Henry clicked on the Solitaire icon on his laptop screen. As he opened the game and the cards were dealt,Henry let the familiar comfort and predictability of the game flow through him, seeming to seep into the wrinkles in his brain with a numbing gel that brought relief. Solitaire has been Henry’s only friend for a long time, ever since Jen died. Jen has been the organizer of their lives, scheduling couple dinners, game nights with neighbors, even the occasional weekend getaways. After she died, a few friends reached out to Henry to invite him over for dinner or out for golf, but he always politely declined. Eventually the invitations stopped coming and he was grateful for it. It was too hard to continue with the old life and he had no interest in starting a new one. So here he sat, one year later, alone in the study of their four bedroom house playing Solitaire on a Saturday afternoon.
The doorbell rang and Henry opened up his Ring camera app to see a woman who appeared to be in her sixties breathing heavily on his front porch as she stacked up his groceries next to the Hunter green screen door and then turned to start walking back to her car for the next load.
For a split second, Henry felt a mild annoyment about leaving the comfort of his laptop, but if there was one thing Henry was, it was polite to a fault. So we pushed back his desk chair and walked to the door, unlocked the bolt, and stepped outside in the cool fall air. He walked down the three steps to the sidewalk in front of his house and took a few steps towards the woman’s blue Honda Civic.
“Hello”, he called to her from a distance so as not to startle her, “Please let me help you with that.” The woman was digging around in her trunk and didn’t even look up. “No need, I’ve got it, but you really need to back off the Diet Coke. It’s worse for you than the sugary stuff, you know.”
Henry stood silent and stoic, increasingly annoyed but bound by his upbringing to maintain his composure and politeness.
1/4: Ugh, January is tough. Back at work tomorrow, trying to dry out from too many holiday cocktails and muster up enthusiasm for the new project they put me on. It’s supposed to be an honor, I realize, to get to work with THE Jeremy Nelson, the bright shiny star at the office since he came up with the idea that saved our biggest client last month, but he’ll probably be just another conceited asshole I have to pretend to be bowled over by in order to keep my job. Working for a family-owned marketing firm means playing by their ridiculous 1960’s patriarchal rules, at least for now.
1/7: Sticking with dry January so far, but just barely. Thought about heading straight to the bar after our first meeting for Highline, the CBD-infused vitamin project. As expected, Jeremy is an absolute nightmare. He is 23 years old and just graduated from UVA last year. He came into the meeting barking orders like he owns the palace, which I guess he technically does since he is a 2nd cousin to the boss. What a fucking nightmare. I haven’t been putting in my dues for the last eight years to be demoralized by this prick. I asked a simple question about the launch timeline during the meeting and he got completely defensive, probably because he has no clue what he is doing.
“For the moment, maybe, but let’s see how he feels in six months”, Clyde said with a sigh. “I knew someone else who won the lottery once, and let me tell you, money does not buy happiness, at least for very long.”
“Are you joking?”, I spatted back incredulously. “That guy just won ten million dollars and is on top of the world! Did you hear his interview with WCNC news? He is going to pay off his mother’s mortgage, quit his job at the car dealership, and give his fiance the wedding of her dreams! Why are you such a Debbie downer? Can’t you just be happy for the guy?”
Clyde leaned against the split rail fence that separated our yards and looked across the street at the lineup of cars and TV station vans parked in Bennie’s driveway and spilling out onto his lawn. “I’m just saying”, he stated, “every Higgins in the phone book is suddenly going to be showing up at his door begging for money for their grandma’s hip surgery or selling him on their ‘can’t lose” business opportunity. It’s a burden to have more money that you need.”
“First of all, phone books don’t even exist anymore” I pointed out. “Secondly, that’s what lawyers are for. I, for one, am jealous as hell and hope he takes the money and gets the heck out of this town as quick as he can and doesn’t look back. He should move to that new gated development in Banner Elk. I heard they even have indoor basketball courts. Boy, would that be cool. Way better than those old broken down courts at the park.”
“Not again”, I think, my shoulders unconsciously slumping forward as I steel myself for the inevitable conversion to follow. For a split second, I imagine myself melting into the hot New York City sidewalk, morphing like Keanue Reeves in the Matrix and sliding down into the grime and cigarette butts that make up the fabric of these iconic city streets. That would be far preferable to the conversation that is sure to follow.
“Claire? Claire Delaney, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me”, I managed a small, close-close lipped smile and silently hoped whoever this person was would suddenly get hit by a messenger bike.
“Wow! I barely recognized you! It’s Kimmy Adams, from Robert Half Recruiting. We worked together to fill a few accounting positions at your firm last year. I heard you weren’t there anymore.” Kimmy paused as she glanced at my dinghy, oversized t-shirt that stated “Need More Coffee” while she pulled the pieces of the story from her memory banks.
I glanced down at the brown stain on the front of of my t-shirt, which was ironically not from coffee as one might assume, but from the beer I shotgunned at Ray’s Pub an hour ago. “Yeah, it didn’t work out at Penderton.” I pause and consider how little I can say to make this conversation end. “I’m in between jobs right now.”
