It's 9:42 when I get into my Uber.

My driver, a young woman with thick curly black hair spilling down her forehead asks, "Your destination isn't a hospital, is it? I don't recognize the address."

"No. It's the Trollamex Building." I buckle my seatbelt. "Why did you say hospital?" 

"You look a little pale."

I lean toward the center console to get a look at myself in her rearview mirror.

As she steers away from the curb she says, "I had a lady last week who was having a heart attack. She wanted me to rush her to the hospital. I told her I couldn't do it. I felt bad but what if she would've died in my car?"

"Why didn't she call an ambulance?"

"Said she couldn't afford it."

"She didn't have health insurance?"

"Most health plans don't cover ambulances. Ain't that some shit?"

"So when you're having a heart attack or stroke you gotta decide if you can afford an ambulance or not? That's crazy."

"Don't get me started, dude. This country is messed up. You hear about what's going down in Utah?"

I shake my head.

                                                                                  #######

10:06. I exit my Uber in front of the Trollamex Building, a steel and tinted glass tower that reflects the surrounding urban environment while preventing anyone from seeing who or what's inside. 

A middle-aged woman lets out an audible sigh as she walks to the entrance. I watch the transformation. Her expression falls, her shoulders drop, and the bounce in her step vanishes. The man following her into the building adopts an involuntarily rigid posture like a kindergarten student separated from his mom surrendering to his fate.

On my way toward the front door, I'm met by a weather-beaten man. He wears a wrinkled dress shirt with a frayed tie loosened around his collar. With sad eyes, he says, "Can you help me out, friend?"

He holds a sign that reads: PLEASE HELP. OUT OF WORK FOR 28 MONTHS. The hand-lettering is neat and legible and there are no misspellings. I get the sense that this is not a crazy person, an alcoholic, or drug addict. He seems like a despondent, desperate, once-proud man who's nearly at the end of his rope.

I reach for my wallet. The poor guy barely has the energy to speak.

"There's just nothing out there for anyone our age." He shakes his head in despair.

Our age? I thought he was way older than me.

"No jobs. Anywhere. There's nothing."

I give him a twenty-dollar bill. "Here you go. Good luck."

"Thank you." He tucks away the money. "You work in there?" He gestures toward the building.

"I used to work for those people but I don't anymore. I quit."

"You got a better job?"

"Nope. Just couldn't take it anymore."

"You shouldn't have done that," he says, his lower lip quivering. "It's tough out here on the streets. You'll see."

"I hope not." 

That wasn't a great confidence-builder.

I approach the front door with purpose, clutching my briefcase tightly. Everything about this property is designed to intimidate. It's not by accident that the structure calls to mind a missile perched on a concrete pad ready to launch. I force a self-assured smile and enter the building.

A stern-looking male receptionist greets me. "May I help you?"

"Phil Robiski to see Mr. Markowitz, Communications Director."

The receptionist's eyes go to a security guard standing against the wall. He looks like a china cabinet stuffed into a navy blue blazer.

The receptionist says, "I don't see you listed. Do you have an appointment?"

"No. Not really. But Mr. Markowitz knows me. We've worked together on some projects. Actually, quite a few projects."

The receptionist checks his computer monitor and says, "He'll be right down."

The security guard gestures toward the waiting area with a hand the size of a catcher's mitt.

I find an empty seat at the window, feeling the scrutiny from both men. I keep my confident smile fixed in place. On the coffee table is the usual collection of trade magazines. And a kid's book titled "Fish Sticks For Francine." Who would ever bring a kid into a place like this?

My curiosity overwhelms me. I thumb through the first few pages of the book. Not a very intriguing plot. A skinny little girl in a plaid jumper is sad that her mom is not serving fish sticks for dinner. It takes a moment to register. I check the back of the book. Sure enough. The book is published by a major seafood company. More corporate propaganda.

The elevator doors open and out steps Vern Tattersal. I rise, offering my hand.

"Mr. Tattersal. How are you doing?"

He gives me an insincere handshake. Blotches appear on the cheeks and neck of the perpetually nervous man. He clears his throat and begins, "Mr. Robiski. Mr. Marko... Mr. Markowitz isn't not available."

"I really need to speak to him."

"Can I be of help? Assistance?"

"Actually, Vern, I'd like some information on a product Trollamex used to manufacture called "Tiger's Teeth." 

He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes then clears his throat again. "Since 1987, Trollamex has distinguished itself as a top ten customer-oriented organization and rates among the top five in world-class service select disciplines."

"Vern. Don't stonewall me. I need--"

"--There is nothing more mission-critical at Trollamex than both our consumer and non-consumer segments."

"Come on, Vern. Cut the crap."

The enormous security guard advances. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave these premises. Now."

I swallow my frustration. 

The DING of the elevator draws my attention. The doors separate and out strides Douglas Glerk, teeth bared, hackles raised. He fast-walks to a position two inches from me, nose-to-nose. His red eyes lock with mine. I can't help but stare at the two protrusions on his forehead. Vern slowly backs away and hides behind a chair. 

"You want to slug it out with us?" Glerk points a finger capped with a yellow fingernail. "Who do you think you are, you little insignificant crumb?"

In a day or two, I'll think of at least a dozen witty comebacks. But at this moment, my brain fails me. The only message it transmits is RUN!

I head for the exit and push through the door, out onto the street, doing a terrible job of disguising my anxiety. My fake smile disintegrates.

Glerk chases me onto the sidewalk and shouts, "You're a joke. That's what you are. A pathetic excuse for a man. You'll never work in this town again. You'll never work on this planet again. Never! Go get yourself a cardboard box and find a bridge to live under. You're done! Finished!"

The man with the sign trots alongside me then shoves the twenty-dollar bill into my jacket pocket. He sighs. "You're gonna need this more than me." 

I pick up the pace, jogging down the sidewalk.

                                                                                  #######

In the backseat of my Uber, I dial the office. Damn, I'm spending too much money on Ubers. I need to get my car back. And I need a job.

Wren answers, "Dunning and Brannigan. How may I direct your call?"

"Hey, Wren. It's me. Phil."

No response.

"Is Carl in?"

She connects me. The phone rings three times then rolls over to voicemail. "This is Carl Dunning. Your call is important to me, so please leave your name and number and I'll call you back." BEEP.

"Hey, Carl. It's Phil. Give me a call when you get a chance. Thanks."

When the Uber pulls to the curb at my driveway my first thought is, "I can't lose this house. I just can't."

I get out of the car and cross the weed-choked lawn to my front door. I love this house. It's the only home Jillian has ever known. Our family belongs in this house. This is our home.

I grab the contents of the mailbox then unlock the front door. Bills, bills, and more bills. Here's an invoice from Jillian's pediatric dentist. Oh, hell. I just realized that my family is probably no longer covered by Dunning and Brannigan's health plan. I guess we'll need to switch to Megan's employer's plan. Can't wait to have that discussion. That's going to be soooooo much fun. 

I open the refrigerator in search of lunch foodstuffs. There's the leftover chicken cacciatore, but I should probably save that for dinner. There's some cheese that looks well past its expiration date and a wilted stalk of celery. I close the refrigerator and grab an apple.

I check my phone. No missed calls. Come on, Carl. Call me back. I search through my phone contacts and find Zayne Jovavic. He's an Art Director at one of the biggest agencies in town. We just had lunch a couple of months ago. Now that I think about it, it may have been last year. He said they were expanding their PR department. It almost sounded like he was offering me a job. I call him.

"Hey, it's Zayne."

"Zayne. It's Phil."

Dead air.

"Phil Robiski."

"Oh. Hey, Phil. Sorry, dude, I was in the middle of something."

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No. No, I'm good. Glad you called."

"So how are things at the agency?"

"Oh, you didn't hear? Epic crash. Massive layoffs. The agency is down to maybe a dozen people."

"What happened?"

"We lost three major accounts back-to-back. The one that totally slit our throat was Frito-Lay."

"Ouch."

"The whole company got evacuated from Utah and that, as they say, was the end of that shit."

"They were in Utah?"

"A corn chip shortage is coming, my friend. Be warned."

"I didn't know things were that bad."

"Totally. So if you hear of anyone looking for an awesome Art Director, hit me up."

"Definitely."

"We should do a coffee or something."

"Yeah, we should."

"Gotta hit the gym. Gotta get swole."

"What?"

He's gone.

Wow, that was depressing. Maybe the sign man was right. Maybe the job market is a lot tougher than I anticipated. 

I begin to google "get swole" when my phone rings. I don't recognize the number. Maybe it's Carl calling from a different number. When I answer the call I hear an angry voice.

"Is this Phillip Robinski?"

"Robiski. Yeah."

"What do you want, Phillip Robiski? You musta left a hundred messages."

That voice. I know that voice.

"Kellen?"

"Huh?"

"Is this Kellen?"

"Who the hell is Phillip Robiski and how the hell does he know me?"

"Kellen, it's me! Phil!"

"You maybe got the wrong number."

 "It's me. The guy with the smashed-in windshield. The world's worst dancer."

"You have got to be shittin' me!"

"For real."

"What in the world do you want with Donald Turner?"

"Do you know him? Donald Turner?"

"Sure do. That's my Uncle Donk."