Simon's Decision

In the midst of a seemingly endless recession, Simon Brown quit his job as a mid-level banker at a dubiously wealthy international bank and drove down South in a beat-up 20^th century pick-up truck to move in with his kid sister who was quite naturally feeling the effects of the downturn, most especially since she was an artist in her mid-twenties as well as a chain smoker.

             It all started in January, although the causes for such a move had likely been stirring for some time. Nonetheless, Simon could pinpoint the exact date – Friday, January 5^th, 2004 – when the decision was made and his life drastically changed.

             Simon had, as usual, worked all throughout the holiday season, even on Christmas Day. He was a numbers and a patterns guy; he’d much rather analyze figures than make small talk.

             His sister drove to North Carolina from New Orleans to visit his parents for Christmas; they video-chatted with him while he was in the office in Washington, DC. Lila scolded him for missing yet another Christmas, then enthusiastically told him about her roommate’s baby bump.

             And maybe this is when it started – Christmas Day – when he asked Lila if her roommate and her roommate’s boyfriend planned on staying in the tiny two-bedroom shotgun house once the baby was born. Lila hadn’t thought about it.

             His mother quickly made the conversation about her desire to have grandchildren and asked Simon about his love life.

             “I date,” he mumbled, paying more attention to the spreadsheet on his computer than his mom’s pleading eyes.

             “When was your last date?” his mom asked.

             “Better yet, when’s the last time you went on at least three dates with the same girl?” Lila asked.

             “Leave him alone,” his father, the voice of reason, said.

             A week after that video-chat came New Year’s; his sister was still with his parents, opting to celebrate it quietly, perhaps simply to rub in the fact that their son would not visit. Simon again worked on the holiday and promised his mother that his resolution would be to socialize more. Maybe that is when it started – his promise to socialize. His department head organized Friday Happy Hours, and he had been attending regularly. He’d slowly dropped off, missing just one every few weeks or so, then two in a row, until finally the adrenaline rush of working on spreadsheets and stocks and bonds overcame his desire to hang out with people.

             He was addicted to his work.

             He’d gotten the biggest bonus at the end of the year, for being the most productive and most valuable employee. He’d gotten a promotion recently as well.

             On New Year’s Day, after hanging up the chat with his family, he looked at his finances. He hadn’t taken a sick day or vacation day in years; the company owed him several months. He’d invested carefully in the market, weathering the covid crisis quite well. He was not quite thirty years old and doing incredibly well in his life.

             He felt so proud.

             On Tuesday, January 2^nd, the first official day in the office in the new year, his manager announced that this month’s Happy Hours would be held at alcohol-free bars. “Dry January Fridays,” he said. Simon groaned to himself. He’d promised his mother he’d go out, but he was hoping to drink while out.

             Nonetheless, he went out to the first Dry January Happy Hour, on Friday, January 6^th. He took the metro downtown to the decided upon venue – alcohol-free bars aren’t popular, but DC has a few. He ordered a virgin martini – basically, fancy infused mineral water with olive juice – and he wasn’t impressed. He sat at the bar between his co-workers Bruce, an older man with a wife and two teenaged daughters, and Carver, a young guy fresh out of university and quite nervous in the real world. Not having alcohol did not help.

             Bruce texted his wife on his phone; Carver stared anxiously at the water beads on the glass of his non-alcoholic beer; Simon checked his work emails. Ashley, the effervescent department secretary, came up and snatched the phones out of Bruce’s and Simon’s hands. “Talk,” she commanded. “Or play darts or pool. Or dance.” The pool table and darts were quite popular; the dance floor less so. A few people stood awkwardly on the floor, bopping self-consciously in tune to the pop music blaring from the speakers. One couple, oblivious to the upbeat tempo, hugged each other tightly and rocked slowly, absorbed in just each other.

             “We’re here to have fun,” Ashley said.

             “Mardi Gras,” Bruce said. “It’s early this year, in February. A few of us are getting an Airbnb, wanna go?”

             “Your wife will let you?” Ashley asked. Everyone knew that Bruce’s wife had strongly encouraged him to do Dry January.

             “As a reward for Dry January,” Bruce said, smiling. He pointed to his phone in Ashley’s hands. “She just told me.”

             “My sister lives in New Orleans,” Simon said. He’d been there for Mardi Gras, once. For someone who was a fan of order and routine and wasn’t a big fan of socializing, he was surprised by how much he’d enjoyed it. They’d gotten lost in the crowd after getting drunk on hurricanes. They’d been a part of a giant, pulsating mob, a blip on the radar. He’d liked being invisible; he liked imagining the crowd as being a rhythmic part of the universe, something that made sense.

             Ashley, Bruce, and Carver kept talking; Carver grinned as he related his Mardi Gras experience, just two years ago, when he was a junior in college. Simon saw his boss, sitting at a booth in a corner, staring at his computer. George noticed Simon and motioned him over.

             Then all thoughts of wild parties were gone and Simon was back where he was comfortable, going over numbers and data points. A client had just emailed, wanted some major changes made by Monday. “Meeting’s set for 9 am Monday,” George said. “You think you can be ready?”

             “Of course,” Simon said, reaching for his phone.

             That’s when he realized he didn’t have it. He went back to Ashley, who made him play a round of darts in exchange for his phone. He lost miserably – he wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t have good aim anyways. But he got his phone back.

             He returned to the booth; George was getting ready to go. “Little one’s running a fever,” he said, putting on his jacket. “Thank you, Simon.” Simon nodded.

             He opened his phone to set reminders on his calendar. He saw several missed texts, all from his sister.

             Cassie and Robbie are getting married!

             That was the first text, time stamped at 6:30 pm. Simon checked his watch. It was nearly 8:00 already. Cassie was Lila’s pregnant roommate; Robbie was Cassie’s boyfriend, now fiancé.

             They’re moving to Slidell! The timestamp was 7:00. Slidell was a suburb northeast of New Orleans; currently they lived Uptown, where Lila could easily walk to stores, bars, and work.

             They’re moving at the end of January! Timestamp 7:15.

             They’ve already told our landlord! Timestamp 7:28.

             He’s already listed the place on Airbnb! It’s already booked! Mardi Gras! Timestamp 7:30.

             I’ve nowhere to live! HELP!!!! Timestamp 7:35.

             “Shit,” Simon said, and he raced out of the bar to call his sister. She was in tears when he reached her. On her salary as a part-time art teacher, there wasn’t much she could afford in New Orleans; she didn’t have a car so she couldn’t move further out. And the last-minute notice would make it nearly impossible – any places that were available now would go to Mardi Gras guests, willing to pay a fortune for just a few days.

             In the half hour since her last text, Lila had gone over all the possibilities and was resigning herself to be homeless. She was wondering if homeless shelters had showers or if she could shower in the school gym.

             “I’ll be fine, Simon,” she sobbed.

             He stood outside the bar in Washington, DC, watching the cars – mostly Ubers and Lyfts, likely – go by, the people ambling by – mostly well-dressed people heading home late from work or off to a night out, a few dog-walkers and runners, a few possibly homeless. He’d lived here for nearly 8 years, taking the metro or his bike every day. He had a car. His apartment came with a parking spot, and so he’d taken it. But he didn’t need it here.

             The sky was dark, the buildings lit up, the air was cold and humid. He wondered what New Orleans was like. He’d been there before, but only to party. What would it really be like to live there?

             He thought about his bank account and his vacation days. He had several months’ worth of vacation days. He had more than enough money to last him, comfortably, for quite some time.

             Simon loved his job. But he was bored. He listened to his sister sob on the phone.

             And that was when everything changed.

             “I’m moving to New Orleans,” he said.

             “What?”

             “I’m quitting. Don’t like it here. Go find us an apartment – don’t care the cost – just something we can be happy in. I’m bringing the car, so you can drive to work if you need to.”

             “Simon, you can’t.”

             “And why not?”

             And that was when it started – when Simon made the decision to change his life.