A Second Chance To Get It Right

Chapter 1-2

I look over at the picture of my kids on the dresser. My wife took it during a camping trip in the Adirondacks two years before we split. It was late September and the trees were turning gold and orange under a bright blue sky across the lake. Crystal and Ted are sitting on the dock in front of our rental cabin with their feet dangling in the water. Seventh Lake, I believe it was. These days, my memory doesn’t serve me so well. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to forget: to un-live the pain of losing everything because I wasn’t paying attention to the things that mattered, like my wife and kids. Not to mention being an asshole when she finally had enough of being ignored and left me. I tried to convince myself I didn’t deserve the raking over I got, it’s not like I was cheating on her— unless you want to call spending all my time and energy on my job “cheating.”

Although she doesn’t say so, I know my daughter blames me too. Nothing mattered but my job. It was all about me, climbing up the ladder, being someone. Well, I’m nobody now. My son avoids talking about my f**k-up at all costs. To be honest so do I, but every now and again, like right now, I go there. It hardly seems possible Tiffany walked out on me three years ago. That was the beginning of my life going off the rails.

I finish my first cup of coffee and set it in the sink. I have an interview this afternoon at a small architectural firm specializing in historical renovations, which is a far cry from the multidisciplinary firm where I led twenty architects and interns in the architectural healthcare division. The pay I’m looking at with this little firm is also a quarter of what I made two years ago. In other words, I’m scraping near the bottom, and the prospective employers know it.

It’s an odd thing being over-qualified in the job market. People are suspicious of why you’re looking at them for employment. What happened, Mr. Big-Time Architect that you’re suddenly on the market? And why in God’s name are you looking at us? How do you answer that without looking desperate? What’s more, how do you frame being let go because of a downturn in healthcare expansion when the truth is you were let go because you got too big for your shoes, thinking you were indispensable. It’s a tricky balancing act getting around all that, and one I’m running out of time learning how to do.

Well, I better figure it out quick. I grab my shower and throw a pair of slacks and a cream-colored sweater on the bed. Not too dressy. I don’t want to look like F. Lee Bailey heading to court. On the other hand, I don’t want to give the impression I’m Steve Jobs strutting in with a cavalier attitude, either. I tilt my head back and forth, debating on a button-down shirt, and then decide to stay with my first choice. Another thing I’m debating is getting out of the apartment and heading across town for coffee and breakfast with a couple of regulars before running my errands. Be with people and take the edge off things. I’d planned on skipping that today because of the interview, but maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

A half hour later, I’m locking up. It’s a cool September morning, but the sun is out and the weatherman calls for a high in the mid-seventies. I hoof it across the lot to my late model Chevy Cruz. It’s not a bad car for a blue-collar worker, but it doesn’t work for me. I’m a Lexus guy, Corinthian leather and style. But the Cruz is what I’m stuck with. (Yeah, I know, poor old me!) What’s worse is it needs a set of tires I don’t have the money for right now. I throw my laptop in the front seat, fold myself into a pretzel and get in.

I’m a good size guy these days, and I can stand to lose twenty or thirty pounds. If I don’t find a job pretty soon, I might end up doing it the hard way. I should probably stop smoking, too. I’d quit after I got married to Tiffany, then like an i***t I took it back up after she split.

Lighting up, I bring the window down and I’m off with the radio humming. I’ve downgraded to listening to country music these days and a little rock and roll. The symphony isn’t in my budget and I can’t bear to hear good music piped though cheap speakers. I’ve also downgraded to Panera because I can’t afford the country club for coffee and crepes.

When I arrive at Panera the lot is stuffed with cars. I find a spot in the adjacent lot and hike to the front door. It’s buzzing inside from the morning breakfast crowd. I glance around looking for John and Mike. When I see them over by the window, I zigzag my way over to them. Both men are retired. John is a former environmental engineer and Mike, a civil engineer. They look up as I come to their table.

“Gentlemen,” I say.

“Hey, we wondered where you were,” Mike says.

John gives me the once up and down, then grins and says, “Teatime at the country club today?”

I want to smack him, but I smirk instead, “Yeah, hanging with the big boys and all.” The sad thing is I used to be one of them. “I’m going for coffee. You guys want anything?” (I don’t really want to buy a round, but you have to keep up appearances.)

“No, we’re good,” they say.

I wend my way through the coming and going patrons, find my place in line, and when I get to the clerk I order a cinnamon roll and a cup of black coffee. On my way back, I catch a whiff of citrus with a heady scent. I know that fragrance, but from where? I stop and breathe it in, delighting in its tang, and sweep my gaze over the room, tracking it like a bloodhound. Wherever it came from, it’s gone a minute later and I’m left trying to puzzle out whom I might’ve known that once wore it. I make my way back to Mike and John, who are discussing the Orangemen’s upcoming game this Saturday. Fifteen minutes later I catch the scent again.

I look up, and walking past me in all her blessed, blazon glory is Monica Taratoni. Bingo! I haven’t seen her in years. We were a couple once. I don’t know if you could say we were in love, but we were certainly an item. The memories of her sweet smile and the way she made me feel like I was the catch of a lifetime suddenly come rushing back as if it was just yesterday.

I watch her take a seat at a table not far away. She’s wearing a pretty light blue sundress with spaghetti straps that accentuate her hourglass figure. For a woman in her fifties, she looks outstanding. Her light cocoa complexion is smooth as silk, and more than likely soft as butter. She wears her dark hair shorter these days, and it frames her flawless heart-shaped face perfectly. She takes a sip of her drink, draws a lock of hair over her ear, and stares down at her phone though stylish dark-framed glasses.

I half listen to Mike and John, who are engaged in an argument over who should start tonight’s game. As they babble and quibble for the next forty minutes, I furtively glance back at Monica. She appears to be alone. I wonder what I would say if she saw me. What do you say to a woman who rocked your world so long ago?

I take another sip of coffee, and I’m going down memory lane. The last time I saw her was at the State Fair in ’85. We’d broken up a couple of months earlier, if you want to call it that. More like I just stopped calling her. Why I stopped, I couldn’t begin to tell you, except it might’ve had to do with her hinting at wanting more and me being too scared (and stupid) to take her up on it. I’d convinced myself we were going in different directions. Funny how that is with me: drifting away from people. At the time, my buddy Robbie said we were just two well-built ships that dropped anchor for a couple years on our way to different ports. Hopefully, her port turned out better than mine.

“Hey, Alan, what do you say?” Mike asks.

I startle and look up. They’re both staring at me, waiting for me to break the tie in their argument. I shrug. I didn’t hear half of what they said but I assume they’re talking about Eric Dungey, the Orangemen’s quarterback. “I suppose he’d do all right. But he’s not the most mobile guy on the field. He a moving target, and Pitt knows it.”

“Not him, the guy running for city council. Keep up,” John says.

I’m a Republican, moderate conservative, and I try hard not to get involved in political arguments. I’m not in the mood for getting between two guys trying to swing me to their side, but I answer anyway. “Oh, him. Not a fan, really. Too far to the left for my taste.”

“See, I told you,” John says to Mike.

“Ahh, come on,” Mike snorts. He turns back to me. “What’s so far-left about him?”

Suddenly I have to get out of here. I’m not good with awkward moments, and I’m not interested in Monica seeing how far I’ve slid down the social ladder. “Another time,” I say, and pick my plate up.

John says, “You heading out already?”

“I think so. Errands. Next week?”

They nod. “Have a good one,” Mike says, but I know he’s chafing over my dismissing his question.

I glance over at Monica again as I head toward the front door. She’s on her phone now and there’s a delightful giggle coming from her. I used to make her laugh like that once upon a time. I need to stop thinking about her but damn it, the memories keep rolling in.

After I drop my plate off at the dish depository, I head outside for my car and ten minutes later I’m heading to my errands, doing sixty-three in a sixty-five. I’m in no hurry these days. I get where I need to be when I get there, unlike most people who buzz past me. I light up another cig and bring the window down a crack as Chris Stapleton belts out “Millionaire,” which is rather ironic considering where my life is right now. As I listen, a vision of Monica flashes in front of me. I think of her smooth skin against mine as a clunky old garbage truck blowing a tail of black diesel pulls onto the highway ahead. I move over to the left lane and put my foot to the pedal to pass it before the damned thing gases me out. I’m just about clear of the truck and ready to pull back into the right lane when, thunk! The wheel jerks out of my hand, and I’m thinking: Oh, oh! This isn’t going to be good.

A moment later, I’m a hood ornament, then airborne, rolling over and over. Screeching metal and shattering glass scream in my ears, then pop, pop, pop, a loud crack and blinding pain at the base of my neck. Blackness pours in and I’m in oblivion.