A Nice Day To Start Again

Every day at 6 p.m. Bobby Reid heads home for the day.

Every morning he shows up early to prep, and every evening he leaves late to set up for the next day.

He picks up his suitcase and packs up his laptop, then heads to the elevator.

As he walks through the office, he shakes hands with his coworkers.

"Hey, good hustle today, Mike!"

"Thanks, Bobby. Can we sync up tomorrow about that Bridges account?"

"Sure can, Mike. See you tomorrow --

"I'm liking those numbers, Thomas. Good for you. Let's keep those sales high."

"You know it, Big Bob. You ready for the softball game this weekend? No way are we losing to the Eastside branch again."

"More than ready. I've been practicing my grounders for the last month. Nothing's getting passed me. I'll catch ya tomorrow --

"Abe, man. Look, tomorrow's another day, bud. Just gotta shake it off. Start tomorrow fresh."

"I don't know what happened today, Bobby. I've never had this hard of time selling before."

"Tell you what. Tomorrow after the morning scrum, we'll sit down together and figure out what to do differently. Maybe we can clean up your outreach script a bit. How's that sound?"

"Sounds awesome, Bobby. I'd really appreciate that."

Bobby pats his friend on the back. Then he walks over to the coat rack, pulls off his coat.

"You heading home, finally?" the secretary asks.

"Hi, Carin. Yep, that's it for me. How are you? How's your husband doing?"

"I'm not too bad, and he's doing okay."

"How's he healing up?"

"After he took that fall off his bike, he's been having trouble walking. Sometimes he needs help using the restroom."

"That's terrible. But at least he has you there. I'm sure he appreciates having someone amazing to help him out."

"Hah -- 'amazing.' Yeah, right. You want to know the last thing that bastard said to me on the way out? 'Hey, babe, make sure you bring back dinner on the way home.' Can you believe that?"

"What a shame. Well, I hope he recovers soon. Then you can both take a break from each other."

"Yeah, I hope so too. Thanks, Bob. Have a good one!"

"You too. See you tomorrow, Carin."

Bobby walks up to the elevator, presses the button going down. As he stands there, a chill runs down his back. A few moments later his boss shows up.

"Hey, Julie," Bobby says.

"Oh, hello, Brody. How are you now?"

"It's Bobby. And I've been pretty good actually. How's everything with you, Julie?"

"Not great. This virus outbreak has everyone going a little bit crazy. My stocks have plummeted severely in the last couple of days. Unfortunately, I've lost a lot of money."

"I don't know the first thing about stocks," Bobby says. "But that sounds terrible."

"Oh, quite," Julie says. "Plus, our new line of chocolates hasn't been doing great. We haven't sold a single one. What's wrong with these people? These chocolates are a great product."

Bobby nods. The two stand there waiting for the elevator. The doors open. They get in.

"What level?" Bobby asks.

"P1," Julie says. He presses the button.

Hmm, P1, Bobby thinks. The executive level.

Bobby presses P5. The nobodies level. A long way down.

"So," Julie says, "what have you been up to lately, Babby?"

"Mostly market research. I'm trying to get a better understanding of our target audience so I can craft a better marketing message."

"Uh-huh, and what have you learned so far?"

"Well, not much. It seems like the people we're targeting are different from the people who actually buy our products. So I'm having some trouble coming up with the right message."

"I don't understand," she says.

"Well, since we're selling luxury items, the assumption was that people who have a lot of money would be the only ones able to afford our products. But after looking things over, the data suggests otherwise. It seems that people with lower incomes are buying our products more than three times the amount that rich people do."

"That doesn't sound right."

"Yeah, I thought the same thing. But that's what the research says. Apparently, the rich are looking for thriftier options. They're trying not to spend money on frivolous things. The lower and middle-class people, however, are the ones buying our products. I'm guessing it's because they want to look rich even though they can't afford it."

Julie gives Bobby a blank stare.

"I was thinking, maybe we could instead target a younger crowd with less money than we originally thought, and try to sell them on the status these products will bring. We could position the products as something exclusive for a select group of people. We could even try it with the chocolates you were talking about upstairs."

"Hmm. Bolly, I don't know how to say this, but... you know, we have a lot of people in place whose jobs are to do this kind of analysis. In fact, this has been going on for a while now. You seem to go against things we've already established as being true. And you know firsthand that we've had problems in the past with people who got out of control when left unchecked. And I regret to say that that's happened with you on multiple occasions now."

"What do you mean?" Bobby asks.

"I mean, I don't see a place for you here in my company."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, this just isn't working. It's probably best that you don't come in tomorrow. We'll have someone send your things over to your home. By the end of the week, we'll have another person deliver your final check. In fact, I'm going to call Carin right now so she can get the process started."

The elevator stops. Bobby steps aside. Julie walks out, turns around.

"I'm really sorry about this, Baldy. You've been a precious asset to us. To me and the company. Best of luck to you."

Bobby looks at her, says nothing. The doors close.

The elevator goes down a few more levels. Stops. The doors open again.

Bobby gets out of the elevator, walks to his car. He pats himself down, but he can't find his keys.

Fuck, he thinks, there's no way I can go back up there.

Frantically he searches his pockets. Nothing. He opens up his briefcase, tossing things out. Nothing again. He checks his coat and yes! a sigh of relief.

His keys were in his coat pocket. He unlocks his car and gets inside.

He rests his head on the steering wheel and just sits there, thinking. Not moving, just thinking. Mostly of vile thoughts. Mostly of how he can get away with killing his boss and places to hide after.

With every second that passes, his thoughts get crazier:

If I follow her home, I can run her over in my car and keep on driving. Then I could ditch the car near the Mexico border and start a new life. By the time anyone knew it was me, I'd be long gone. I'd have a new life with a new name. Roberto Micarino.

Then Bobby's phone rings. It was his wife.

"Hello, Bobby. It's me."

"Hello, love," Bobby says, not lifting his head off the wheel.

"Hey, I've got the designer on the other line and she's asking about the game room. Did you want the bigger 70 inch TV or is the 50 inch okay?"

"I think it's best if we go with the 50 inch. Look, I need to tell you --"

"Okay, should I put it on the credit card?"

"Yes. Listen, babe, I really got to tell you something --"

"Okay, great! And hey, please pick up something to eat for dinner on your way home. That new Chinese food restaurant down the street just opened up and the food looks amazing. You know what I like. Love you, see you soon!"

She hangs up.

Now, Bobby's thoughts got even crazier:

Maybe I don't need to run Julie over. Maybe I can skip that part and instead head straight to Mexico. I'll sell the car when I get across the border and use the money to fund my new life. I'll get a new job with a new boss. I'll find a new wife and then have a set of brand new kids.

A fresh start...

After twenty minutes, Bobby lifts his head off the steering wheel.

He starts his car, pulls down the overhead mirror, straightens out his tie and heads home.