Jason Pinter - The Darkness

Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy wearing one of those hats that said he’d probably been driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the back door. When nobody came out, Morgan stepped forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a sharp gray suit and sunglasses, his blond hair a striking contrast against the black leather.

Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, “Get in.”

Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at him, smiling.

“Glad you could make it,” he said. “You ready to make some money?”

Morgan smiled right back.

The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn’t right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for every day of the week. He would have one of those massive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just out of college who had no desires in life other than to work until the day she met someone like him, someone like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay the bills so she would never have to work another day in her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason as to why Daddy came home late.

He wouldn’t be one of those absentee fathers. No,

Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.

He wanted a pied-a-terre in France, a vacation home in the

Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have picture frames littering his massive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car, with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan’s future might well depend, this was most definitely not the direction Morgan had expected his life to take.

This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going perfectly until the economy went downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was out on his ass with thousands of other men just like him.

Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references and several internships and jobs from which they could draw experience. Even if (and this was an if the size of the Grand Canyon) a job opened up, it would be like trying to get a drink at a hot bar at one in the morning.

Thousands of people pushing and shoving like barbarians to get the attention of one person. Was one resume really better than the other? It didn’t matter. But Morgan had

Chester. Good old Chester.

“Anything stand out to you?” Chester said as they passed through midtown.

“Um…it’s a nice day?” Morgan said, not sure what

Chester was getting at.

Chester smiled. “It is that. But look at the streets.

Notice anything?”

“Uh, not really.”

“Not really,” Chester said. “Exactly what I noticed.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“These streets, they used to teem with professionals. It’s lunch hour and you can count the suits on two hands. What is the financial workforce down, ten, twenty percent?”

“At least,” Morgan said.

“These streets used to mean something,” Chester said, his voice almost wistful, making Morgan wonder if Chester had ever held a job here. His attitude and dress were corporate all the way, but he was loose enough to hang with the boys at a steak house or strip joint. Morgan’s guess was that Chester was in upper management, the kind of guy everyone else reported to who could act with a little disregard. The kind of guy Morgan couldn’t be…yet.

“Did you know,” Chester continued, “that over a hundred thousand people have lost their jobs in this city in the last two years? I mean, Christ, think about it. Think about how many of those hundred thousand used to work here,” he said, gesturing to the towering skyscrapers that housed floors and floors of seasoned pros. “Think how many of them used to walk these streets. And now think about how many of them are sitting at home right now, watching their savings dwindle, waiting for one call that probably won’t come.”

Chester looked out the window as he said those last words, but Morgan could tell they were directed at him.

Talking about many like him. Morgan stayed quiet.

Didn’t want Chester to know what he was thinking.

“Think how many of those people,” Chester continued,

“would give anything for the chance to replace that income.” He stopped. Looked at Morgan. “And then some.

What would you do for that chance?”

Morgan’s eyes met Chester’s directly. Without hesitation, he said, “Anything.”

“We’ll see.”

“I, uh…I think I’ll go check my mail,” Pam said.

Abigail looked at her and said nothing. Paulina said,

“That’s not a bad idea. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a few minutes.”

“She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to,”

Abigail said, her eyes burning a hole through her mother.

“No, she doesn’t. That’s why I’m asking. And,” Paulina said, digging into her pocketbook and producing a twenty-dollar bill, “I’ll pay for her next beer run.”

“Classy, mom,” Abigail said. She sighed, looked at

Pam. “This won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

“Half an hour,” Paulina said. Abigail looked at her mother as though no greater torture had ever been imposed upon man or beast. Paulina stared right back.

“Fine. Half an hour. And take the money.”

“I really shouldn’t…” Pam said.

Abigail continued, “Trust me. It doesn’t begin to cover what she owes me.”

Pam reluctantly took the money and left the room, leaving Paulina and Abigail alone.

“Can we talk inside?” Paulina said. She peeked into the dorm room. It was a flat-out mess. The floor was covered in strewn paper, dirty clothes and burnt incense sticks. Their furniture was comprised of two beanbag chairs, a twin bed with a frame that looked as stable as

Paulina’s ex-husband, and a ratty couch that some homeless person had probably sold to them for less than the twenty she just gave to Pam. Whatever, Paulina thought.

She didn’t have to live in this mess. If her daughter chose to, so be it.

“Fifteen minutes,” Abigail said, checking her watch.

“Then I want you out of here.”

“I don’t like being here any more than you like me being here,” Paulina said. “Trust me, I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

They nodded, and Paulina entered the room. She took a look at the beanbag chairs, then pulled out the tiny desk chair. She eased herself onto it, and watched as her daughter launched herself into a blue beanbag chair. Abigail pulled out a cigarette and lit it, opening the window slightly to let the smoke drift out.

“When did you start smoking?” Paulina asked.

“When did you start caring?” Abigail answered.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Is that what you want? You want me to make this easy? Sure, why not? I mean, we have all these great memories to fall back on, all these great mother-anddaughter moments we both cherish.” She said the last words with biting sarcasm. “Why are you here, Mom?”

Paulina leaned forward, put her face in her hands, took a breath. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Is this for, like, one of your newspaper articles?”