Richard Lyons was rich.
He lived in an affluent Chicago suburb and was neighbors with other affluents who tasted craft beer on weekends. Some even brewed it. He would drink nothing but the hoppiest hops brewed by the most esteemed hopsmen. The only exception he would make to this rule was at his annual fraternity reunion, where he would force down one watery Keystone, “For old time’s sake.”
He was Richard the Rich, Hopper of Hops.
It would seem unthinkable for a man of his wealth and title to be unhappy, yet Rich was just that, and there were many reasons for it.
First of all, Rich was not wealthy by his own standards. Far from it, actually. If you asked him quite seriously on the state of his assets, he would have said he sold out long ago and had been selling out ever since. He’d have told you he’d been selling out for so long there was little left of anything to sell. He also might have told you in a world of sell outs it’s hard to spot one, so what difference did it really make anyway?
And what choice did he have in the whole matter of selling out?
He grew up in an apartment in the city the size of his now affluent house’s reading room. He had a job at 12, paid his way through undergraduate and graduate school, paid his dues working the grueling hours of a consultant through his 20s, until he finally became the vice president of something. Oh, and he was raised by a single mother. On his father’s death certificate it states chronic cirrhosis of the liver as the cause of death. Which is strange, because there was never an autopsy.
His mother couldn’t afford it.
To many, the story of Rich was a feel good success story. People would say, “Rich is so driven! Rich has a beautiful family. What’s his son’s name? Andy? Beautiful name, Andy. Rolls off the tongue. How is his mother? Tell the Lyons family we said hello.” And so on.
And his many friends loved him. Rich the conversationalist. He had a lot to say and a way of saying it. Got that gift of gab from his ancestors. He was clever, the wing man who did all the flying. He could get your grandfather laid. Your dead grandfather. And there was something different about him wasn’t there? Yes, there was.
Rich felt the opposite of different.
For Rich, his life had been a monotonous cycle of work and play, broken up by all those traumatic events in between. It was a cycle he knew, especially after his son was born, there was no breaking out of. Everything had become a known eventuality, to the point where his own self-awareness became lost at times. He was transforming into an expensively dressed robot. He was a zombie in a Fiorvanti, completely numb to his miserable daily routine. His numbness seemed to accelerate the passing of time. He noticed the phenomenon with an emotionless curiosity. His misery overpowered seasons in the blink of an eye. He found himself always on the cusp of winter.
He started to use the cliché, “Where has the time gone?” Even though he knew where it had gone. He’d toasted it farewell years ago. Or was it months ago?
Before he went to sleep every night, instead of counting sheep, he imagined taking a plane to London on business. That plane would crash into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He would be the sole survivor of the crash, swimming to an uncharted island where he would live for many years until he grew bored, at which point he would build a boat. On this boat he would sail to Portugal where a glorious party would ensue. The scenario was a lot like the movie Castaway, but with a slightly different ending.
And it’s not that he would care if his wife ended up with the dentist, as in Castaway. He might have years ago, but after his son was born she became a mother to everyone, including him. He could no longer smoke, swear, or skinny-dip. And there were things he must do. He must get the kitchen remodeled. He must get the bonus to get the kitchen remodeled. He must work to get the bonus to get the kitchen remodeled.
He called her Caballo Diabla.
Rich wanted to be gone.
He may have been able to manage these first world problems were it not for his job. It was the job that damaged him most. He’d worked half his life doing jobs he hated to get a job he hated. But he’d made it. Hadn’t he? After all, he was the vice president of something.
Someday he might be senior vice president.
He’d rather not.
He’d rather get crushed by an icicle falling from a skyscraper downtown, which actually happens, by the way. This is a recent newspaper article on the subject:
A man waiting for his son to finish shopping was killed Monday when a chunk of ice fell off a building at 731 N. Michigan Ave. A piece of ice described by one police officer as “the size of a dishwasher” snapped off the west end of the building’s facade and landed directly on the man. He was pronounced dead on the scene. Some days, Rich wouldn’t mind getting crushed by a dishwasher sized iceberg.
One of those days was a day not long ago. A Friday.
On that day, Rich had an important meeting with Goldman Sachs where he would recommend a reduction in units through an investment in technology which would lead the greater overall accountability, profitability, and of course flexibility. He would pull other abilities out of his ass, should Goldman object. The reduction in units was the key - the elimination of employees, of cost. Profitability. That headcount reduction alone would make the business case. ROI? Yes sir, chairman sir. 500%. Don’t forget adaptability! Include terminal value and we can double that ROI. Sign here. Thank you. Looking forward to working with you. In the meantime may I suggest a drinkability? Did I say that hahahaha! Long week!
Then the call home.
Yes honey I will be home after I grab a drink at Stocks and Blondes no I will not be late I will catch the 7:40 train home I promise did I mention we can get that new kitchen no well we can I love you yes tell the kids I love them no I won’t drink too much wait Andy did what in school we’ll talk about it when I get home goodbye.
Let the night begin.
He walked across the river from the Financial District to catch the Brown Line. He’d take that north to a bar in Old Town where he would get dangerously drunk, then either take the Metra home or sleep with a certain intern, in which case he would take a cab home extremely late. He could no longer sleep at intern’s apartment, due to the fact his wife had reported him missing to the affluent police the last time he did that.
As he walked, he noticed with suicidal pleasure a “Caution: Falling Ice” sign. Hundreds of these signs litter downtown from November to April. The signs are a huge middle finger from the property management companies to the world. They are an announcement from the unseen chief legal counsel, “We are not liable for your death by falling ice.” Cue evil laugh. They might be legitimate warning signs, if it were possible to avoid every sidewalk in the city at once.
These signs were like magnets for Rich. He walked toward them, caressed them, smoked under them. Life insurance is tax free, he figured. Kids don’t need father I sure didn’t. Then again, here I am standing in the middle of the city waiting to get crushed to death by falling ice. Touché. Lightning would be more likely. Will go jogging in lightning in spring. Write that down. With metal car keys in headband. Does life insurance cover suicides? Think so, but only after two years. Yes!
He paused by the falling ice sign, but not for long. It was getting late and he was thirsty. Golden Goldman victory hops. He moved on.
Another falling ice sign, yay. A homeless girl leaned against it, holding another smaller cardboard sign which read, “kwarter for a farry tail.” He was intrigued by this sign and by this fairytale saleswoman. He’d once liked fairytales. He would pay for a fairytale and as a bonus might get crushed to death by falling ice.
He put a twenty dollar bill into her big gulp cash register.
“Mister that’s a shit lot of fairytales. For that much, if you like, I can make up a fairytale just for you?”
“The fairytale of me? I must hear it!”
She started without a thought:
“A boy grew up and became vice president of something. One night, his wife said he would be pissed as lord off his fizzy cross of gold and she was right he would be pissed though he promised her he would not. The wind blew him home with the storm at some ungodly hour of the night, so drenched in Chanel No. 5 you would have guessed it was the flavor of the snow bucketing down. His wife had gone mad waiting for him. He’d crossed the line one times too many she said to herself, but she’d said that many times before. Later that night he snuck out of their bed and his wife thought sneaky devil always sneaking around. His wife searched the house for him. She found him in his son’s room. His wife can’t imagine the boy ending up like his lying daddy but he will. Squinting through the keyhole, she couldn’t see anything until a rare flash of winter lightning exposed them. Her husband was standing near the window with the boy’s legs and arms knotted about him like thick vine. His son’s red hair glowed like a golden crown on the liar’s shoulder. They were playing at pretend, his son was the wild king. They giggled together:
Your Highness King Andy I’ve got brandy Up the leg of me drawers
The two danced around the room, and the wife wished to be with them. She walked in and asked if she might dance with the majesties and the three danced.
“That is your fairytale.”
Rich was dislodged. This wasn’t always his fairytale was it?
As a boy, Rich thought the city was made of magic. He dreamed of mermaids swimming within Buckingham Fountain, water sprites dancing on the backward flowing Chicago River, and the ghosts of Fort Dearborn roaming the high rises built on their graves. He rode the el like he was riding a dragon.
He would make magic himself as a magician someday.
Rich looked up to the sky, not for falling ice, but for the place the magic had been relegated. Dim shafts of red light clung to the western horizon, reminding him it wasn’t long ago the sun had set. It was that strange second between afternoon and evening when the moon and sun fight for ownership of the sky. The moon shone down above huge yellow stars which twirled together first above the sun, then the afterglow.
“A magic trick?” Rich asked.
“Yes please.”
Rich pulled a 24-karat gold fountain pen from his jacket and scribbled a large “M” on the falling ice sign. The sign now read:
“Caution: Falling MIce”
A bow from Rich and applause from the fairytale seller, “You are mad as hops.”
Rich placed the gold pen in her cup. On the train ride home, he dreamed a boyish dream of sprites, fairies, and falling mice.