Working Day by Rebecca B. Weiss

Working Day by Rebecca B. Weiss

I’m running down the power line trail in Whitefield, Maine on a bright, crisp, early September day and feeling fantastic. No—better than fantastic, abundant. Abundance is what drives me, what has always driven me, what has, in fact, served to illuminate in sparkling bursts the enigmatic and often formidable path to my destiny. Only a handful of people, guys like me, understand abundance. It’s something you’re born with, I suppose, along with the skills you need to achieve it.

Abundance isn’t about money, although you need money, a great deal of it, just to play ball. It’s not about success or satisfaction or fulfillment, either. These concepts don’t actually exist, they were invented to provide people with a goal. A man with a goal stays in line. But it’s guys like me who tell the rest of the world what their goals should be, and how they should go about obtaining them.

Abundance is about attaining my birthright, I suppose, and for me this means—and there’s just no other way to say it—running the world. It’s far more complex than this, but the basic idea is that the half-dozen or so members of the BC, the Boy’s Club, men of abundance, every one, men of extreme abundance, you might say, buy up the world’s influencers—politicians, CEOs, marketing and advertising execs, sometimes even otherwise ordinary guys with enough charisma to attract the right kind of following. The BC stays in the background. They work via a party system, and only the Boys themselves and a handful of ambitious insiders, guys like me, are aware the organization exists. But it’s the BC’s responsibility to decide what the public believes, and how they behave. I assume the BC, like any business, operates on a for-profit basis. But there’s something more to it than money and power. Amusement, perhaps. But I don’t really know.

What I do know is that it’s not at all difficult to get people to do what you want. If you poke a clam in the exact same place, it will react in exactly the same way. Every single time. People aren’t any different. If you’re a guy like me, a guy who understands how people think, it’s easy to figure out where to poke them, and how hard, in order to establish what they think.

I’m not a member of the BC, you understand. I’m too young, for one thing. But I know who they are and what they do, and I’ve positioned myself to attract the attention of people who matter. The BC can’t afford to overlook a guy like me. I’m the one in a billion with the skills for the job and just as importantly, the drive, the intense and relentless motivation, to do what it takes, to know what it takes, to make it, make it all the way.

But becoming a member of the world’s most exclusive organization is a long game, even for a guy like me. You can never let up, never lose focus of the next level, and there’s always a next level. You have to utilize every second, you have to take risks, you have to make the tough decisions. For guys like me, every day is a working day.

Even now, running down this isolated trail in Whitefield, Maine, I’m working. Every day is a working day, hell, every minute is a working minute. Keeping my body in top physical condition is part of the job, and that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Meanwhile, my brain is taking note of my surroundings, on autopilot. A guy like me knows that anything, anything at all could be just around the corner, a guy like me knows that he must always be prepared for opportunity whenever it chooses to appear.

This run feels oddly exhilarating. I work out every day of course, from 5:00 to 7:00 a.m., even during a bout of pneumonia a few years back. But I do it in my home gym, custom-designed for efficiency. My workouts require the attendance of a personal trainer, whose current duties include turning my six-pack into an eight-pack, as well as an assistant to finalize my calendar. At the end of the session, my physical condition is that much improved, and every second of the day is accounted for. Every day is a working day, after all. It’s what sets a man of abundance apart from the rest of the world.

But this run is special, and I’ve allocated time to enjoy myself. This is the last time I’ll ever come here. It’s also the last time I’ll ever be alone. People, animals too I suppose, avoid the power lines. The electricity makes them feel nervous, jittery, they say. But I’ve always loved this place. This trail is where I feel most alive, possibly because nothing else lives here, or near here. Or at least whatever does keeps well hidden.

The trail exists courtesy of the CMP, the Central Maine Power company. Power lines stretch in a neat row across Whitefield and beyond, creating a break in the impenetrable forest. At exactly 2.38 miles off the main road, according to my GPS, the path is intersected by the Sheepscot River, a wild rush of white water and jutting rock, impassable in any season. It’s just as well. You don’t want to go too far into the Maine wilderness, even on a trail. Maine is a dangerous place, the kind of place that could swallow you whole. It’s also a beautiful place, sure, but that beauty is best enjoyed, in my opinion, through the windows of a car that’s on its way to someplace else.

At any rate, today’s plan is as follows: I am to run from the house to the path, then down the path to the river. I’ll climb to the top of the boulder on the riverbank and allow myself five minutes to relax and enjoy the view. Then I’ll run back to my childhood home, shower, and go to the hospice to visit Dad.

Dad did me the favor of choosing to expire in early September, which is my off-season. My clients are too busy settling their kids into new schools and reopening their winter residences to worry about their investments. Mom went in the spring, a few years back. I can’t leave the office at that time of year, which you’d think people would understand. Still, there were murmurs, which didn’t look right. And looking right is part of the job. With any luck, Dad will die today, and I’ll be on a plane to LAX before sundown.

When I climb the boulder, I notice something in the river, something odd. It’s lumpy and brown. But Detached automatically discards it. Any idiot can observe his surroundings, but it takes talent and a great deal of training to instinctively recognize the details that matter, and perhaps more importantly, those that don’t. There’s mystery here, sure, the wilderness is crackling with it, but I have no need and even less desire to investigate.

I don’t know if it’s the outdoor run, the solitude, or the anticipation of my rental car sleekly traversing the Piscataqua Bridge for the very last time (where I’ll maybe or maybe not allow myself a final glance in my rearview mirror as Maine recedes forever into my past), but a pleasant, even euphoric feeling begins to drift into my brain. That’s okay, I scheduled time for this. I’m enjoying the sensation, but I know it doesn’t mean anything. I learned decades ago that emotions are just observations in fancier wrapping paper, dangerous to indulge in and just as dangerous to ignore.

Emotions fuel Assess and Decide, my decision-making process and the keenest weapon in my toolbox. Acquiring this skill required innovation, experimentation, and years of training to perfect. As far as I know, I invented it. Even I don’t understand exactly how it works, but it’s something like this: When my brain incorporates an emotion I don’t recognize, my mind slips out of its resting state of Calm and Detached, and Emotional takes over. My Rational Mind senses this shift, considers the fact that Emotional has noticed, and tells me what to do next. I’ve practiced this for so many years that I don’t have to think about it anymore. It just happens.

This isn’t magic, although to be honest, it comes close. But Assess and Decide is a prerequisite for where I’m going. Guys like me are required to make the right decision, every time, down to my choice of shoes or how far back I recline in my office chair. The wrong decision, even an almost-but-not-precisely-correct decision, might go unnoticed or might bar me from the BC forever. There’s no way to tell. Guys like me have to make the tough decisions, decisions one might call distasteful, even, although the philosophical aspects of the process don’t interest me. What does interest me, interests me intensely, is demonstrating my abilities to the right people while keeping the less savory aspects out of the public eye. It’s this skill in particular that will cause the eyes of the BC to turn favorably upon me. It’s this skill that makes me not just extraordinary, and not just a man of abundance, but the man who will become the leader of men of abundance. I don’t know exactly what this means, it’s just a quiet truth that will, in due time, allow me to scrawl my name across the fabric of the universe in indelible ink. Part of the excitement is having no idea exactly how.

So I watch the undeniably lovely river. I indulge in the September sunshine, the pale blue sky. I allow myself a rare moment, just a second or two, of satisfaction: I, Jack Hiller, am twenty-eight years old, and at last count (taken three days ago, right before I caught my flight from LAX to Logan Airport), I was worth just under thirty-one million dollars. Not bad for a kid who put himself through Boston University serving lobster to tourists with a side of local charm. Not bad for a kid from Whitefield, the first in his family to even consider college. Not bad, but a guy like me can’t allow himself to rest on stepping-stones. I plan to join the BC by the time I’m forty, preferably sooner, and there’s a lot of work to do before I get there.

At precisely three minutes and thirty-four seconds into my five minutes of relaxation, I hear a splash. I look down and see an alligator, half in and half out of the water. It appears to be sleeping, at any rate, its eyes are closed. There’s something wrong about this, something I don’t like. “This is Maine and that’s an alligator,” Detached points out, and yes, I understand, the alligator doesn’t belong here. Its presence makes the river and the rustling, evergreen wilderness that surrounds me seem off-balance somehow, like a billboard slashed through with graffiti. I touch my face, half-expecting to feel nothing but the slick side of a photo, but no, I’m still here. At least I think so.

Then it’s Rational’s turn. “Who cares where the alligator came from? You’re miles away from civilization, in spitting distance of a dangerous predator. So get out of here right now, okay?”

I climb down the boulder, keeping the alligator in the corner of my eye. I walk for about a hundred feet, then glance back. The creature hasn’t moved, but its eyes are open now, and watching me. I turn away quickly and begin to run. While I’m running, my brain starts spitting out possible explanations. I allow it to wander.

My first thought is that the alligator is a local eccentric’s escaped pet. But the more I think about it, the more implausible that seems. Acquiring an alligator would be costly, and the added expense of setting up some sort of home terrarium for it to live in would be beyond the means of any locals.

So, a tourist, maybe. Some stupid fuck of a tourist who has money to burn, someone who doesn’t understand abundance and never will, some idiot who thought it’d be cute to go down to the Everglades with a stun gun, or hire someone else to do it, get himself an alligator, and set it up in his summer home in Ogunquit or Camden or Boothbay Harbor. He thinks it’ll make him seem interesting, get people to pay attention to him for a change. Then he gets bored with it, or doesn’t want to set up winter maintenance for the thing, and lets it go. The alligator finds its way to a river and, I suppose, dies when fall sets in.

I feel a stab of pity for the thing, possibly brought on by my irritation with the undoubtedly pot-bellied, sluggish tourist, so full of self-importance that he found it entirely reasonable to capture an alligator, to forcibly remove it from its lush and comfortable home, just for the purpose of trying to impress other wealthy, overfed tourists. To leave it to fend for itself in Whitefield, Maine, in the freezing, frothy waters of the Sheepscot River. Surely the alligator understands what’s been done to it, surely it’s cold, ravenous, miserably aware of the increasing discomfort of the weeks to come and the inevitability of its death. The alligator didn’t ask for this. The alligator would go home if it could. And now the alligator has to make the tough decisions. It can’t rest, it can’t relax, it has to give everything it’s got just to live a little longer. And in this, we are not so unalike. I wish I could tell the alligator that I get it.

I’m feeling something, something familiar, but I don’t know what. Right on cue, Rational speaks up. “You’re getting out of here, right, Jack? And then you’re going to take a shower, visit your dad, and forget this ever happened. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, and just like that, Jack Hiller snaps out of it. It seems we hit a little turbulence there, folks, but Jack Hiller’s back and flying the plane, and Jack Hiller’s getting out of here right now and moving on with his day. His working day, of course.

I’m getting close to the road, and I look back over my shoulder, just to check. The alligator is behind me, close behind me, maybe twenty feet away. What the fuck? The thing is following me. Why? If it wants me to adopt it, it’s out of luck. Maybe I should throw something at it. But Rational has another idea. “Run, Jack. No, sprint.”

I’m on the road now, and I obligingly sprint. Halfway home, I look over my shoulder again. The alligator is still behind me, but further away. I realize it’s not following me, it’s chasing me, hunting me, actually. “How long do you think it’s been since the thing’s seen a piece of meat?” asks Rational, which is the correct observation. The alligator doesn’t know I’m Jack Hiller. It thinks I’m a meal.

This doesn’t frighten me. I stop and watch the alligator running down Route 219 in Whitefield, Maine, and emit a short bark of laughter. I regret not bringing my cell phone, not being available to whatever was right around the corner. A good photo, or better, a video of the alligator might make national headlines, might even become a global internet sensation. And of course, the press wouldn’t be able to resist a few shots of handsome Jack Hiller, with his lady-killer grin and emerald eyes, along with some noteworthy details about me. “Jack Hiller, the golden boy of the investment world, finds himself in an unusual situation during his trip to Whitefield, Maine to attend to the needs of his dying father” comes to mind. Or something snappier: “Jack Hiller—The Extraordinary Life of an Extraordinary Man.” I made a mistake, it seems. I forgot my phone contains functionality that doesn’t require cell service. Great, awesome, I’m learning something, all part of the job, but meanwhile the fucking alligator is closing the distance, so I decide to put this particular educational experience on temporary hold.

I can’t help but watch for a few more seconds. I didn’t know alligators could run. Then Rational saves the day by asking what the fuck I think I’m doing exactly? So I turn around and sprint for home at top speed, which last time I checked, is five minutes and two seconds per mile. I reach the driveway, run across the yard, and open the entrance to the mudroom, which is unlocked, thank God. I slam the door behind me, then turn and look outside. No alligator. Relief washes over me with such intensity that I realize I must have actually been afraid, in my subconscious, I suppose. I stand there for a minute, safely inside, surveying the yard, the driveway, and the road beyond. But the alligator is gone. Time to move on with my day. My working day, of course.

To my right is the door to the main house. To my left is the door to a mother-in-law studio, built for exactly that purpose. My grandmother spent her final years living there. I go into the studio, because, well, I’m staying here. It’s an approximately twelve-by-fifteen room with a single bed, along with a tiny kitchenette and a tinier bathroom. Still, it’s better than the house, with its sickly odor of mold and Pine-Sol, freezing even in the summer. I’d offered five, ten, maybe hundreds of times to buy my parents a new home, wherever they wanted, or at least to renovate this one, but they steadfastly declined. It wasn’t out of pride, I don’t think. It would appear that the people of Whitefield, Maine don’t want what I want. They don’t want abundance. In fact, they want an utter lack of abundance. I find this mysterious. I don’t like mysteries, but the hopes and dreams of the residents of Whitefield are of zero importance to me. And a man in my position can’t afford to ponder questions whose answers don’t matter.

At any rate, I’ve spent a few days in this hovel for practical reasons. I needed to unload the house on any realty company who would take it. This required my presence to answer questions, sign papers, and smile. I don’t care about the money. The entire property, which includes one hundred and ten acres of wilderness, is worth about 50K, tops. I wish I could have just let the place rot. Every day is a working day, even when you’re stuck in Whitefield fucking Maine attempting to sell a bunch of pine trees (“Now, with a bonus alligator!” Emotional adds helpfully), while waiting on a parent who’s taking his own sweet time to snuff it. But it wouldn’t have looked right. And looking right is part of the job.

I sit on the tiny bed, alligator adventure over, half-thinking about a shower and the hospice, half-thinking about what a great happy hour story this will make. Then it occurs to me that I can’t actually tell anyone what happened. Without a video, I don’t think I could spin it in a way that would be believable. Or beneficial. I mean, the plot is, Jack sees a predator, then he runs away. So I’m going to have to keep this morning’s events to myself. Fine, who cares? Extraordinary things happen to Jack Hiller every day. “By this time next week,” I say aloud, “I’ll have accomplished something that’ll make getting chased by an alligator look like …” but here I trail off because I can’t think of anything. It’ll be something, though.

Now I’m feeling something else. Loneliness, to be honest. In LA, I’m surrounded by people, all day and all night. Here, I’m on my own. I had an encounter which I suppose could have cost me my life, and I can’t tell anyone about it. I feel the need to hear another voice, to connect, as if my adventure with the alligator had left me stranded on an inhospitable island and human contact is the bridge that will lead me back to my day, my working day, the shower, the hospice, LAX. I should call someone. A friend. Yes, I’ll call a friend, my best friend, Claudia.

I’ve known Claudia for years. We were coworkers at my first investment firm. I was her mentor. I let her in on some big deals, and I taught her everything she knows about the business. For a woman, she’s done well for herself, maybe because she’s more like a guy than a girl. When she got fired from the company, which according to rumor was a brutal event, she simply strode into my office, looking exactly like ten million bucks, and said, “Well, they fired me, Jack.” Head high, hair gleaming, jet black eyes fixed downward on my own. “Thanks for everything.” Then she smiled. A hard, sharp grin. And in a swish of ebony hair, she was gone.

To be honest, I like her. I know it’s just a by-product of sentience, no more meaningful than taking a piss, but still, I like her. She slips into my mind at times, unbidden. I feel my heart clench when I catch sight of her. When I’m fucking a girl, I like to pretend she’s Claudia. These aren’t details that matter, of course, Jack Hiller isn’t the kind of guy who’s going to indulge in a romance. Taking women out is part of the job, but Claudia isn’t the kind of woman I can take out, at least not anywhere the paparazzi might catch the two of us cozying up. She’s too short, for one thing, and let’s be real, too Asian.

There’s a phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and get this, it’s a rotary phone. You put your finger in the hole where the number is. Then you push the wheel of the phone all the way to the right and let go. The wheel resets itself by spinning left to its original position, accompanied by a series of clicking sounds. I get Claudia’s number from my cell phone, then begin the process of using the rotary phone to call her. It takes one minute and nine seconds to dial the ten-digit number. I don’t understand how people live like this, but by now I’m bored with philosophizing about the locals, so I put it out of my mind.

Claudia answers, of course. Investment brokers always answer their phones. “Hey Claudia, it’s Jack,” I say. “What’s happening?”

“Hi Jack, not much, what’s up?” Claudia shouts over traffic. The familiar sounds of LA make me feel even more alone. I wonder where Claudia’s going. Starbucks, probably, it’s too early for the gym. She’s all heels and Armani, jacket slung over her briefcase, legs rebelliously bare. I wish I could go with her, maybe take her briefcase or place a protective hand on the small of her back as we cross the street. I force Detached to discard these images and they obligingly vanish, replaced by an urgent desire to be rushing down I-95 in my rental car, foot hard on the gas all the way to Logan Airport. Claudia seems impossibly far away, so does my entire life for that matter, and all of a sudden, I feel exhausted.

Also, I can’t think of what to say. Another unusual event in a highly unusual day. A pause, then I manage, “Nothing much. I’m here in Maine, taking care of my father and …” I pause again. “Something weird happened.” Then I blurt out the truth. “I just … wanted to check in with a friend. How’s your day going?”

Then the oddest thing happens. Claudia laughs. A real laugh, merry and bright, not the usual “you’re the funniest client I’ve ever met” laugh. “Well hello, friend,” she says, and laughs again. “My day’s just awesome. One of my clients cashed out and bought, swear to God, a million cactus seeds and most of Nevada. Did you know cacti have seeds? Anyway, guess why.”

“Why didn’t you …” but then I stop. This is the kind of game I enjoy. I think for a minute, then say “The water?”

“Yes!” Claudia says, not seeming one bit concerned about losing her commission on a portfolio that bought Nevada. “Supposedly it has electrolytes or … wait, hang on,” and Claudia clicks off. Three beats and she’s back. “Gotta go, Jack, ciao!” and I let the phone hum in my ear for a few seconds before hanging up.

Still, thinking about how I would have managed Cactus Guy does the trick. I’m back in control and eager to get to work. I head for the shower. Afterward, examining my abdomen in front of the mirror (almost there, I think, when I suck in, I can see the outline of the lower pair of muscles), I feel uneasy, the same way I did when I saw the alligator. Then it comes to me, Claudia’s laughter. She’d been genuinely amused by my call.

I’m not an idiot, I know what her laugh means. As I said, I mentored Claudia, and mentoring means teaching the hard lessons, especially in a business that deals in promises and dreams. When she was new, she would let slide details about potential clients, which I would then take from her. I was new too, don’t forget, acquiring clients was part of my job. Also, in a fit of youthful eagerness to climb the ladder, I invested corporate dollars, a lot of them, in a profitable but risky deal. Too risky. When I realized that nothing could prevent it from falling through, I encouraged Claudia to put her face on it. I told her that her ability to assess risk and wind up with a successful deal would mark her as one of the company’s up and comers. She shouldn’t have fallen for it, but she did. It was when the deal went south that she got fired. I mean sure, I did this for my benefit, but I did it for her benefit too.

I tell Claudia this, in my head, as I’m dressing. I tell her she needed to learn to be less trusting. She replies, “That’s exactly the point, Jack. You taught me to not trust people.”

“Jeez, Claudia, they teach you that in freaking kindergarten,” I say, rolling my eyes, and I hear her laughing again, but now I’m dressed and ready to go, so hasta la vista, Claudia. I instruct Detached to discard the entire morning, and boom, just like that, it’s gone.

I stride to the door, hurrying now, and my hand is on the doorknob when I see it. It takes me several seconds to understand what I’m seeing. The alligator, the one I saw by the river, the one that followed me, no, chased me down the trail and onto the road (“Unless there’s more, unless Maine has a fucking alligator epidemic,” Emotional interjects nervously) is in the mudroom. In the house, in the mudroom. And there’s more. I hear a scraping sound, or maybe more like scratching. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before, but I’m not thinking about that now, I’m trying to figure out how the alligator got into the mudroom.

“The cat door?” I say aloud, then “No. That’s not possible.” Cats are small. Alligators are big. (At this, Detached provides a burst of sarcastic applause.) There’s no way an alligator could get through that door. Or was there?

I think for a minute, my hand still on the doorknob. What do I know about the skeletal structure of an alligator? Not much. It has a skull (“A narrow skull,” says Detached). And a backbone, and ribs, but maybe, just maybe, its body is malleable enough to allow it through the cat door. But this doesn’t matter. The alligator is here. That’s what matters. And the scraping sound. That matters too.

Rational finally speaks up. “The alligator has a goal. Just like you, Jack, old pal. The alligator wants abundance, just like you, and I think an alligator’s idea of abundance might be 180 pounds of investment broker. So. Let’s figure out what the alligator’s doing, whaddya say?”

“All right, fine,” I respond, and force myself to look at the alligator.,

It’s busy doing something, that I can tell at once. Its eyes are focused straight ahead. I can’t see its front paws (“Feet,” corrects Detached), but I can tell they’re moving. I watch the alligator carefully. The scraping sounds continue, but I still can’t identify them. I examine the mudroom. There’s no new information there. “Locate the source, Jack, you’ll figure out what the sound is when you know where it’s coming from,” says Rational, and that seems like good advice.

I focus on the scraping. It seems to be below me. I squat. The sound is still below me. Finally, I lie down on the floor with my ear to the door. This is where the sound is coming from. It’s coming from the bottom of the door. The sound is worse down here. It’s louder, which is bad enough, but I also feel that I’m hearing something deliberate. Something purposeful. Something that has a goal. Just like me.

I force myself to look at the door. I don’t want to, but I do it. What I see doesn’t surprise me, what I see simply confirms what I must have known from the instant I first heard that dreadful, deliberate scraping. There’s a hole in the bottom of the door. A small hole, one that a mouse could fit through, but not, say, a cat and definitely not an alligator. “That’s not what matters here, Jack,” Rational says as if talking to a child, and as always, Rational is correct. What matters is what I’m seeing, which is a talon (“Nail,” says Detached. “No—claw. Probably.”) scratching at the hole. As I watch, the claw hooks through a chunk of wood and tears it out of the door. I hear it clatter to the floor on the other side.

My mind switches from Abject Terror to Total Panic with an almost audible click. I lunge toward the phone. Rational is silent, or at least can’t be heard over Emotional, who is screaming, “What the FUCK Jack, what the FUCK, this fucking alligator followed you home and is fucking tearing down your door so it can fucking eat you, fucking rip you to pieces and devour you. What the fuck, animals don’t do this, what the fuck is wrong with this thing, does it have rabies maybe, wait, what kind of animal is an alligator, an amphibian? No, that’s wrong, what is it, oh right, it’s a reptile, a fucking reptile, do reptiles get rabies?” and my fingers are dialing the rotary phone and I think I hear Rational say “Jack. Wait. Hang up the phone and let’s think this through, okay?” and then the voice on the phone says, “911, what is the nature of your emergency?” and Emotional screams, “It’s an alligator, there’s an alligator, I’m on Route 219 in Whitefield, a fucking alligator followed me home, and now it’s tearing down the door with its talons, I need help, it’s going to get in here and it’s going to fucking eat me and I need someone to get over here and help me right now!” and the second I’m done speaking, even before the long pause that follows, I understand the gravity of the mistake I just made, and worse, I recognize the consequences.

After the pause, the operator says, “Did you say ‘alligator,’ sir?”

Now my voice is toneless, iced with dread. “Yes. I know it sounds crazy. But I’m telling you the truth. I found the alligator in the Sheepscot River. It followed me home and now it’s using its talons, or claws, whatever, to tear down the door. I need help. Immediately. Thank you.”

The operator says, “Can you hold a minute, sir?” but she doesn’t put me on hold because I still hear sounds, sounds like voices, too low for me to make out. I’m not surprised to hear what might be laughter. Then the operator’s back. “Route 219, correct, sir? The Hiller residence? I’m sending someone out to you right now.” She sounds as if she means it, God bless her, she sounds as if she means it.

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you. Please hurry. Please tell them to get here as fast as they can.” She tells me that she certainly will, and I hang up the phone.

The closest police department is in Augusta, which is about an hour away, 45 minutes at top speed. I can’t bring myself to look at the door, but the sound of splintering wood is louder now, which is a bad sign. Even if they hurry, even if they send an ambulance, it’s going to be very fucking close. Too close.

I think of the laughter I might have heard, and I think of the operator saying, “Did you say ‘alligator,’ sir?” They’ll come, sure they will, they have to respond to every call, no matter what the reason. But because of my own foolishness, my impetuous, emotion-fueled idiocy, they’re not going to put a rush on this one.

“A fucking heart attack,” I say aloud, shocked at the hoarse and jittery tone of my voice. Even to myself, I sound unhinged. “Why didn’t you just say you were having a heart attack?”

I pick up the phone again. Then Rational says, “How about taking stock of the situation before making more crazy-person phone calls?” A pause, then Rational mutters, “That will probably end up on YouTube, you stupid piece of shit.”

I’m shocked. No one talks to Jack Hiller like that, no one. (“Not even Jack Hiller,” Emotional clarifies), but it’s hard to disagree with the sentiment. So I take stock of the situation. I’m in a small, windowless room with a single exit, which an alligator with an attitude problem is currently turning into a pile of kindling. Okay, now that’s done.

“Is there anyone else you can ask for help?” says Rational, and I cry out loud, “Neighbors! The fucking neighbors!” and that intense, almost loopy sense of relief washes over me again.

Of course in Whitefield, “neighbor” means anyone up to about ten miles away. We had three. I put my hands over my ears to block the scraping sound so I can think. There were the Browns, but they got divorced and moved away, my mom told me that, maybe five years ago. The closest ones died last year, within a couple months of each other. I sent out sympathy cards. That’s the kind of thing people approve of and doing things people approve of is part of the job. But the ones near the river, they’re still there, I’m sure Mom was still talking about them before she died. They had a sheepskin throw that I loved to stroke as a kid, the guy had a huge vinyl collection, he introduced me to the Rolling Stones and I loved them and I listened to them all the time and his name was HANK, that’s right, it was HANK and SUE, it was “Lowell!” I shout at the top of my lungs and then I’m dialing the phone again and saying, “Lowell, please, Route 219 in Whitefield, Hank and Sue Lowell,” and a mechanical voice is spitting out the number and I don’t have a pen, couldn’t remember the last time I used a pen, oh God, is there a pen hidden somewhere in this ridiculous room, oh wait, your cell, you idiot, use the cell, so I redial and type the number carefully in my cell phone, then call the Lowells. The Lowells of the sheepskin throw and the vinyl collection, the Lowells who are going to save my life today.

I’m trembling with excitement. Drops of water are falling and pinging off the phone. “Sweat,” says Detached. “Perspiration.” But the phone rings on and on, 10 times, 20, more. I’m not sure how many times it rings before I hang up. No voicemail, no answering machine even. I shouldn’t be surprised, my folks didn’t have one either. Years ago, when I was in college, I presented them with an answering machine for Christmas, set it up for them even, carefully explaining, then demonstrating, how each of the three buttons worked. But they never used it. Couldn’t figure it out, they said. It perplexed me at the time, but now I know what they were really saying. They were saying, “That world you live in—we don’t want any part of it. We don’t want … abundance. We don’t want that.”

But that doesn’t matter. What matters is, I’m in this situation because I took one final trip to Maine to placate a tribe of gossiping rednecks. And now they can’t be bothered to answer their phones? What if it’s an emergency, like, hello, right now? I struggle briefly with an urge to bash my skull into the phone, but instead I settle for plotting how I’m going to ruin the Lowell’s lives. I’m enjoying this line of thinking, but “Get back with the program, Jack,” Rational says so grimly that just like that, I’m back with the program.

“Aye, aye captain,” I reply, and look at the door.

The hole is big now. Big enough for a cat, for sure, big enough for a large cat. “Big enough for two flower girl cats to stroll side by side down a wedding aisle,” Emotional muses thoughtfully, then bursts into song. “Here comes the BRIIIIIIIIIDE!” Emotional shouts with considerable gusto, clearly delighted with this once in a lifetime opportunity for self-expression. I don’t mind, it’s better than the scraping sound. But Rational is trying to speak now, so I listen.

“Weapons,” says Rational. “Maybe you can slash through its snout or stun it with something when it comes through the door.”

I go to the kitchenette, opening the few drawers and cabinets. Not much here, my grandmother died some ten years ago. No knives, but I do find an object with a handle and about six inches of silver with a rounded tip. An antique, clearly, with no functionality that I can think of. Still … “I can pop the thing’s eyes out with this,” I say aloud, then look for something heavy. No frying pans, no floor lamps. There’s the phone. And books, lots of books, people who live out here have nothing to do but read. I pick out the largest. It’s the size of a coffee table book, with what looks like thousands of pages. “Encyclopedia of Flowers,” the cover says, and for the second time this morning, I laugh out loud.

I’m not sure what to do next, but it has to be something. I look around the room carefully, rationally, maybe there’s something I’ve missed that could help me. I reassess the situation, humming to block out the sound of splintering wood. My thoughts turn back to the phone. I fall briefly in love with the phone. I’m not in this alone, the phone can connect me to anyone in the world. Probably the best course of action is to dial 911 over and over until I manage to convince someone that I’m not just a lunatic, I’m a dying lunatic. I’ll deal with the YouTube fallout later. I’d like to make sure Rational agrees, so I listen, but apparently no one has any thoughts on the matter. I interpret the silence as agreement from all parties.

I don’t look at the hole. The hole doesn’t matter. What matters is what I’m going to say to the person who answers the phone. I take my time and rehearse the lines in my head. When I’m positive they’re the right ones, I pick up the phone. I dial 911 again. It occurs to me that 9 is a poor choice for an emergency number when you’re using a rotary phone. Why isn’t it 111?

As if I’m being rewarded for my ability to maintain a clear head in a stressful situation, a different voice answers, and surprisingly, it’s a male voice. The last of my fear vanishes. I’m thinking clearly, I’m connected to someone whose job it is to help me, a man whose job it is to help me. I’m going to tell the man I need help, and then the man is going to help me.

“Hello,” I say in a husky tone. My voice needs to be perfectly clear, and at the same time give the impression that I’m seconds away from death. I pant a little, then resume. “My name is (pant) Jack Hiller (pant pant). I think I’m having (pant pant) a heart attack. I’m in Whitefield, Route 219, the gray cape, about five miles from the Alna town line. The Hiller residence.” You’d think in today’s world, having an address would be part of living in a home, but not in Whitefield, and fuck, I forgot to pant, so I refocus and pant a few more times before resuming. “I think I’m dying.” (Pause, more panting.) “Is there someone local (pant) who can help? I need (pant) help (pant),” and now I inject a note of trembling fear into my voice, “right away.” And here I stop.

Triumph courses through me. I’ve never felt more energetic and alive. I nailed it, freaking nailed it, I convincingly faked a heart attack under the most stressful circumstances possible. If my Assess and Decide process works flawlessly while I’m undergoing an attack by what would appear to be an exceptionally ambitious alligator, I can count on making the correct decisions for the rest of my life, no matter what the situation. Not that there was ever any doubt, but still. I feel fantastic, no, abundant. What a day!

There’s a pause. Then “Harry?” says the voice. “Hey there, Harry. I heard you were having …” Another pause, then the voice resumes in a tone that can’t be mistaken for anything but glee. “An … alligator problem.”

My first impulse is to hang up. Only my parents know my real name, or so I thought. By the age of five, I was already aware that Harrison Hiller wasn’t going to take me where I needed to go. Jack, now, that’s the right kind of name. Traditional, time-honored, but with a dash of flair. Jack’s a straight shooter, a hell of a guy, the man everyone looks up to, wishes he could be. And right now, Jack’s in a pickle, and who wouldn’t want to help out a guy like Jack? But this man, the one on the phone, obviously knows me, knows me well. For a guy like me, a guy who has to make the tough decisions, this isn’t a good sign.

The man is still speaking. “It’s Rob,” he says. “I’m the chief of police out here in Augusta now. You remember me, right, Harry?” I don’t but say nothing. “Butthole Boy,” the man says cheerfully, and then I remember, God help me, I remember. Now the voice isn’t just gleeful, it’s almost ecstatic. “I heard about the, uh, the alligator thing. And now you’re having a heart attack? Gosh. Sounds like a rough morning. Really rough.”

Then Rob, formally known as Bobby and my childhood best friend, laughs. Laughs with abandon, as I listen. I can’t think of anything better to do, so I just listen. Eventually, his laugh becomes the hiccupping sound of a man whose ribs are aching from laughter and is trying to bring himself back under control. He’s not just enjoying this, that’s perfectly clear. He’s reveling in it. He’s been dreaming about something like this for over a decade, and now not only is it happening, it’s even better than his wildest fantasies. Given the circumstances, I can hardly blame him. “I’ll send someone out to you right away. Just as soon as I can.” A pause. Then he says, in a gentle, perhaps even fond tone, “Old pal.” One more beat, then the phone goes dead.

“Bobby,” I say aloud. “Fucking Bobby Barnes.” My childhood buddy, my best pal. Not that we ever talked much, we were guys, after all. We threw a football around, watched a lot of TV. We stayed friends throughout elementary school and high school, and then there was … well, there was a situation where I had to make a tough decision.

The guidance counselor had told me that to get the kind of scholarship I needed, I should have something community-minded on my record. He suggested volunteering for a soup kitchen or picking up trash by the side of the road—activities that would definitely not set me on the right path. “Or run for student council,” he said, and that I could do, that was a step that made sense, but there was a problem. Bobby had been class President junior year and would be senior year as well. I was the most popular guy in class, or at least the most respected. But Bobby was actually liked, by everyone. In an anonymous vote, he would have trounced me. And even though Bobby was the cheerful, upbeat type, an excellent practice clam who never failed to behave exactly as instructed, I couldn’t tell him to step down because he never stepped up. Bobby didn’t care about being class President, didn’t care about anything as far as I could tell, but he’d be enthusiastically nominated and unanimously elected by his fans, just like junior year.

So I had to neutralize Bobby, in a way that no one could connect with me. My obvious weapon was the obsessive devotion he provoked in girlish hearts. I have no idea why, the guy wasn’t even that good-looking, but everywhere he went, a girl pack crept behind him, dark urges glittering in their eyes. Like they’d do anything for him. Like they’d do anything to him. Bobby took it in stride, he took everything in stride, but he steered clear of the lovelorn girls, and he never dated. Likely out of fear, or maybe he actually was a faggot. Either way, it worked in my favor.

So, I wrote a letter. I took my time. I did research. I spent God knows how many hours crafting the thing, but it was worth it, it was my future we were talking about. Scripting adolescent vows of eternal love was easy enough but describing the boy-on-boy activities enjoyed by Bobby and the anonymous author required study and skill. It wasn’t as if I knew anything about the topic. But in order to properly humiliate the girls, I had to make it clear that Bobby’s heart had been claimed—as had his asshole.

Then all I had to do was swipe Bobby’s notebook, tuck the tightly folded letter way down inside a folder, and leave it under the cafeteria table where the popular girls sat. It took about five seconds for the pack of squealing girls to tear the notebook to bits, and five more for the entire school to have read the letter. Before the bell rang for next period, Bobby had become Butthole Boy, and a wanted man. To date, I have yet to encounter a force more dangerous than a gang of adolescent girls publicly disgraced by their love interest. A lot of shit went down over that letter, but the only part that matters is I got the presidency, and I got my scholarship, because even at seventeen, I was one skilled motherfucker of a clam poker.

I never thought about the incident afterward. Butthole Boy just disappeared. I remember visiting him in the hospital because I was officially standing by his side, but I don’t think I ever saw him again. He had to transfer, obviously, the further away the better, I’d guess boarding school, but who cares? Wherever he ended up, I’m sure it took about two seconds for him to become the most popular guy in class somewhere else. So everything worked out for both of us.

But that part doesn’t matter. What matters is, how the fuck did he figure out it was me? Allowing the clam to realize it’s been poked, and worse, how and by whom, isn’t poking the clam at all, it’s more like a caveman using a rock to pound his clam into tiny, useless bits. It’s hard to concentrate with the scraping, but now I’m upset, I have to figure this out.

Then Rational speaks up. “Hey. Yo. Earth to Jack. I have a question for you, buddy.” I find this a little snide but wait politely. “Why are you sitting there thinking about some kid from high school when there’s an alligator sliding through the door?” asks Rational, which seems like a good question. I don’t want to look, but I do, and yes, there’s the alligator’s snout, and in the next few seconds, the alligator will be inside.

But I’m prepared. No one’s going to help Jack Hiller, that much I know, but I can take care of this. As the alligator’s head enters the room, I slam it as hard as I can with the Encyclopedia of Flowers. Hard enough, I’m certain, to crush its skull. The alligator doesn’t seem to notice. It’s busy squeezing its body through the hole, and seeing how sinuous and flexible it is, the cat door theory begins to make sense. I brain the thing again, and the alligator looks up at me with indifference. “Fuck, what is up with this thing’s skull?” I say aloud. The blows I’d given it would have killed a person instantly, would have turned his head into jello, but apparently alligators have extraordinarily thick skulls, a fact, I tell myself defensively, that I shouldn’t have been expected to know.

But now I have a new idea, one that will work. I steady myself to jump on its head, nearer to the snout, presumably more fragile and unable to withstand the entire force of Jack Hiller. But immediately, too quickly to process as separate events, the alligator whips its head to the right, to the left, several times maybe, it’s impossible to tell. Then it’s staring at my legs as if it’s read my mind, which at this point seems possible. Sudden motion is out, for the moment anyway.

I’ve made yet another mistake. I should have gone for the eyes first. But it’s too late now, the alligator is inside, it’s right in front of me now, eyeing me with cool disdain. I back up a step, weapons in hand. The room is so small that I only have about two more backward steps between me and the wall.

“Can you leap over it and dash for the door?” Rational asks. This surprises me. It’s a stupid question, and Rational never asks stupid questions.

“No way,” I reply. The thing was freakishly agile, and God, it was fast. “I’ll take ‘Random Shit About Alligators’ for two hundred, Alex,” Emotional says wearily, then shuts down for the day with a click that I feel rather than hear. It would appear that the exacting machinery of my brain has been somehow disturbed by this morning’s events, so Jack Hiller might have fly solo for the remainder of his mission.

“You’ve still got a weapon, right, Jack?” I say out loud, pretending to be Rational, “Sure do,” I reply in agreement. This exchange provides me with approximately the same feeling of reassurance as my real conversations with Rational, which I take as a good sign.

The eyes, then. I can do this, easy. “It’s all part of the job,” I tell the alligator. “Every day is a working day, you know.” The alligator has nothing to say to this. Nor does it seem in a rush to attack. It doesn’t move, it doesn’t blink, it just continues to look at me.

I raise the silver object, aim, and drive it into the alligator’s eye, deep enough to enter the brain. At least, that’s what I think happens. But after a second or two, I realize that although I didn’t feel anything and I didn’t see the alligator move, it took my right hand. It’s like, one second, the alligator was motionless on the floor. And now, the alligator is in the same position, but it has my fingers poking out of the bottom left part of its jaws. I know they’re my fingers because I recognize my class ring. It’s a Stanford ring. I’d had it custom made.

I draw back my foot to kick it. Then I think I hear Rational’s dying voice. “It’s got your hand, Jack. Do you want it to keep tearing off pieces of you while you watch?”

I don’t think I do. I back up the final two steps, dropping the Encyclopedia of Flowers. It lands on its spine and flutters open to a page titled “The Pansy.” This amuses me. I’m feeling dizzy, very dizzy indeed, and it seems that darkness is encroaching on my peripheral vision. It’s like an ocean, surging, receding, surging closer. But this isn’t a detail that matters. Or is it?

What matters is, I want something. “You,” I say, then pause, exhausted. I try again. “You poked me,” I tell the alligator, who doesn’t seem surprised. But that’s what happened. The alligator poked me. The alligator poked the clam. Poked it hard, in exactly the right spot. In the dark place, the darkest one, so secret and vital you didn’t even know it was there. In the place that hurts.

It’s interesting that the wanting I’m feeling is different from my desire for abundance, whatever that even means. It’s elemental, fundamental, essential even, and it’s not about my birthright or my skill set or my destiny, it’s about me, the real me, you can even call me Harry, I don’t give a shit. What I want is to be twenty-eight and sitting outside somewhere, anywhere, my arm around Claudia, safe and warm under an amiable sun. Maybe I’m having a life-changing moment, or maybe I’ve simply gone off the edge, but I’m pretty sure the distinction doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure the curtain’s closed on things that matter to Jack Hiller, a guy who admittedly, never actually existed.

The alligator is making a noise now, something between a growl and a rattle. It lowers its head and raises its tail slightly. I understand it’s preparing to attack. It had fought me, it had beaten me, and now it’s going to collect its reward. And this, I understand. Sympathize with, even. If you’re an alligator living in Maine, every day is a working day. And you have to make the tough decisions. Just like me.

Just like me, yeah, sure. I’m about to be eaten by an alligator. Correction: I’ve been partially eaten by an alligator who’s about to come back for the rest. Or at least most of the rest, enough of the rest to not matter. My turn to make a tough decision.

I think I do well. The decision I make is that I don’t want to watch an alligator work its way through my intestines. I need it to attack the head or the neck first. I kneel, facing the alligator, press my forehead to the floor, and lock my hands (“Hand,” Detached would have said) behind my back. As if I’m bowing, which, I suppose, is appropriate. Stomach (the stomach that almost but not quite became an eight-pack) protected, mind in resting state. “Come on then,” I say to the alligator. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, the only truly unbelievable event of this extraordinary morning occurs: Jack Hiller checks out. Jack Hiller’s off the clock, is outta here, guys, is loosening his tie and changing his status to “Away.” You heard it here first, folks, Jack Hiller had a Life Changing Moment following a Near Death Experience, and he cashed out and took off for Tahiti! Fuck you, world, I’m retired, and I’m gonna enjoy it while I can. I’m back with Claudia, but now we’re in lounge chairs in a tropical paradise, just kicking back and enjoying the view. I’ve got one arm around Claudia, I like having my arm around her, it took years of effort and some serious growing up to do before I won her over, and sometimes, I’m still afraid that I might tap her shoulder and she’ll whip around, cold and professional, eyebrows raised to indicate that it’s not okay to touch her and that she expects an apology right now. In the beach house behind us, Dad’s making dinner, Mom’s there too, I still haven’t talked them into letting me renovate the house, but at least they spend winters with us now. Some of Claudia’s friends are here, and yesterday, Bobby Barnes, my lifelong best friend, dropped by with his marvelous gem of a wife, or husband, a husband’s great too. Pretty soon now, Claudia and I are going to fold up our chairs and return to the house for a dinner with family and friends, this pastime is still new for me, but I enjoy it very, very much. There will be candles and Bobby will keep everyone in stitches; we’ll all praise Dad’s cooking and slip scraps to the family dog. Later, Claudia and I will go to bed. She’ll let me wrap her in my arms and we’ll listen to the ocean as we fall asleep. But not just yet. Right now, I’m kissing Claudia’s shoulder, she doesn’t turn around, but I see her smile a little, she’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t see her eyes, she’s wearing a beach hat, her nails are painted red. We’re watching the ocean surging, receding, surging closer. We’re just sitting here. Just watching the ocean. The working day is over.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Rebecca B. Weiss 2025