A few seconds pass while I wonder what the hell .bz stands for, and then the survey appears, just like Mike said it would. I type in my email address, skip over the bullshit wording that gives the nut jobs hope that their wishes can come true, then type my list quickly:

 

Sex with Jinny Kidwell

A million dollars

My boss dies a horrible death

 

I pause. The first three are bullshit; I know it, everyone knows it. But I allow myself to think, what if?

What if I put down something plausible? Maybe there’s some whacko millionaire out there who’s reading these lists, waiting for a sincere wish to pop up.

I think about it a full minute and finally decide to do something special for Melissa, something to get her mind off what happened earlier. Wish number four becomes “Two Front Row Seats, Springsteen Concert, Louisville, Kentucky, Friday, March 12, 2010.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

The next morning Lissie’s still upset. We barely speak while drinking our coffee. I apologize for the second time.

“You can’t apologize for something until you admit doing it,” she says.

Her eyes are pale blue, large, and full of disappointment. She looks down at her wheat toast and spreads honey on it.

Lissie works as a counter sales clerk in the makeup department of Macy’s, nine to five, weekdays only, a schedule that allows us to spend quality time together every workday morning.

“I’m apologizing because I disrespected you last night.”

She takes a bite of her toast and looks at me while chewing.

I add, “Instead of cherishing you.”

She sighs. “Let’s just get through the day.”

“It was stupid,” I say.

“Was it?”

“I was having a guy moment. I was being a jerk.”

She studies my face with those giant doll eyes. Then, amazingly, she winks.

“Maybe tonight you’ll get another chance. You know, to get it right.”

I rush to her side and give her a hug. We’re cheek to cheek, and her upper body is pressed against mine, and I think about Jinny Kidwell once again…

And realize I wouldn’t trade Lissie for ten Jinny Kidwells.

Moments later I’m driving to work, a place where morale is so low you could shoot craps on it. My boss? What can I say—he’s a client-stealing scumbag. I’m a loan officer at Midwestern Meadow Muffin’s main office in downtown Louisville. That’s not the actual name of the bank, but I don’t want to be sued for slander. I’m on I-65, heading under the interstate, trying to merge into the right lane so I can make the Jefferson Street exit, thinking about how Boss Ogleshit threatened to fire me. Ogleshit isn’t his real—oh hell, who gives a damn? I’m broke. Let them try to sue me! I work for Edward Oglethorpe, VP of Midwest Commercial Savings and Loan.

Friday, before closing, Oglethorpe said, “Buddy Flapjack? I hope you’ve got another career lined up, because time’s run out on this one. You’ve got one week to submit—” he looked at the printout in his hands—“three million in new loans. That’s new loans, Buddy.” To my coworker he said, “Marjorie Campbell? You’re next in line. It’s time to stop resting on your laurels, people. You’re only as good as your last loan app.”

I merge onto Jefferson Street and turn left into the bank’s parking lot. I find a space, turn off the engine, and take a deep breath. If you’ve ever seen an abused dog cowering before its owner, that’s me each day at the bank.

You need to realize—well, you don’t need to realize anything at all. But I want you to know there are four loan officers here at the main branch, and we’re all good at what we do. But every time we land a strong client, Oglethorpe swoops in, bribes them with golf dates, lunches, and sports tickets, and tells them to deal with him for future loans.

“What about Buddy?” my clients say.

“Buddy’s a great guy,” Oglethorpe says, “but he’s a worker bee. If he writes your loan it has to go to committee for approval. That’s fine for the average customer, but you’re top tier, so why deal with subordinates? You need money, call me, personally. I can get you same day approval.”

We can’t compete with Ogleshit, so we’ve become hamsters on a wheel, always scrambling to replace the clients he steals.

As I enter the main office, all five senses are assaulted by the contrived atmosphere some bullshit artist conned the bank’s management into buying.