Each day each part of his suit emerged from the plastic coverings on the hangers like a cicada rising up for its brief time in the sun. He rubbed his hands along each sleeve making sure it was smooth and wrinkle free. Then that last button at the top of the shirt pulled tight together and sealed with the exact matching color of one of his silk ties. In the bathroom he carefully placed a towel on his shoulder so that he could dab his face with anti-aging cream, not to make him look younger but to hide any lines of emotions in his negotiations for the day. Then in a swoop and swing of his hair goop, he sealed his hair on his head like a helmet. He was ready for battle, a warrior of wealth he liked to call himself proudly to his colleagues.

As he walked out the door he grabbed one of the five leather briefcases that he used to match his suit and shoes and then he checked his ebony Porsche for any scratches or hint of dust. Something caught his eye and after licking the tip of his pinkie he removed the tiny spot on the windshield and slid into the driver’s seat. Off he went in a blast of speed, his designer sunglasses protecting him from the rising light.

Traffic was bad that day, a frozen metal river in the valleys of the skyscrapers, but he had enough time to go over the deal in his head. He was a genius of turning nothing into value. Those miserable defaulters had to be turned into money somehow, it was just a matter of creative number crunching, arranging and rearranging, selling and buying and selling it again, just passing it on. At first a game, then colleagues started to bet on how far they could go, and he went further than any of them. His deals, his money was reaching for the moon. His heart fluttered at that thought: Money Moon, he liked it! And he was going to get there no matter what. Some said they could even smell the money on him like some kind of noisome cologne. He smiled, it sounded great, though he had to admit he didn’t know what ‘noisome’ meant, it wasn’t a word from his degrees in finance.

As he approached the steel and glass behemoth which held his office, he could see a police line holding back a band of protestors around the building. A sigh slipped from his lips, how many times would he have to drive around the block before the underground garage entrance had been cleared. But then his clever eye caught the most rarest of gems in the city, and empty parking spot. He swooped in before the lady with the three kids in her car could take it. Sure, he’d have to send out one of the apprentices to swipe his credit card every thirty minutes to feed the meter, yet he felt clever for maneuvering into that spot. The seventy-five dollars for the day was nothing to him. Nothing at all, feeling we’re for the weak.

After getting out of his car, he placed the bumper-bumpers on each end of the car, rubber accoutrements to prevent any dents. He just hoped the sides of his car remained untouched and if they did he had left the side mini-cameras running to collect evidence of anyone who might try. As he walked towards the office, he caught glimpses of those protesting and thought what losers they were who didn’t know how to manage their money just right, or couldn’t hold their jobs, those unsuccessful ones. He looked up and away from that dirty lot until a sign was pushed so close to his face that he couldn’t read what it said, but he heard a small voice from the loser at the end of the sign, “Derek, is that you?”

He looked down and all he could say was, “Mom?”