Day 62: Hot Air, High Speeds (Part 1)

The sun was just starting to permeate the venetian blinds of the his studio apartment as James awoke a little late that morning, slightly agitated that his alarm clock didn't wake him up. He looked at the black Casio LCD screen, picked it up and pretended to scold it before letting it off the hook by setting it back on the nightstand next to his futon bed. He hadn't slept well the night before so 5:45 AM felt especially early this morning; maybe it was a blessing the alarm hadn't gone off. James leaped out of bed into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee and then jumped into the shower.

He left his studio that morning wearing a shoddy looking overcoat, some worn trousers and his favorite blue and grey checkered sweater, carrying a battle-worn brown leather briefcase. By the time he left that morning it was already 7:00 AM, exactly one hour later than he had originally planned. He wasn't worried though, he had a lot to do this morning, but a sense of calm had come over him. He would be late for work, but he didn't care. He took a swig out of his coffee mug and walked down the rickety steel spiral staircase from his upstairs apartment down to his parking spot.

The sky blue paint of his Prius was noticeably tainted by the black and white calling cards of passing by birds. This annoyed him, but he appreciated the irony in nature literally shitting on his "green car". He set the coffee mug atop the roof of the car, opened the door and threw the briefcase into the passenger seat to the sound of his phone ringing. Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York" played muffled from inside his handbag. He quickly sat down into the car popped open the briefcase, fished through the piles of file folders and loose binder clipped reports to find the phone. He didn't recognize the number, but he knew who it was.

"Sikes here," he answered in his more formal than usual tone. He nodded his head to the voice on the other end as if the caller could somehow acknowledge his gesture.

"I know, I told you it's fine. I'll be there, just make sure you carry out your end of the deal. I don't want..." He was interrupted by the caller.

"Alright, listen I've got to go, if I'm too late they'll be worried, and I don't need the extra attention," he said, clearly agitated by the caller on the other end. He paused for a moment, listening to the caller, who's tone had taken a much louder inflection.

"Okay don't worry I'll take care of it. I'll call you when it's over," James said as he hung up. "Fuckin' son of a bitch, just leave me the fuck alone!" he screamed from within the vehicle, falling on deaf ears. He sat for a minute, wiped his perspiring face with his hands and then backed out of his parking spot. He meticulously navigated the narrow parking lot while looking over his right shoulder, then double-checking it by using the back-up camera built into the dashboard of his vehicle. He threw the car in drive and stealthily lurched forward. As he took the right turn out of his parking lot he saw something out of the corner of his left eye. The coffee cup he'd forgotten on the roof took a slow motion half-parabolic path down to the ground as it shattered on the asphalt. He slammed on the brakes, thinking he'd stop to pick it up, but quickly realized the futility in such an effort as he sped off.

As he drove to work, the image of the coffee mug shattering on the ground just a few feet away from him replayed in his mind. Why had he forgotten the mug on his roof? He'd had that mug for over 10 years now. "PAR for the Course" was printed in bold yellow lettering on the Kelly green mug, commemorating the first time he'd shot an even PAR at his Country Club. The mug itself wasn't worth a damn, but it was a connection to his former life; yet another of the many that were seemingly severed on a daily basis. He resented his new studio apartment, he resented the part-time job he was forced to take to pay the bills, he missed his old life. He missed his boat, he missed his fairway view from atop his canyon-side estate. He even missed living with Patty.

They had been married twelve years now and were in the midst of the roughest patch of the twelve. Things had always been easy between them, there had always been a great rapport between the two of them; people frequently commented on how easy going their marriage was and lamented upon the contrast to their own. That was then. Since the financial crisis of 2007, James had lost over 85% of his net worth, including all of those perks he once proudly flaunted. His house had been lost to foreclosure a few months ago and Patty went back to live with her mother. It had been almost three months, and while they were actually starting to patch things up it wasn't the same. He felt like a college dropout living in a shitty studio apartment in the worst part of the run-down city of El Cajon. Meanwhile Patty was living in La Jolla near the beach with her 80-year old parents.

Her parents had always disapproved of James. They said he was too much of a risk, and that she should hold out and marry a "sure thing", something that she liked to point out, like clockwork, in the middle of their fights. Maybe they were right though, maybe he was a risk. Lord knows these past few years had taken their toll and he was by no means a "sure thing"; but he had always resented this. He'd spent his formative years building his own wealth, he was never given anything, never asked for a handout and never demanded anything of anyone else besides that they work their tails off just as he did. He had built a real estate empire from a start-up run out of their basement. In a span of four years, he'd gone from making just enough to pay the rent in their condo to pulling down nearly seven figures a year. All of that was now gone, he was a "victim" of speculation and the volatility of the real estate bubble. As fast as he had built his empire, it came tumbling down even faster. Within a span of six months, he had lost millions and had his entire was life swept out from underneath him.

As he pulled into the Westfield Mall parking lot he couldn't help but wonder what he had done to deserve this. He had been a devout Christian his whole life, he'd lived his life according to the bible. He'd given money to George W. Bush and the local food shelf. He'd organized a Christmas toy drive for underprivileged children. He'd gone to church most Sundays, at least before the collapse. He had felt like he'd been forsaken, and he couldn't understand why.

As he donned his blue smock with the bright yellow smiley face sticker on the red, white and blue name tag he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection off of the passenger side window. "What happened to you?" he asked himself as he shook his head and exited the car. The dim yellow sodium lighting of the parking garage illuminated the path to the elevator. He felt nearly as gloomy as his surroundings. He had a lot on his mind these days, but today his mind was racing even more than usual. Today was the day that things would finally turn around for him. Today was the beginning of the comeback.

*****

As the day wore on, James knew the time for his redemption was quickly approaching. He spent the morning unloading boxes of discount clothing and snack foods; using a forklift to lift a pallets of Hanes-Her-Way and Pringle's boxes down from the truck bed to their masking tape marked resting spot on the stockroom floor. Everything had to be arranged to a plan-o-gram.

"A place for everything and everything in its place," his floor manager told him during his first few hours on the job. He'd hated that saying before and loathed it now. "You know you're way overqualified for this position, don't you Sikes?" the gristled faced manager facetiously prodded.

"Thanks Bill, I hadn't noticed. I appreciate your candor though," James said as he walked away. "Fuckin' prick," he muttered under his breath.

"What's that?" Bill responded, knowing that James wouldn't respond.

For two months now, James had driven to Wal-Mart from his studio apartment, everyday, and put in his ten hour shift. He got thirty minutes for lunch and thirty minutes for dinner with a few discretionary smoke or bathroom breaks interspersed between. He hated his job. But with the economy the way it was, there wasn't a huge market for failed real estate investors at the moment. So he took the stockroom job as a means of paying the rent on his god-damned studio apartment and to make the monthly payments on his Prius. The payments stood as a stark reminder of his previous life, why he didn't just pay for it in cash he still doesn't understand. He's sure that top trim package seemed like a good idea at the time, when money was just another thing he had too much of, but now he can't understand why he opted for leather seat warmers in San Diego. When the fuck was he thinking?

He felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket as he took it out and read the text message. It read:

"MAKE IT BELIEVABLE OR NO DEAL. DON'T FUCK THIS UP GRANDPA!"

"All caps. That's annoying," he thought to himself. "Who are these people, I can't wait to be done with this, just one more day and we're back James, just keep it together."

It was nearly lunchtime, which meant that his plan was about to go into action. In a few hours he'd be back on top, and his life would finally be on the upswing. He didn't like to deal with such dishonest people, but he felt that what he was doing actually served a larger purpose. He felt that by this one simple action, given the timing of the event, it would right the economy, thereby making it possible for J.S. Realty to re-open and begin anew. Not to mention the cash they were paying him. The $400,000 they promised would go a long way in ensuring his startup is successful, turns out that kind of money can still do a lot if you used it right. He'd get the cash from them in a few days and then he'd start looking for office space. If only he'd be able to tell Patty that they could soon be together again, that all of this could end in just a few hours. Telling her was far too dangerous, he couldn't tell anyone what he was planning. If even one person knew the truth, this could all be for naught; he couldn't risk it.

He took the elevator back down to the parking lot and lit a cigarette as he walked towards his car. He'd always hated smoking, his mother died of lung cancer and he'd always hated how Patty smelled and tasted after she smoked. He'd recently taken it up, and he finally understood what all those people meant about it being a stress reliever. He didn't smoke often, maybe two or three cigarettes a week. Sometimes he'd smoke a cigarette and sip some Windsor on the rocks from a paper cup before bed, Glenmorangie it was not, but it got the job done. He only took a few drags of the smoke before extinguishing it beneath his boot as he approached his car.

He got into his Prius looking it over for a moment, before hitting the Start button and leaving work. He normally didn't take a lunch break, except for maybe brown-bagging it in the break room, but there wasn't much that was normal about today. He took his phone out, found Patty's number, looked it at it retrospectively and contemplated calling her. He hit the "Call" button and let it ring once before thinking better and hung up the phone. "Not yet, call her later," he said aloud to himself. As he was waiting to exit the parking ramp, the solitary incessant clicking of his right turn signal sounded like the ticking of a giant clock counting down the seconds until his release from this hellish existence. He pushed the CD button as "Casey Jones" by The Grateful Dead erupted loudly over his speakers and he took his right turn out of the parking ramp.

*****

James accelerated onto Interstate 8 and merged into a relatively light traffic, turned down the stereo volume and hit the repeat button on the CD player. Casey Jones began to play again as James stepped onto the accelerator taking his speed from 45 MPH up to 95 MPH within a few moments. He looked merged all the way over to the left lane, pulled out his phone and dialed "911".

"Help me, I can't stop my car!" James screamed over his cellphone as the sky blue Prius careened down the road. "I'm stepping on the brakes and its not doing anything, please send help!" he screamed with a convincing cadence of fear in his voice.

"Sir where are you, please try to pull your vehicle to the side of the road," the dispatcher said in a calming voice. "Have you tried applying the brakes?"

"I'm in El Cajon, westbound on The 8, and of course I've tried braking, what are you dense?"

A few moments passed as he steered around cars weaving back and forth between the two leftmost lanes. The sound of police sirens faintly catching up to him could be heard over the roar of the engine.

Trouble ahead, trouble behind

And you know that notion, just crossed my mind

The sound of The Grateful Dead could be faintly made out in the background. James had a strange air of calmness around him, especially since even a slight miscalculation and he'd roll his car, killing himself or possibly someone else. He was reassured numerous times that this would be a "sure thing", that once this was over with, they'd give him the money and he'd be on his way back to his normal life. Soon this would all be over and he'd be back with Patty sipping on martinis talking about that one missed putt or chip and how Doug Albers needs to shave before coming into the formal dining room at the Country Club.

"Sir, SIR," the 911-dispatcher jolted him out of his daze, "We have four officers coming to assist your situation. Please try to maintain stability of the car and stay in the left most lane so the officers may assist. Have you tried turning the car off or putting it in neutral or pulling the parking brake?"

"I'm trying to keep control of the vehicle!" James yelled, essentially ignoring the dispatcher's suggestions. "My brakes are almost burned out!" he continued.

James had spent the past few weeks driving his car at high speeds and braking quickly, driving around with the parking brake applied and accelerating the car with his left foot compressing the brake pedal slightly. The goal was to wear out his brakes to the point that they would look like they were worn completely, this way his story would look more legit later.

The cops were now directly behind him, he could hear the loudspeaker, "Sir, try to slowly steer your car in the direction of the Jersey Barrier." James feigned a slight fishtail motion which sent his car into a minor swerve, but he kept it under control. The cops were now taking positions to his right, behind him and directly in front of him in hopes of slowing the vehicle down enough to cut the power safely. This was all happening exactly as they had said it would. James navigated the vehicle to a stop by simply letting off the gas pedal and emerged from the Prius with his best terror stricken look on his face. He walked over to the police and hugged one of them, exclaiming that they saved his life. He then fell to his knees and began weeping. It was done.