure not one germ survived. He was convinced the janitor used it at night, and God knows what kind of disease he might get.

I picked up the receiver while he watched in disbelief, then, slowly, agonizingly, pulled the waist of my slacks away from my stomach, and smiled right in his face as I thrust the receiver into my underwear. He was in physical pain as I rubbed his beloved phone all over my balls, and then rotated it to my backside to gently slide it up and down the crack of my ass. When I finally brought it out, he was clutching his heart.

“Ta, ta, old man.” I turned on my heels, strolled through the secretary pool and out the double glass doors to the street. In the bright sunlight, I found a good solid parking meter to steady myself. My knees wanted to buckle. After a few moments, the reality of what I had done sledge-hammered me. Images of Samuel in rags, selling pencils for pennies while Sybil had to fuck the banker in order to pay the mortgage, flashed through my mind.

In times of severe mental anguish, the only alternative is drink; so I walked to Sam’s. I figured to have one last lunch before turning in the company Master Card. No two Martini lunch today; today would be Champagne, steak, and drinks for the house. I mumbled to myself as I swayed down the street. People walked in the gutter to avoid me.

Sam’s place was dark even in daylight, subtle lighting, dark mahogany wood, dark burgundy booths, and dark thick carpet. It catered to the young executive. As usual, Sam met his customers graciously. “Mr. Garrick, how are you, Sir?”

“Fine, Sam. Say Sam,” I paused.

“Yes Sir?”

“Why don’t you get some lights? It looks like a goddamn morgue for Chrissake.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sam fell back a few steps, flustered by my attack.

“Never mind. Just fucking with you. Let me have a back booth, will you.”

“Certainly, sir, right this way.”

I eased into the booth, ordered a double scotch, and began to mull over the day so far. As I worked on my second drink, I really couldn’t understand why I hadn’t gone ahead and beat the shit out of Dives. A picture of me and ol’ Dave Jr. pounding each other, rolling over desk through the secretary pool, hearing the cheers of the girls, “Garrick, Garrick, he’s our man, If he can’t do it, nobody can. Yea, Dave.” The mind movie caused me to laugh out loud, startling the couple in the next booth. Sam was eyeing me from the front. He made a living by knowing who was on the way up or down, and his nose was quivering with suspicion.

It was three in the afternoon when I stumbled out into the bright sunshine, but three-thirty before I could find my car and get it unlocked. The radio blasted “She works hard for her money,” and Sybil’s face swept through my dulled senses. Somehow, I managed to get home, although my left eye would probably suffer permanent damage from hanging my head out the window to get a clear view of the road. Fortunately, the house was empty. I passed out in peace.

The smell of sizzling steak woke me from a battle with monsters in which the monsters were winning.

“Did you have a nice nap?” Sybil was standing over me.
“
Yeah. Where have you been?”

“I went shopping with Anne. They want us to come over after dinner for a few drinks.”

“Please, Sybil, I’ve had a rough day. I really don’t feel up to it.”

She turned, tongs in hand, smiled sweetly, and said, “of course you do dear. It’ll do you good.”

It was amazing how she always knew what was good for me. “Where’s Samuel?”

“He’s staying at Jonathan’s tonight. We have the place all to ourselves.” She finished the sentence with a neck nuzzle, implying I was in for big stuff if I behaved. Men will do anything for sex, and with Sybil, it was damn little and damn seldom, so I fondled her butt in agreement. I’d tell her about the job tomorrow.

When we arrived at Roger and Anne’s, Roger was his usual humble self. Their house reflected his personality, just the right mixture of under and over statement, blending carefully the essence of modern and antique. Far be it from Roger to offend any of God’s children. His hair was tipped with gray at the temples, and he wore college-boy sockless loafers.

“Dave, Sybil, how are you?” We saw one another two or three times a week, but Roger always treated it like the Second Coming, hugging and kissing. “How’s the heating and air business, Dave?”

“Just getting along, Roger. How’s insurance?”

“Great, couldn’t be better.” He had a disgusting habit of talking faster than he could swallow, leaving spittle at the corners of his mouth. “Sybil, you’ve had your hair cut. Looks great.”

“Thank you for noticing, Roger. You’re always so observant.” The over-the-shoulder look I got reminded me of how unobservant I was.

Anne stood at the bar in the den, a toothpick full of olives in one hand and a martini in the other. She was a very well preserved forty-one year old blonde, with a sharp and sadistic personality. I guess that’s why she and Sybil got along so well. “Hi, Sybil. Come on over and have a drink.”

“Hello, Annie,” Sybil returned. “I’ll have one just like yours.”

“Dave, I suppose you’ll have your usual boring scotch and soda?” Anne asked.

I started to request a tequila and tonic with orange slices just for the hell of it, but didn’t. “Yes, thank you.”

“Men are just so predictable these days, don’t you think Sybil?”

“At least the ones we know.” Sybil settled onto a barstool.

“I guess we have to be inspired, right Roger?” I looked for a little wingman aid.

Roger fumbled with the ice cubes. “Yeah. Hee, hee.” He was such a pussy.

“You want inspiration, Dave? I’ll give you inspiration, fuck you. That inspire you enough?” Anne definitely had a mouth on her.

Roger quickly changed the subject. “Did you buy that stock I told you about, Dave?”

“Nah, I wasn’t convinced it would do that well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It jumped eleven points and split. I made a bundle.”

A sonic boom of quiet reverberated around the room. I studied my drink for a long moment. Sybil’s eyes bore into my back. I walked slowly over to the bar and set the glass down. Anne’s laughter broke the silence. “Missed the boat again, huh Dave.”

“Screw you Anne.” I drained the scotch. Visions of me and Dives rolling over the desk came back again, and I began to laugh. What happened next was what good lawyers get juries to believe was temporary insanity. I punched Roger right in the face.

His head bounced twice on the plaid carpet, the blood was flowing and I was headed for the door. The women were screaming. I was laughing on the way out.

The first bar I came to was in a Holiday Inn. “Tequila and tonic, please,” I told the waitress. By midnight, I had to get a room or call a cab. I chose the room. Clothes lay where they fell as I did a good impression of a handicapped stripper. My swan dive to the bed rewarded me with only one bounce. Determined to get at least two, I positioned the ugly brown chair for my platform and tried to improve my technique. There was a brief moment of glory as I sailed through the air, then a long one of pain when I missed the bed. Blackness mercifully came quickly.

The next morning my body was locked in the fetal position. I tried to move, but the pain was too great. Finally, I crawled to the bathroom, somehow got the water on, and slithered face down into the tub. For an instant I wondered if past guest had pissed into the exact spot my face now occupied. I decided I really didn’t care.

After forty-five minutes or so, my brain started to function enough for me to realize where I was. The mirror reflected a red right cheek and a black left eye. Getting into my clothes was fairly easy, finding them had been the hard part. The morning sun was high by the time I located the car. On the way home, I farted, or at least that’s what I started to do. You can imagine the rest.

As luck would have it, Sybil was home. “Well, if it isn’t Rocky. Where the hell have you been?”

“I slept at a motel.”

She used her sing-songy impression of a Chinese laundry woman, “I slept at a motel, I slept at a motel. You smell like you slept in an shithouse.”

“Excuse me, Sybil. I have to go change clothes and brush my teeth.”

“Think about Roger while you’re brushing, he probably doesn’t have any. You have embarrassed me to no end. How can I ever face them again?”

Wearily I stopped brushing, spit residue into the sink, and turned to face her. “Fuck ‘em.” I ran water into a cup to rinse my mouth.

“My, what a wonderful way of expressing yourself, Dave. Fuck ‘em. I’m sure you’ll sell a million books with that vocabulary.”

“I quit my job, Sybil.”

“Oh, that’s fucking great. Samuel, come see your unemployed father.”

Samuel wandered into the bathroom, chewing an oatmeal cookie. “Are you sick again, dad?”

“Sybil, we have to talk.”

“Are you sure you want to talk, dear? Maybe you would prefer to punch me out.”

I considered it for just an instant or two, and then passed on the opportunity. “We mortgage the house.” I had become a man of few words. Maybe I’d make a movie with Clint Eastwood.

“Over my dead body.” I swear I only considered it for a minute.

“Sybil, it’s the only logical way to get out of debt and get the money to open the bookstore.”

“Dave, you are thirty-eight years old. I don’t want to start over. I like my new car, my charge accounts, my life insurance, and my dental insurance. How the hell do you think we can live without them?” Her powder-blue eyes were brimming with fright.

The stark realization that neither one of us had any idea who the other really was slapped me like a cold whore’s heart. To her, those things were security blankets that kept the evils of life’s greater questions at bay. To me, they were the nails that held my coffin shut. After ten years of marriage, we could have been total strangers. “Sybil, you’re just going to have to trust me and let me do this my way.”

“Have it your way, Dave. You and Frank Sinatra can go fuck yourself.” The guest room door slammed behind her.

Around eight that night, I asked Samuel to go see if mom wanted dinner. He returned quickly. “She said to blow it out your ass, dad. Does she mean like when you poot?”

“I don’t know, son. You want to go get a little Chinese?”

“Nah, I want a big Chinese. Gotcha. You didn’t think I remembered your joke, did you dad?”

“Let’s go, smart-alec.”

“Blow it out your ass, dad.”

A month later, I had the loan, a little shop, and shelves full of second-hand books. It was great fun to go to my very own place in the mornings. The eleven-hour days, six days a week seemed to fly by. Six months passed and I had a sneaking suspicion I was in trouble. The savings had run out and the rent on the store was due again, not to mention my now doubled house payment. That old wolf, reality, wasn’t banging on the door; he was kicking the shit out of it. It didn’t help when I realized I really didn’t know a damn thing about books.

Wallowing in depression and poverty one night, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop, and who should appear but old Dave Dives, Jr. “Hello, Dave.” I waited for him to attack me.

To my surprise, he stopped and came over to shake my hand. “How are you, Dave.”

“Okay I guess. How’s the company?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“Listen, Dave,” I began, “I want to apologize for----“

He cut me off. “No apology necessary; I understand you weren’t yourself.”

It truly shocked me at first, but in retrospect, I suppose his own super-inflated ego wouldn’t allow him to think anyone could dislike him that much. So, naturally, he put it off to some form of mental illness on my part. “In fact, Dave, we haven’t hired anyone yet, so, if things don’t work out here, give me a call.”

“Gosh, Dave, that’s really kind of you. I’ll keep it in mind.” I offered for him to come in the shop, but he took a look at the dusty shelves and declined.

When I pulled into the driveway that night, I got out and looked up at the Big Dipper. Dragging out a smoke, I hitched onto the fender of the car. The air was warm and hazy. Suddenly I wanted to go out and eat at expensive restaurants, go back to my men’s store for a new suit, reactivate my Blackberry. The realization that I didn’t have any money was very frustrating.

“Admit it, asshole, you aren’t going to make it. Hell, Dave wasn’t such a bad guy, and selling wasn’t all that tough.” Peering to the heavens for a sign, all I got was the full moon with shadows looking like a face grinning at me. How could I have been so wrong? I’d pissed our money down the drain, pissed off Sybil, and pissed off all our friends. They ought to make pissing off people an Olympic event. “Fuck it, tomorrow I go see Dave Dives.”

It took me two more cigarettes before I was composed enough to go in the house. Sybil was reading in bed. “Hello, cowboy,” she said. “I thought I’d wait up for you.”

“I’m glad, Sybil.” We made soft, passionate love, sweeter than it had been for a long time. Okay, so it really wasn’t like that, more like I told her I was going to go get my job back and she could have new credit cards, and what she really said was “make it fast.”

The next day I was at Dave Dive’s office by eight-thirty. When he ushered me in, he assumed his position behind his large desk. Chancing a glance at his telephone, I didn’t know when I’d ever felt smaller. “I must admit I didn’t expect to see you this soon, Dave. Things must not be going so well at the bookstore.”

“Actually no, Dave,” I groveled.

“Well, my policy is never to hold a grudge. However, you must understand it will take some adjustment. My expectations will be high.”

At that moment, a familiar haunting pain jabbed me in the stomach. I belched.

“Beg your pardon, Dave?” Dives looked down at me.

“I said ‘Fuck You.”

Pure hatred flashed from his eyes. “Get out you bastard. Get out and don’t you ever come back.”

This time I rose calmly and took my time getting to the door. My head was up and my back was straight. I departed.

The sun was hot and bright outside. What was it James Allen said? “The Dreamers are the saviors of the world. It cannot let their ideals fade and die.” Yep, I thought, it’s going to be a beautiful day.