Chapter I

The big idea came to me on a crisp Sunday morning in March.  I’d unwantedly rolled out of bed at the dog’s insistence, staggered down to the kitchen, and there it was.  Quit my job and pursue my lifelong dream of writing.  Suddenly my body felt warm and a smile spread across my face for the first time in weeks.  I don’t remember feeding the dog or letting her out, but I sort of came to with her scratching at the door to get back inside.  I started a pot of coffee before clambering back up the stairs to tell my wife.  

“What?  You’re quitting your job?” she asked.  

“Yes,” I said.  

“Why are you smiling?  Are you joking?”  she asked.

“No, I’m quite serious.”  I said.

Before this morning, the sudden silence which followed this brief exchange with my wife would have been too much for me.  I would’ve started talking out of the need to fill the uncomfortable void with irrelevant words and noise.  But not today.

In her silence, I stood back up from the bed and went to brush my teeth.  Since when did brushing teeth feel so good?  It made my smile even bigger.  I noticed my wife staring at my reflection in the mirror.  

“No,” she said.  

“No what?”  I asked.  

“No, I don’t accept the idea of you quitting your job,” she said.  

And that made me start to laugh.  I had to spit out the toothpaste.  

“Why are you laughing?  Are you taking me seriously?” she said.  

Now I was laughing so hard she had no choice but to smile and leave the room, head shaking.  

She joined me a little later in the kitchen where I’d already pour my coffee, made toast, and started scanning the news.  The dog sat intently at my side, staring at the toast.  My wife wandered over to the coffee pot, poured herself a mug, and came to sit with me.  

“I understand you’re quitting your job,” she stated.  

“Yes,” I replied.  “I was afraid you didn’t quite understand.”  

“Okay.  And just how long have you been waiting to tell me about this?” she asked.  

“I just found out myself,” I said.  

“So, you were let go?  Did Steve email you this morning?” she asked.  

“No, nothing like that, babe.  It just came to me as a feeling.  I felt warm, and I smiled for the first time in weeks,” I explained.  

“Oh, so you’ve just this morning decided it’s a good time to be unemployed?” she asked.  

“No, babe.  I’m going to be a writer,” I said.  

The even longer than normal silence that followed this new piece of information still had no effect on my sunny disposition.  In fact, I started reading a humor piece in the Op Ed instead of going straight to the World News.  But the silence would end.  

“Oh, grand.  Mr. Wordle has decided that his ability to turn five letters into a word every twenty-four hours is going to earn a living as a writer,”  she said.  “Just how long have you been harboring this fantasy?  And how exactly will it pay the mortgage?”  

“Babe, I haven’t figured out the specifics yet.” I said.  “But I’m certain we can get by for a while on our savings, and we have at least a year’s salary in home equity.  Like I said, it just came to me.”  

It would be a much longer silence now, but I was still riding high.  I hadn’t even noticed that my wife showered and dressed for church until she walked out the back door without me.  The dog was beside herself when my wife left without a word to either of us.  I decided to call Frank.  

“Hey pal.  How’s life?” I asked.  

“Mike!  I’m so glad you called.  I haven’t heard from you in months.” Frank replied.  

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.  I think I was depressed at work, or with work, or both.  Anyway, I’m quitting,” I said.  

Silence on the line.  

“Frank?”  

“Sorry, Mike.  Did you say you’re quitting?  As in quitting your job?” Frank asked.  

“Yes.  The idea came to me this morning, and I tried to tell Sal, but I think she’s not quite understanding what I’m saying.  It’s really the best day I’ve had in a very long time,” I said.  

“Buddy, are you serious?” he asked.  “It just seems like you have a really good thing going with that old contract, and you and Sal have the house now.  So, what’s the plan?”  

“Well, I hear what you’re saying, but yes.  I’m quite serious.  No plan yet.  The idea just came to me this morning.  I tried telling Sal that we have a decent amount in savings, and we’re well into the green on the house.  I think she left for church,” I said.

Chapter II 

I got lost in building my perfect writer’s den in the neglected spare bedroom-office-storage closet  upstairs.  With Sal gone and Frank sounding concerned about my well-being, I felt like starting a project.  It began with an empty packing box the movers had left us five years ago.  I filled it full of garbage and left it by the door.  Then came the process of stacking more boxes, random plastic bins, and various artifacts in the closest.  The heaviest or sturdiest items went on the bottom, then rectangular cardboard or flat items next, and finally, whatever odd-shaped prize or soft-sided bag on top.  These were two of the best piles I’d ever created.  The dog seemed uninspired.  I needed to remember to buy shelving and perhaps some bungee cords.  

Okay, room to breathe.  Before I could start tidying up the bookshelves, I felt a presence at the door.  

“Can you come into the bedroom, please?” Sal asked.  “I think we need to talk.”  

“Of course, babe,” I replied.  “I lost track of time and didn’t even hear you come in.  I’m sorry, but I didn’t make anything for lunch.”  

The air in the bedroom was heavy, but the sun was shining bright.  On cold winter days, I loved the west-facing windows and how they allowed the sun to warm our entire house.  I think Sal was feeling more than just heat today.

“I heard the sermon today about the power of repentance, and I felt convicted to come back home and apologize to you.  I should not have left the house angry this morning, and I’m sorry for going to church without you,” she said.  

“Thank you for saying that,” I said.  “I’m glad you felt moved by the sermon.”  

“But I need to know what you are thinking.  What you are feeling.  I love you and trust you, but I don’t understand how you can make such a declaration about quitting your job out of the blue.  And then you just walk around with a dumb smile on your face as if everything is okay,” she said.  “I do not feel okay.”

“You just said that you love me and trust me.”  I replied.  “I feel like I’ve been trapped at work, like being in a prison cell with no escape.  Or worse, with a chance to escape, but the reality of only getting dragged back in and shoved deeper into the walls.  Then this morning, an idea hit me.  I could be a writer.  I could write novels.  I could support us as a writer.  And it made me feel blissful, something I haven’t felt in months, maybe even years.”

“What about my dreams, Mike?  You said we could go to Spain in the spring.  To Croatia for next year’s big anniversary.  I dream too.  Of escaping this house every once in a while.  To shop on the streets of Madrid and Dubrovnik.  To build memories with you, stories we can share with family and friends forever.  But now what?  You’re going to maybe write a book?  About what?  We haven’t even made the memories to build your story yet.”

“Babe, it’s a novel, not a book.  Perhaps it will be the greatest American novel of the decade,” I said.  

“Mike, you haven’t written so much as a love letter since we were dating.  A book?  Can we just agree to table this decision until we’ve both had a chance to think it through?  Show me how quitting your job will work, or even makes the slightest sense.”  

“Okay, Sal.  Okay.”  I said.  “Let’s set it aside for the week, and I’ll show you on Saturday how I think it will work.  And if I can’t, then I can’t, and this was all just a silly dream.”  

Sal nodded and came in for a hug, wetting my collar with her tears.  The dog finally forced her way between us, and Sal was off to change out of her Sunday best and into something more practical for chores and shopping.  

A buzzing sound from the table alerted me to my phone.  Frank was texting.

Quitting the job?

Not yet

Have you talked to Sal?

She wants me to keep the contract

Smart. Let me know if you want to talk again

Thanks. Pretty sure I’m quitting the job

?!

I’ll catch you up at golf on Wed

Chapter III

By Wednesday, I had calculated that if we only went to dinner or a movie once a week, limited Amazon spending to necessary purchases, and I cut my driving expenses in half, we could probably make it four months on our savings.  That would give us two realistic options.  Write the novel I didn’t have yet in a record time of two and a half months, find an interested editor or publishing house in one month, and get under some sort of contract with an advance before the money ran out.  Or, I would create a book outline with sweeping character arcs and plot points in one month, hire a publicist at the expense of one month’s budget, and then have two months for the paid publicist to help me shop around my story.  

“You’re leaving out an option,” Frank said.  

“Oh thank God,” I said.  “I thought I was sunk.”  

“Option three is that you just keep your job.  You can write on the side until it seems a little more plausible to Sal.  Prove to yourself that you are capable,” Frank said.

“So I’m sunk,” I said.  

Frank stood over his ten-foot par putt, and with a beautiful interlocking grip, rolled his ball into the center of the cup.

“Now that’s sunk,” he said.  “No buddy, I’m not saying you’re sunk.  I’m just saying there is a third option.”

“An option which involves me staying at work,” I said.  I placed my ball for a six-foot bogey putt.  Suddenly, I didn’t feel like playing golf anymore.  

By dinner on Thursday, I felt like it was time to admit defeat on my big idea.  No need to drag out the suspense for Sal, or for myself.  I walked in the door feeling exhausted, and Sal was just starting to dish up dinner.  I placed my bag and coat in the closet and joined Sal at the table.  

“Thank you so much for making another wonderful meal, babe,” I said.  

“You’re welcome, dear,” she said.  

“I’d like to talk about quitting my job now, if it’s okay with you,” I said.  

“Will it ruin my dinner?” she asked.  

“No, it’s an easy decision,” I replied.  

“Okay, let’s hear it then,” she said.  

“I think I have to stay on the contract.”  I said.  “I’ll take some time to really think through the whole novel idea, and maybe we can come to a solution that lets me write a little here and there until I might actually be able to do it full time.”  

“That was easy,” she said. ” And it sounds great to me. You didn’t have any other options for me?”  

“None that left us with any money in the bank, or guaranteed that we could make the mortgage this summer,” I said.  “They also involved more luck than skill, and I’m not feeling so lucky.”  

“Well, don’t say that. Thank you for taking the time to think this through,” she said.  “I love you, and I trust you.  And I think we’re lucky to have each other.  Besides, if you didn’t work, I’d have to, and then who would take care of the house?”  

I smiled and leaned over for a kiss.  Of course she was right.  Dinner was uneventful, and I got to hear about Sal’s trip to the antiquated shopping mall.  But as the night drew on, I felt a darkness creeping in.  I did not want to go to work tomorrow.  

Small talk in the evening, restless sleep at night, and a burnt toast with black coffee kind of morning.  I knew if I could just get through this Friday, I’d have two whole days to lick my invisible wounds and muster the courage to face next week.  

I quietly logged in at my desk.  “Mike, I need to talk with you,” Steve called from his office.  

I locked my computer and shuffled over to see the boss.  A little too early for a meeting, if you ask me.  

“Mike, please close the door and have a seat,” Steve said.  The blinds facing inward toward the cubicle farm were already shut.  As soon as I was seated, he began again.  “Mike, I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.”  He looked for my reaction, and when I gave none, he continued.  “Let’s start with the good.  Entitron won the re-compete bid, and we’ll be announcing the new contract today at lunch.  The customer asked for all the modifications, increasing the price substantially, so Entitron is more than set for at least three more years.”

I might have been grimacing as he spoke of Entitron’s success, which simply meant more tasks, more people, and more depression headed my way.  Was I being offered a promotion?  

“So, the bad news,” he continued.  “Mike, we have to let you go, and I’d like to do it this morning.  Before you ask any specifics, I’ll shoot you straight, but HR will have all the official answers along with your exit paperwork.  This new contract is loaded with big ideas, and it exchanges your position for three entry-level positions.  The new folks will fall under the operations manager, and your position is gone.  Mike, because the company would like you out before the announcement, I’m prepared to offer you half your annual salary and three months of continued benefits as long as you agree to vacate your office by noon.  You can of course take your two weeks paid leave while the paperwork settles.”

I blacked out for a few seconds. My mind was moving too fast for words to actually leave my mouth.  I had tears in my eyes, and Steve undoubtedly read this the wrong way.  He was locked and loaded, ready for a confrontational reaction that would never come.  I was about to hug a man I loathed for the first time in my life.  Hell, I might even include him in my novel.