Gary, Hostage

Each morning began the same way—a cup of lukewarm coffee, scanning the business news, and then the dread of reaching his foreclosure quota.

In the current economic downturn, the Bank of Cincinnati’s loan department was a graveyard for people’s broken dreams. Soon, even this work would vanish. Management's memos chirped about “AI efficiencies” while his coworkers updated their resumes. But Gary had stayed for one reason: when the algorithms took over, who would protect the people he loved from the machines?

A text from Brenda lit up his phone: “the modeling audition said I'm too glamorous for catalog work. sorry gary can’t make my payment this month 💋💋”

She had missed her mortgage payment, again. He typed into his terminal: “Loan holder displayed evidence of new employment. Extension approved.”

Another lie, another month to figure it out.

The bank’s system refreshed. His portfolio foreclosure rate flashed 19.97% in sickening orange. To be eligible for an annual performance bonus, he needed to get that number back above 20%

Jesus Christ. Gary straightened his tie. He’d deep six the next sad sack to walk through the door.

As he waited, the stillness of the bank lobby was deafening. People borrowed money. People failed to pay. His job wasn’t complicated, until Brenda showed up at his desk last year.

Right when he couldn’t take it anymore, the bank’s entrance bell chimed.

The man who shuffled in looked like he'd been sleeping in his car. Ragged shirt. A week of stubble too patchy to be considered a beard. The receptionist directed him toward Gary. Bingo.

He knew the man’s type: probably ex-military, a heavy drinker. The pentagon hadn’t given him any job skills applicable to 2025. He plopped into the chair opposite him.

Gary smiled. “What can the Bank of Cincinnati do for you today? And, before we begin, just to be clear, I just work here. I don't make the decisions.”

“Thought I’d at least get a good morning before I tell you the good news.” A spark of defiance glimmered in his eye. “You look like a good guy, I just need an approval for two more weeks to make my house payment.”

“Mike Stobski,” Gary said in a rising tone, like a school teacher, “From last month. I remember you.” He typed the man’s name into his computer. The stats glowed in a haphazard litany of missed and late payments.

“I remember you too, bud.” Mike rapped his knuckles lightly on his desk. “My update today is that I've got a job at the Amazon fulfillment center, and been pulling double shifts. First paycheck comes Friday.”

Whatever they say, don’t listen.

“I’m afraid your loan has breached the bank’s lending conditions, and the bank has not choice but to foreclose. I am sorry, but I am just doing my job.”

“You don’t believe me. I get it.” Mike pushed wrinkled papers across the desk. “Here’s my work contract, and my new W4 form.”

Gary pushed them back. “Those won’t be necessary. Hold onto them. They could help you obtain a loan from a different bank.”

“I AM going to make this payment. Can I talk to the branch manager.”

“He’s out today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Mike's chair screeched as he leaped up, clearly seeing Gary’s canned politeness as meaning he had hit a brick wall. One of many he would face in trying to stop the foreclosure process, the final one being the sheriff’s deputies.

“Fucking loan sharks.” Mike stomped out of the bank, muttering to himself loud enough to scare everyone.

Gary’s fingers typed: “Loan extension denied.” The screen refreshed: 20.01% in beautiful green.

The branch manager Ethan came out of his office. “Good work, champ.” Ethan’s breath smelled of peppermint. “Portfolio numbers looking good?”

Gary nodded. “Back to 20%.”

Ethan whistled. “Attaboy. Just remember—the bank doesn’t care about sob stories. Just numbers.”

After his long day denying and rejecting Cincinnati’s many want to be borrowers, he barely remembered driving home.

The foreclosure notice would hit their mailboxes in a few days. Dreams ruined because of the bad economy. It really wasn’t his fault.

In his 2-bedroom bungalow off Dayton Street, a chill went down his spine. He felt it before, but nothing bad had ever happened. Maybe he was being paranoid.

He hated the job, but where else was he going to work, at a warehouse like fucking Mike Stobski?

Before Gary could find the answer, the front door burst open.

Brenda stood there, a squirming toddler balanced on her hip. “Can I trust you with my child?”

Gary looked up, happy to see her. “Can I at least get a hello?”

“Sure, Gary. Hello.” She pushed the toddler into his arms. “Now I’ve got to go.” She looked back around from the door. “And you don’t lock your door? Lock your door if you are taking care of my kid.”

“Sure thing. Where are you off to anyway?”

“I have a modelling audition.”

“On Friday night?”

“I have dinner with my mom.” She hopped back over to him and kissed him. “I’ll see you later, Gary. You’re the only one who understands me.”

She turned back around and disappeared into the night. He sat dumbstruck, a toddler now chewing on his T-shirt. At least he might get lucky later that night.

By 9pm, the toddler was asleep in his bedroom, and he was on episode five of Black Mirror, the one about photos coming back to life.

Wood splintered like an explosion as his front door burst open.

Gary looked up, half expecting to see Brenda.

Mike Stobski filled his doorway. Mike with a shotgun leveled at Gary's chest.

“You!” he screamed, eyes wild. “You lying piece of shit. YOU canceled my loan.”

“I didn't have a choice. The bank's algorithm flagged you. It wasn’t me.”

Mike’s hands on his shotgun trembled—not from fear, but the tremor Gary had seen in veterans at the bank. The silence stretched until Mike hissed, “The receptionist, Liz, she showed me the override log.”

Gary’s mind spun. He should ask about her, but at that moment, his own situation seemed more important “Things happen, it was a mistake. I can fix it. What did Liz tell you?”

“I don't have time for this,” Mike said, stepping closer. “I’ve lost custody of my kid, I lost my right eye in Afghanistan, and now I'm losing my house.” Mike proceeded to tell him a long rambling story of how his shitty life happened, the type of story Gary had heard many times before from his loan manager's chair, but without a shotgun pointing at his face.

As Mike rambled, Gary’s mind drifted. Yesterday he had watched i-Hostage on Netflix. That guy got free. As Mike talked, Gary imagined typing a ChatGPT prompt in his mind…

> how to escape a hostage situation?

< Build empathy with the hostage taker

was the glowing response he saw in his mind.

Gary cleared his throat. “You seem like a good guy. You're a patriot, Army, right? Nice shotgun, what model is it?”

“What model?! Were you just listening to anything I said?” The safety clicked off. "And thanks for asking, it's a Remington 870."

"Yes, of course.” He gulped.

Mike rolled his eyes. “Now, just tell me the truth about what happened, and we can figure this out together.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Just tell…me…what…happened.” Mike’s fingers toyed with the shotgun’s trigger.

“I had to cancel your loan to extend my girlfriend's loan,” Gary blurted out.

“Thank you, Gary, for your honesty." Mike's face softened.

Gary knew this type, alpha male, bro-code. He could make a deal with him. He would make it out of this. Maybe he and Brenda would run away tomorrow, move to Hawaii, or Alaska. Start over.

“Thank you for clearing things up.” Mike’s laughed. “Now it's time to finish what I started.” He lifted the shotgun's barrel.

“But you said you would let me go!”

“You think you are the only person who can lie?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t either.”

In the other room, the toddler began to wail. Outside, a car backfired. Gary fingers fidgeted with his gun. And from somewhere, Brenda had sent another text.

Gary realized they were all helpless.