Come Hell or High Water | mxm

3.3

3.3

Sam sat on his balcony, cars humming past several storeys below. The air was crisp but not unpleasant, with the dusty, dry scent of city light on the breeze. On the horizon, serrated mountains shrank beneath silvery clouds. Closer, the suburbs were aflame with the warm palette of autumn.

He'd been through his budget already. His lawyer had said there was probably nothing she could do. On the balcony railing next door, the 'For Sale' sign clattered in the wind.

Letting out a long, quiet, breath, Sam picked up his phone and thumbed through the contacts.

He got the answering machine. Of course. It was barely evening, and the harvest demanded every minute of daylight.

The beep sounded, too loud.

"Hi, Gord, it's Sam."

He managed a cheery tone.

"I guess this isn't a good time, but I wanted you to hear this from me because I'm not sure-- I'm not sure if there's a procedure in place to contact landowners, and it's probably better you don't see it on the news first. If it even gets on the news at all. I mean, at this point none of this is really newsworthy, is it?"

A long intake of breath.

"Vivid has gone into receivership. We're bankrupt. I don't know anything more. We've all been let go. The lawyers walked us out of the office this morning."

Wobbly laughter.

"It was pretty surreal. I mean, you never expect to get told to throw your shit in a box and get escorted out of your own office, even if you kinda do expect it, y'know?"

Sam licked his lips.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you any kind of warning. I mean, I knew there were problems, but I thought-- There was this deal I was working on, and I really thought I could make it come together, but it fell through, so... Maybe I'm just a fucking idiot."

A hesitation.

"I'll let you know if I hear anything else, but I'm not optimistic. They've cut off our communication, emails gone, had to buy out my phone contract, all that jazz. So at this point I'm as blind as anyone. Hopefully someone will contact you about the wells, at least suspend them properly. Best case, a competitor in the area will buy up the assets right away, but--"

Sam drew in another shaky breath.

"But I suppose that's not very likely. We didn't get any severance. I had a lot of money in Vivid. Forty grand gone just like that."

He wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a sigh.

"So I need to get another job as soon as I can. I probably won't be able to come up for a while. I'm sorry."

He pushed end call.

In the empty, echoing kitchen Sam sliced up a wrinkled lemon into a glass of lukewarm tap water. Sprawling on the cold leather couch, he clicked on the TV.

The news was full of coverage of the federal election, an echo of the provincial election from the spring. Reporters repeated the same trite observations over and over as the map of the country slowly turned red, East to West, constituency by constituency.

The phone rang. Sam glanced at it, but it was just his dad. The last thing he wanted was to make small talk over election results. He ignored it.

Light faded. Beyond glinting glass the sky went blush pink before night draped suffocatingly over the mountains. Sam didn't turn the lights on, sat watching the pale glow of the TV through closed eyelids.

Gord finally called, as Justin Trudeau began his acceptance speech. Sam didn't answer his phone, let it go to voicemail.

He watched the new Prime Minister smiling at the camera, teeth perfectly square, his eyes curved up in happiness. Around him, supporters cheered wildly.

"Merci, mes amis, merci," Trudeau said, voice choked with emotion. "Thank you." Then, later, "Sunny ways, my friends. Sunny ways."

Sipping tepid lemon water, Sam tried to pretend it was fresh lemonade.