Lloyd sits slumped on a swivel chair, wishing someone would crack a beer bottle over his head. End his pitiful existence already. Strands of multi-colored lights adorning Nudie Cuties provide no cheer. Neither does the silver garland. And all the $2 fireball shots have done is coat his throat with the aftertaste of cinnamon rectum. He’d hoped some titties would improve his mood, least help him escape the failure of himself for a couple hours.
Thirteen years as a senior underwriter for Best Coast Bank¬—all of it stolen this spring. Laid off. Position eliminated. Meanwhile, his department VP, Rob Briarson, scored a high five-figure bonus right after, a former coworker had told Lloyd. He also heard Briarson used the money to secure that precious boat slip he’d coveted. Fucker. First words out of Briarson’s mouth in his introductory meeting: I’m happy to move to San Diego, but man, the waiting list for a slip is 18 months.
Lloyd’s not a violent person, but he squeezed his chair arms to keep from diving across the conference table and ripping Briarson’s head from his shoulders. Afterwards, Lloyd and his coworkers surmised that at best, the comment lacked awareness. Then, once Briarson axed one person each month for the next few, it became obvious he only saw his employees as means to riches. Sure, people bitched. Flaccid HR complaints were filed. And when the grumbling didn’t stop, Briarson squashed it by couching the layoffs as “necessary for the bank’s future success.”
Lloyd swivels around, connects eyes with the bartender, Mandy. He unpockets his last twenty, stares at it. Who knows where the next one will come from and when. Eight months applying with no interviews. Unemployment ran dry this month—like $400/week kept the wolves from the door anyway. In his depression, he’d invertedly pushed away his wife. Been living in his ’03 rust bucket Sentra since Labor Day. He sets the bill on the bar, hopes it makes Mandy, with her silver hair and iceberg blue eyes, happy. Like he couldn’t do for his wife. Can’t do for himself.
Tom Petty’s “Christmas All Over Again” hits the chorus as he pushes out the front door. The weather has the gall not to match his circumstances. Cold, bleak, unforgiving. Instead, 65-degrees and a giant orb of sunshine assaults him. Kill me already, he thinks.
He collapses into his car. Elbows away his crowded belongings. From under the seat he retrieves a bottle of brown liquor. Forgets the brand. He’d peeled off the label, embarrassed to buy the cheapest booze available. Lloyd knocks back a swig but doesn’t swallow. Stares ahead until his vision blurs. He dribbles the mouthful back into the bottle. Squeezes it between his legs, starts the car, and shifts into reverse.
Briarson’s slip isn’t hard to find. According to a LinkedIn post, he’d recently hosted the Best Coast Bank holiday party on his boat. The photos showed a boozy, smiling, executives-only affair. Also revealed, the boat’s location and name: I Just Win.
Asshole, Lloyd mouths, stalking down the boat ramp. He’d waited in his car until the sun set. A slight breeze now cools his damp forehead.
The boat looms large. A yacht, maybe? How would he know? White Christmas lights outline the rig. Lloyd approaches carefully. Spots a ladder, climbs aboard. No one’s within sight. No sounds from inside. Good. He needs to do this as quickly as his life was upended and ruined.
When his lighter sparks, the flame gobbles up the silk tie jammed into the throat of the liquor bottle. He launches the flaming cocktail into the cabin. A burst of orange flame erupts, and he feels the heat on his face.
Lloyd escapes down the ladder.
A few strides away, a high-pitched squealing sound stops him cold. He doesn’t turn around. Tells himself it can’t be a person’s scream. It’s the fire consuming the leather upholstery, melting electronics. No one was on board. He hadn’t checked, but he’s pretty sure.
He’s shivering. Sirens wail in the distance.
The screaming continues, becoming unmistakable for human cries of agony.
Lloyd inhales deeply through his nostrils. Mutters, “It’s necessary for my future success,” and begins walking again.
~ fin ~
Curtis Ippolito is the author of BURYING THE NEWSPAPER MAN, a crime novel. His short stories have been nominated for the Anthony, Macavity, and Derringer awards, and have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Vautrin Magazine, Tough Crime, Dark Yonder, Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, and other notable publications and anthologies. He lives in San Diego, California.
Comments are closed for this post.
