13

The rain came down lightly on a grey, cool day just minutes from Spring, it seemed. 

I drove my recently acquired mid-size luxury car down a moderately crowded street just before the lunch rush.  I wore a dark suit and a wool and cashmere overcoat.  I left the coffee shop minutes before.  Left because my appointment never showed.  A text yielded only a one-word response.  A follow-up, nothing.  This may have been the last chance.

A song came on the radio.  A man's sorrowful voice, a soft guitar.  Two months of anger and fear came up inside me.  A tear came to my eye as I gripped the steering wheel tightly.  My lips quivered, the tears flowed. 

It had all come to this.  The song about a lover who'd changed with time reminded me of the time I kissed her.  The second time.  And then a memory of the first.  That same night.  The magic and haze and leaving the elevator and walking to my room and not sleeping because I was so high. 

And it had all come to this.  She doesn't know that two months ago, I lost my job.  That I've been driving around and writing and looking for work for two months.  And I wonder if I'd made different choices, if I could have spared her.  If we'd been wrong about the path we were on.  And when will I tell her?  Or will she find out and I'll have spared her two months or three of worry and depression. 

So, I've been holding it in.  And it came out.

And I stopped my car and got out and left it running and walked down the street.  Polished black shoes hitting pavement.  Off to a sidewalk and down a side street.  I look back and notice a police officer at the car, no doubt they'll run the tags and find it belongs to me.  But for now, I'm walking.  Down a sidewalk and it is 15 degrees outside and windy and cold and my face is burning and red and the wind has blown away my tears. 

For the third time in five jobs, I was asked to leave.  I came in pretty much knowing it would happen.  Just after a week-long vacation and just ahead of our busiest time of the year.  I had offered to stay on, to help until a permanent replacement could be found.  There was no choice, I was told.  I asked for the week and was given a few hours.  By lunch, I had left.  By 6:00PM, I was back home.  Smiling and relieved. 

Truly, the days after that one were exhilarating.  I forced myself to write, to pursue job leads, to have lunch meetings. 

And then, the song.  And the realization that either today or next week or very soon I'd have to come up with money or a story or something. 

I keep hoping that there will be a new job, a transition, a source of income that will replace what I left. 

Two months is not much time in a job search.  Time to get letters out and get a few rejections back.  Time to maybe get called for an interview (though I haven't yet). 

And now I'm thinking about a tiny downtown apartment.  About life apart from my family and the town where I've lived most of my adult life.  Life apart from our child. 

I imagine a contract and some writing money and that if I had just chosen not to follow what was the inevitable path all those years ago, I'd not even be here right now.  That I'm trying to make my life dreams fit into someone else's life.  And it hasn't been working out all that well.  That on a Tuesday night in March 14 years ago, I could have taken a huge risk and walked away.  And by now, everything would be different, fine, maybe even the same with only a different cast of characters. 

I walk back to my car because I can't have the police calling my house.  I explain that I just lost my job and I am distressed and I'm sorry.  The officer writes a citation and tells me to get the car out of the road unless there's something wrong with it.  There isn't, of course.  I say "yes, sir" and get in and drive back to the small, private office space that I've claimed. 

The crying is over and there is now nothing to do but persevere.  Keep going.  Make something happen.  I will.  It's what I always do.  The pattern repeats itself.  2.5 years is about all anyone can take of me, it seems. 

I'm back in the office. Checking emails.  Writing.  Tears gone and stress relieved to a point. 

I'll go home and feel relaxed, not worried about the next day's work.  Not sure what's next.  This is the path I've chosen.  I'm not getting off anytime soon.