It's Monday.
I've taken over the dining room table, covering it with manila envelopes, files bulging with medical and insurance forms, and all manner of documentation. I make a call on my new cell phone.
No answer so I leave another message.
"Mister Turner. This is Phillip Robiski. Again. Please call me when you get a chance. This is in reference to a Mister Donald Turner. Please call. Thank you."
I make a note on a tablet and shove the paper into a newly-created folder. The sound of the front door opening draws my attention. Holy crap, it's after 6. I'd hoped to have all this cleaned up before Megan got home. Damn it.
I hear Jilly-bean squeal, "Mommy!'
"Hey, baby girl."
Megan lumbers in with our daughter wrapped around her leg.
Jillian scowls. "Look at this mess Daddy made."
My wife doesn't want to engage.
I apologize. "I don't have enough space in my office. I'll clean it up."
Megan sorts through a short stack of mail she discovers on the corner of the table.
"Did you make that late payment to the insurance company?" she asks.
"Let me just finish this and I'll pay it."
Megs says to Jilly-bean, "Go upstairs and wash up for dinner."
"I just washed my hands a second ago."
"Wash them again, please."
"Fine," she grumbles. I hear my daughter's heavy footsteps ascending the staircase.
Megan lowers her voice. "Maybe this isn't a good time to bring this up."
"No, go ahead."
"Well, it's just that since you quit your job, you know you're not eligible for unemployment benefits."
"We've got some money put away."
"Some."
I begin stacking papers.
"So about the car," she continues.
I continue stacking.
"Did you get into an accident?"
"It was a freak accident."
She drops her head.
"I wasn't even in the car when it happened."
"Nobody was hurt, right?"
"That's right. The only reason the cops had it towed--"
"The cops?"
"They pulled me over for driving without a windshield and then towed the car away."
She pauses. That's a lot of upsetting information to process.
"You're still making payments on that car, right?"
"It's gonna be okay, Megs. I'll get the car back. Don't worry."
"Don't worry," says the guy who disappeared for two days then returned with no car just in time to quit his job. I'd be worried if I were her.
#######
4:09 AM. I'm in the kitchen quietly making a sandwich at the table beside a tablet where I've scribbled dozens of nearly incomprehensible notes. I've wedged my tablet in between a bagged loaf of bread, a packet of deli meat, and a jar of mayonnaise.
Unexpectedly, Megan enters. She yawns.
"What are you doing?"
"Can't sleep."
I slather mayonnaise onto a slice of bread. The bottom portion of the sandwich resides in a clearing among the clutter of papers.
"How much mayonnaise are you using?"
"Don't be mad at me."
I rise from the chair and pull her into my arms.
"Did you just put mayonnaise on my back?" she asks.
I peel the slice of bread from the back of her robe, the mayo leaving a gooey adhesive imprint.
"Sorry."
She slips out of her robe and goes to the sink to clean off the mess.
"I don't want Jillian to think of me as the idiot who screwed up her life."
"She doesn't think that."
"You do."
She sighs.
"I didn't mean to let you down, Megs, but I can't do it anymore. I'm sorry. I just can't."
"Phil, we've been through this before. Nothing this..." She searches for the right word. "Extreme, but you've had some bad episodes."
I return to my seat and my sandwich.
"While I was gone and away from the office, I started thinking back on it. I couldn't remember how this happened. How did I turn into this other person?"
"We all become different people. Well, most of us do. We grow up. Get married. Become parents."
"That's not what I mean. I turned into some guy that I barely recognize. As long as I was getting my paycheck and making my mortgage and car payments and all the other crap that pulls people into this mindless... I don't know what to call it, I put it out of my mind and went along with everybody else. It's not bad enough that I didn't do anything to stop it, I realized that I was... I was helping them."
"No, you weren't."
I gesture toward my notes on the tablet.
"But I have a chance. To fix it. Or at least try."
"Phil," she says. "You need to give yourself a break. You've gotten through some pretty bad episodes before and we'll do it again."
She puts her arms around me. There's no better therapy than a reassuring hug.
When I plant both elbows firmly on the table my expression sours. I slowly raise my arm to find lunch meat glued to my elbow.
#######
It's 9:12. I rinse my coffee mug in the sink when the doorbell rings. Megs is at work and Jillian is at school. The door isn't going to answer itself.
I cross through the living room toward the front window. I peek through the mini-blinds and am startled to find my ex-boss, Carl Dunning standing on my front porch slurping a Starbucks Venti.
I turn my eyes toward the mess on the dining room table, brimming with Trollamex paperwork. On my way to the front door, I check myself in the mirror in the foyer. Yikes! I see an image of a guy who's operating on only two hours of sleep. I smooth my wrinkled shirt, push the hair off my forehead, and open the front door.
"Phil," says Carl with a big grin. "Thought I'd check in on your solutioneering."
"My what?"
"Your thought process."
"On what?"
"Let me boil it down. How are you?"
"Doing great, Carl. Great, yeah."
It's obvious by his facial expression that he disagrees with my assessment.
"Mind if I come in?"
I slip out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. I grimace. "Dog just threw up."
"Didn't know you had a dog. Didn't hear him bark."
"He doesn't bark when he's sick."
After Carl tips back his coffee cup and takes a big swallow, he says, "You know, the company is planning to open a satellite office not far from here. Small office for special projects. And we're looking to bring in a manager. Someone with deep domain expertise. Love to plug you into that slot."
"I think I'm finished with the PR business. A little burned out. You know."
"This would be a lot more low key. Less stress. Higher pay grade."
"I don't think so."
"Well, you let that percolate. And don't you be a stranger."
"Good seeing you, Carl."
He stops on the sidewalk and says, "Oh, Phil..."
He leans in.
"There's been some buzz that you may have been contacting a few Trollamex clients."
"Where'd you hear that?" The color drains from my face.
"For a lot of reasons – a lot of legal reasons – that would be a bad idea. A very bad idea. We don't need to throw sand in their jockey shorts, you follow me?"
"Uh, yeah. I think so."
"Think about that manager job."
"Uh, yeah. I will."
"Better tend to that sick dog of yours."
I hear my phone ringing in the house.
"Gotta take this call."
Carl gives me a measured smile and proceeds toward his car, finishing his coffee.
I rush into the house and find my ringing phone on the dining room table. I don't recognize the number.
"Hello?"
The caller says, "Is this Phil Zabriskie?"
"Robiski. Phil Robiski. Yeah."
"You left a message about a product named Tiger's Teeth?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Zachary Palmer. You called like a hundred times."
I sort through my paperwork on the table.
"Oh. Zachary Palmer. Palmer's Hardware. You mind if I stop by the store sometime?"
"We're open 'til seven, Monday through Saturday. Open 'til noon on Sunday."
#######
7:27 PM. I emerge from my office and find Megs in the living room in her usual post-dinner position, curled up on the couch dividing her attention between HGTV and the iPad in her lap. The relationship ice hasn't completely thawed so I approach with caution.
"Do me a favor?" I ask wearing my I-come-in-peace smile.
She looks up from her iPad.
"Google Tiger's Teeth for me."
"Tigers plural?" she asks.
"Singular possessive. Either way."
"Okay."
"See anything about Tiger's Teeth lawn fertilizer or weed killer?"
"Hmmmmm." She scrolls. "There's some kind of Tiger weed killer product."
"Is it made by Trollamex?" I glance over her shoulder.
"Nope, don't see that."
"This is crazy." I try to maintain my composure. "When I googled Tiger's Teeth just yesterday, a whole bunch of links popped up like always. Now there isn't a trace of Tiger's Teeth anywhere. I did a search on my laptop and on my phone. Nothing. Apparently, they scrubbed the internet. How do you scrub the internet?! I didn't even know you could do that!"
"Speaking of Trollamex," she says, offering an envelope. "This certified letter came in the mail for you."
"Yeah, I saw that."
"And you didn't even open it?"
"I'm sure it's nothing important."
"That word doesn't mean what you think it means."
I take the letter and tear open the envelope.
She watches with suspicious eyes. "They're gonna send a certified letter to tell you something unimportant? I don't think so."
I scan the page.
"Is it from their attorneys?" Her anxiety escalates.
In the calmest tone I can muster I respond, "It's basic corporate damage control. They're trying to intimidate me."
"Well, maybe you should be intimidated."
"They want me to come by on Wednesday for an informal hearing, er, meeting. That's all."
"I don't like the way that sounds."
She pulls the letter from my hand.
"No worries, honey."
She reads aloud, "Whereas this letter serves as a final warning to discontinue the unlawful conduct of the aforementioned in the above entitled matter. Failure to comply shall herewith result in the effectuation of severe legal consequences." Her eyes meet mine. "Phil. This sounds serious."
"Sure, that's what they want you to think. It's baked into their culture." I wince. "Baked into their culture. I need to stop saying stuff like that."
She re-reads the letter.
"Megs, listen. They run a bunch of mumbo-jumbo legalese through the word salad machine and regurgitate meaningless nonsense like this."
"Meaningless?"
"Believe me. I've sat in on dozens of these meetings. A couple of pencil-neck geeks in tweed suits sweat it out, waiting to find out how big a check they're gonna need to write."
"Write a check to who? To you?"
"They'll probably make an offer to make this go away."
"If that happens, please tell me you'll take the check."
"You never accept the first offer, babe. It's negotiating 101."
I realize immediately that was the wrong response.
"If we lose this house, Phil, so help me God..." She's too angry to finish the sentence.
Jillian wanders in apparently having overheard the last part of the conversation. "How can you lose a house? You'd have to be a real dummy to lose a whole house."
Megan glares at me. "Yes, you sure would."
With an apologetic smile, I excuse myself and retreat to my upstairs office.