The Dreaming Moon

By Peter Wilkins

Daniel Hart hated his job, his best friend got on his nerves, and his love life was non-existent. He longed for adventure. After abruptly quitting his job, an online ad caught his eye: Are You Ready for an Adventure? It was perfect. A job that would take him far away from the city he'd grown tired of. An opportunity to start over. Upon receiving a job offer, Daniel was ecstatic. Finally, a chance to get away! But like the saying goes, be careful what you wish for...
Suddenly, Daniel found himself transported to a distant world on the other side of the galaxy: Sarris. A world so advanced, it seemed magical to Daniel. A world without war, hunger, or disease. A world inhabited by a race of humanoids that had escaped the destruction of their homeworld, and who had transcended greed and hatred to create a seeming utopia.
With his beautiful guide, Ayla, Daniel became a willing student on the path to peace. For the first time in his life, he felt happy. But there was one catch: romance between an Earthling and a Sarran was strictly taboo. In spite of this, Daniel couldn't help himself from falling in love. He secretly hoped that Ayla felt the same way. Her masters had made it clear that any relationship with Daniel was forbidden. But the masters had secrets of their own...
The Dreaming Moon is a story of adventure, spiritual awakening, and forbidden love in a futuristic world that held the secret of the Earth's very survival... or its destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Wilkins
• Release date: Mar 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370063956

Peter Wilkins

Peter Wilkins is a writer, musician, and psychotherapist in Dallas, TX. He also likes to cook and play disc golf. He still hasn't decided what he wants to be when he grows up. He lives with his wonderfully tolerant wife who supports almost all of his hobbies, and they have a daughter whom they think is the smartest, most beautiful person on Earth. It took him forever to write his first novel, "The Dreaming Moon," which Mr. Wilkins describes as "a cross between 'Futurama' and Eckhart Tolle." He is currently at work on his second novel, "Damaged Goods," which might come out sometime this century if he would just buckle down and finish the blasted thing.

Book preview

THE DREAMING MOON

Peter Wilkins

Copyright © 2018 Peter Wilkins

All rights reserved.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

1

When Daniel Hart went to work on Tuesday, he didn’t know it would be his last day on the job. But that’s the way it turned out.

He arrived thirty-five minutes late, the result of hitting the snooze button four times, followed by no effort to make up for lost time. He had already been called on the carpet twice for being late, but he didn’t care. In fact, part of him hoped he would be called into his boss’ office again. He had entertained a few fantasies of just exactly what he would like to say. All of his fantasies ended up with him being fired on the spot.

It would be worth it.

That’s how much he hated his job.

He arrived at 9:05 and made his way up to the seventh floor. Upon entering the suite marked PUBLICATIONS, he indicated his arrival by moving a small magnet from the OUT column of a white board to the IN column, glancing to see if his boss, Brian, was in, which he was. Everyone on the Publications team was encouraged to provide their own magnet; one that they felt represented their personality. There was a magnetic butterfly, an Eiffel Tower, and a smiley face, among others. Brian’s magnet was a miniature pencil, which, Daniel supposed, represented his boss’ love of editing. Daniel’s magnet was a bottle opener.

Daniel sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. He sat staring dully at the screen while it booted up. He entered his password and opened his browser to the Hospital’s home page, then checked his email. He had one new message from Brian, marked No Subject, which was usually a bad sign. He opened it and read:

Dan,

You need to go back over the manuscript you submitted yesterday. From the look of it, you spent about half an hour editing it. This is the kind of work I might expect from an Editorial Assistant, but not from someone in your pay grade. [This caused a snort from Daniel.] I need not remind you this manuscript is being submitted to The New England Journal of Medicine. As it is, we have no hope of publication. Specifically, the Conclusions section is weak and the whole thing lacks cohesion. This is not the first time you have submitted a finished manuscript that is not fit for submission.

Sincerely,

Brian Bainbridge, Scientific Editor

Daniel sat and re-read the letter a couple of times. Then he got up and went in search of coffee. When he returned to his desk, he checked his personal email account, which had one unread message. It was from someone named Alphonse Corridgen, which sounded made-up, and had the title Se xua lly Xplict teen girlz lesbn XCTG364. He marked it as spam and made a mental note to delete his browser history before going home for the day.

Next, he went to bookmarks and opened a popular social networking sight. His home page looked the same as it had for the past week. He sat staring. His status update was from last Friday:

Daniel is ready for this fucking week to be over.

He leaned forward and typed and hit enter:

Daniel thinks none of this shit is important.

He sat staring at the screen for another minute, then checked out CNN.com. After gazing at the headlines, he went to rollingstone.com and then theonion.com. Finally, he closed his browser and opened the Word document he had been working on the day before. It was entitled Effect of chromium supplements on body mass index among HIV-1 infected Zambian women: a cluster randomized trial. It was written by a team of researchers from the University of Alabama. In Daniel’s professional opinion, it was a piece of shit not fit for Mad Magazine, and no amount of editing was going to save it. He sat staring at his screen for what seemed like a long time, and then he went to work.

He worked until noon, pausing occasionally to refill his coffee, even though it tasted terrible, or look at one of several web sites he had bookmarked. By lunchtime, the manuscript was as polished as he could make it, and it still stank, in his opinion. He sent it off to Brian with a terse message:

Brian,

This is as good as this one’s going to get.

Cheers,

Daniel

Time to get something to eat. He could hear his colleagues down the hall, talking about going out for lunch - Chili’s, or some such crap. He did not want to join them, and he knew he probably wouldn’t be asked. There was a time when he took part in the office camaraderie, but that had slowly died away in the past few months. Now they knew better than to try to include him. Now he was the office grouch.

He had thought about that a lot. What had happened? Why was it that he seemed to have succumbed to the stress of the job, when they hadn’t? He had two competing explanations: one, he was missing some vital coping skill that would allow him to put up with the contradictory and ever-changing demands, the brutal deadlines, the constant re-writes, the callous and out-of-touch management team; or two, he was the only one in the office that had maintained enough humanity to be affected by the mind-numbing, soul-crushing onslaught of tedium that passed for a job around here.

Of the two theories, he preferred the latter.

• • •

He left the building without pausing to speak to his colleagues and headed for his car while trying to decide where to eat. He finally settled on Subway, which seemed to have become his default lunch spot. He bought a footlong sub and a Coke, but declined to eat in the restaurant. On some days, he was able to convince himself that there was no shame in eating at a restaurant by himself, but on this particular day he did not even try. So he ate in his car, in the hospital parking lot.

There wasn’t much of a view. Daniel turned on the radio, even though he hated most of the stations in town. A city of more than a million people, and not a decent radio station to be found. His preset buttons were all tuned to classic rock, because the so-called alternative station was geared toward fourteen-year-old boys, and the one good jazz station had a weak signal that originated thirty miles north of town.

The first station he tried was playing Hotel California, a song Daniel did not need to hear again for as long as he lived, and he quickly hit the next button. It was a commercial, so he hit a third. It was in the middle of Do You Feel Like We Do? from Frampton Comes Alive, right before ol’ Frampton breaks out the talk-box. Daniel had heard the song hundreds of times, it seemed, but his hand hesitated over the next preset button, and eventually, went to the volume knob instead. He turned it up and sat eating and listening as Frampton drove the crowd into a frenzy with his talking guitar. Daniel wondered what it must have been like to be there that night. The crowd sounded deliriously happy, and Frampton had them in the palm of his hand, especially when he concluded the talk-box section with the sly question, Do you feel like we do-hoo? and the crowd went completely ape-shit. Daniel listened as the band kicked back into top gear and Frampton laid down his blistering guitar solo, complete with the bombastic big-rock ending, and then the crowd went absolutely crazy for what seemed like forever. When the deejay’s voice finally came booming in, Daniel quickly turned down the volume and noticed with some annoyance that he had tears in his eyes. What the fuck are you crying for, you big baby? he thought. He turned off the radio and finished his sandwich in silence.

He arrived back at the office at 1:30, passing Janice, the Editorial Assistant, on the way in. Poor Janice. Daniel did not think she would ever have what it took to become an Associate Editor. Then again, he thought, neither do I.

He sat down and checked his email. There was nothing from Brian, which was good. He supposed it was time to move on to the next assignment in his queue. He went to his inbox and pulled up the manuscript. This one was about the effect of antiretroviral drugs on hepatitis C in a group of HIV positive men in Washington, D.C. When Daniel had come on board as an editor at the hospital almost three years prior, he had known next to nothing about HIV. But HIV had become his beat, and he considered himself fairly knowledgeable on the subject, considering he knew no one who was actually HIV positive, as far as he knew. He pulled out his notepad and pen, and began reading the manuscript. His usual method was to read through the whole thing once, making occasional notes on his pad, then read it again more closely. On his third read-through, he would begin making actual changes to the piece.

He was about halfway through the article for the second time when there was a knock on his door, which he kept open. He looked up and saw Brian standing in the doorway, holding a sheaf of papers.

Hi, Brian, he said, trying to keep any overt hostility out of his voice. Come on in.

Hello, Dan, Brian said, stepping into the room. You mind if I close the door?

Go right ahead.

Brian closed the door behind him and sat in the only other chair in the room, facing Daniel’s desk. We have to talk, he said sadly. Daniel was pretty sure the tone was fake.

Okay.

Brian shook the sheaf of papers. This is your latest submission, he said.

All right, said Daniel.

Brian looked at him, clearly expecting him to say more. Daniel waited, his expression neutral. After a moment, Brian went on.

You emailed me to say this manuscript could not be improved upon. I believe your words were, ‘This is as good as it gets.’

Daniel nodded. Correct.

Brian stared at him, open-mouthed. He shook the sheaf of papers again, as if he expected the movement to compel Daniel to say more. It did not.

Look, Brian said, after a moment. First of all, your attitude is bordering on insubordination.

Insubordination?

That’s right.

Daniel had never heard that word used in a non-military context, and for a moment, he thought about saying so, but decided against it. Instead, he said, Okay.

Brian stared at him. It occurred to Daniel that Brian probably had no idea how stupid he looked, sitting there with his mouth open like that.

Secondly, Brian said, "This is sub-par work. I don’t know how you expect to get away with this kind of editing. As I said in my email, this manuscript is nowhere near ready for submission to a periodical. I asked you politely to get it ready, but as far as I can tell, you did absolutely nothing to improve it since yesterday."

Then you must not have read it very closely, Daniel said. His heart was beating a little faster than normal as a result of his audacity. Oh, well.

Brian was staring at him like he had just spit a live cockroach out of his mouth. Daniel waited.

I beg your pardon? he said at last.

I said, if you think I didn’t make any changes, then you must not have read it very closely. I made a number of changes. If you were to do a side-by-side comparison of the version I submitted today against the version I submitted yesterday, you would see that there are quite a few changes. Not very big, granted, but to say I did ‘absolutely nothing’ to it is a false statement.

Brian’s mouth, at this point, was open so wide as to be comical. Daniel wondered if it must hurt his neck to sit there so slack-jawed.

Look, Brian said again, with obvious annoyance. That’s not the point. The point is, you can’t keep submitting a manuscript that’s not fit for publication in the hopes that eventually, I’m just going to give it my stamp of approval. It doesn’t work that way. You’ve been here, what, two years? You should know that by now.

"Have you actually read that one?" Daniel asked.

Brian stared at him. Have I read it? he exclaimed. Of course I’ve read it, I’m the editor. What kind of a question is that?

Well, said Daniel, "If you have read it closely, then you would know what a piece of shit it is." His heart was beating loudly in his chest now.

Brian gaped at him, and then shut his mouth with an audible snap. His expression changed from one of bewilderment to cold anger.

You are skating on thin ice, my friend, he said. "It is not your place to make judgments like that about the manuscripts that are submitted to this organization. And frankly, I don’t care for your attitude one bit. Now, I’ve been letting you slide for some time, but the buck stops here, my friend. Now I’m telling you what you need to do, and I expect you to do it, and if you can’t, or you’re unwilling, then believe me, there are plenty of people who can, do you understand?"

A thousand retorts raced through Daniel’s mind, but he opted instead to remain silent. Apparently, Brian took his silence for assent, because after a moment he started flapping his jaw again.

This is what I want you to do, he said. "I want a publication-quality manuscript submitted to me by the end of today, no excuses, and then I want you to get busy on your next assignment. I don’t want any funny business. And I had better see an improvement in your attitude, mister, because I’m not the only one who has noticed your… attitude around here lately." He stood up. Capisce?

You’re the boss, said Daniel.

Brian glared at him for a moment, as if trying to determine if he had just been insulted, and then turn and strode out of the office.

Daniel sat, fuming. He felt a cold fury creeping up his spine. God, how I hate that bastard. Bits of Brian’s speech replayed in his mind. My friend.

I’m not your fucking friend, asshole.

The good retorts always occurred to him too late. Of course, if he had let loose with how he really felt, he’d be out of a job about now.

Would that be so bad?

He pushed the thought aside and tried to clear his mind. There was nothing to do but re-read the manuscript for the umpteen millionth time. Maybe Brian had a point. Maybe his hatred of his job was clouding his ability to perform.

Well, duh.

He closed the document he had been working on and called up the old one. After reaching the second paragraph, he realized he had not registered a single word, and he started again. His mind wandered as he read, and he stopped again. He scrubbed his face with his hands. Maybe some more coffee would help do the trick.

Yeah, right.

He sat staring at his screen, thinking. The cold realization was sinking in: he was never going to edit the manuscript to Brian’s satisfaction. What could he do? He supposed he could ask one of the other editors to give it a whack. But Brian would never go for that. Besides, what would be his excuse? The reality was that he hated his job, pure and simple, and he was never going to be able to get back on track.

That’s it, isn’t it?

That was it. It wasn’t a simple matter of adjusting his attitude. His attitude was never going to improve in this place. It was time to move on.

But where?

Good question. Where, indeed? Daniel thought about his possibilities, and they were few. He listed his skills to himself. I can type. I can write okay.

That was about it.

Wow. Not much there.

But it didn’t matter. Once he realized the truth, he knew there was no going back. He gave a half-hearted attempt to talk himself out of it, but deep down, he knew his decision was made. He did not really want to unmake it, now.

He sat thinking for a few more minutes, then opened his browser and composed a message to his boss.

Dear Brian,

As I said before, the manuscript I am working on is a piece of shit, and I stand by that assessment. I know it, you know it, everybody knows it, so why kid ourselves? If you think you’re able to whip it into shape for publication, then have at it, my friend. Good luck. As for me, I am sick of working in this shithole, and I’m sick of putting up with your condescension and your general cluelessness. The management here is completely out of touch with the worker bees, and you are a prime example of this, being the all-around prick that you are. So, needless to say, you may regard this as my letter of resignation.

Sincerely,

Daniel Hart

He leaned back and stared at the screen, his eyes unfocused. For a moment his mind wandered, and then he leaned forward suddenly and hit the send button.

It was done. There was no going back.

He decided he didn’t want to be around when Brian came looking for him. What he needed was a box, something in which to gather his meager belongings before he high-tailed it out of there. A glance around the office revealed nothing suitable, so he got up and walked out. In the break room, he found a box of printer paper, about half-full. He dumped the paper into the wastebasket and carried the box back to his office. It didn’t take long to gather his stuff - a coffee mug, some books, his banker’s lamp, and a couple of small paintings he had done. Less than three minutes later, he left his office for the last time.

On the way out, he passed Janice again, sitting at the reception desk. He was going to make a cryptic goodbye when his eyes fell on the white board, and he got a better idea. He set the box down on Janice’s desk and seized the board with both hands. With a grunt, he tore it from the wall. It made a nice ripping sound as it tore away, and all the magnets fell off.

What in the world? said Janice.

Brian’s orders, Daniel explained. We’re getting a new one. I’m on my way down to pick it up. Still holding the board, he bent down and began retrieving the magnets.

But… said Janice. She stood for a moment, bewildered. Finally, she said, What about our magnets? Do we get to keep those?

Daniel straightened up and gave a good-natured chuckle. Never fear, Janice, my dear, he said. When I bring the new board up, you will see your beloved magnet again. Just wait ‘till you feast your eyes on the new board. It’s so beautiful, you will absolutely shit.

What’s going to happen to that one? Her concern was almost touching.

It’s being donated to a worthy cause, said Daniel. Brian insisted we give it to Big Brothers and Big Sisters.

Oh, said Janice. Well, that was nice.

Daniel tucked the board under his arm and grabbed his box. See you in a jiffy, he said.

What’s with the box? she called out to him as he left, but he pretended not to hear her. He made his way to the elevator and pushed the button, glancing back the way he had come. The elevator seemed to take forever, but no one followed him.

When the elevator arrived, Daniel was relieved to see it was empty. He stepped inside, but as he did, an idea came to him, and he acted on it. He set the box down and backed up a step, just as the door started to close. He pushed it back open and eyed the gap between the hallway and the elevator floor. It was about an inch and a half, plenty enough room for what he had in mind. He lowered the white board to the gap, holding the door open with his foot. At the last moment, he grabbed his bottle opener magnet and dropped it in his pocket.

"Bon voyage," he said, and released the board. It slid neatly through the gap and out of sight. He stood, listening, and a few moments later, a series of bangs reverberated up the shaft, followed by a particularly loud whump. Daniel smiled and stepped into the elevator, letting the door slide shut. He pushed the lobby button.

On the way down, it occurred to him that the falling board might have done some sort of damage to the elevator mechanism, and as a result, it would free-fall, sending him crashing down to his death. Before he could reassure himself that the odds of such a fate were extremely unlikely, a brief thought flashed through his mind.

That would be just fine.

It was gone in an instant. The elevator slid smoothly to a halt on the ground floor. Daniel picked up his box and strode through the lobby and to the parking lot outside.

2

"You did what?"

They were sitting on the patio of the Shamrock, which, Daniel mused, was what passed for an Irish pub in this town. Apparently, all you needed was a couple of TVs showing soccer, and Guinness on tap. Other than that, it was not much different from a dozen other bars in town.

I quit my job.

What on Earth did you do that for?

The person asking the question was Daniel’s friend, Paul. Daniel supposed that, if the Sham could pass for an Irish pub, then Paul might as well be known as his best friend. The thought was kind of depressing.

Daniel sipped his pint. Because I hated it, he said.

Well, duh. Everybody hates their job.

Not everybody. Some people actually have jobs they like.

Paul stared at him from across the table. Name one person you know who likes their job.

Daniel thought for a moment. Okay, just because I don’t know anyone personally who likes their job doesn’t mean they’re not out there. There are still a few people I haven’t met yet.

Nobody I know likes their job, said Paul. I don’t.

Give me a break, said Daniel. You get paid a ton of money to stay home and test software on your computer. You practically never have to go into the office, you don’t have a boss hovering over your head, and you can sleep in if you want. I can see how you might regard your job as quite the grind.

Paul lit a cigarette. Doesn’t mean I like my job.

Yeah, well, there’s a difference between not liking your job, and hating it with a fucking passion, like I did. I was at the point where I literally couldn’t stand to go in anymore.

Paul took a drag. Not literally.

What?

Paul exhaled smoke. "You said you literally couldn’t stand to go in anymore, but that’s a misuse of the word, because obviously you were going in everyday. If you literally couldn’t stand to go in, you wouldn’t have been able to actually go in to work."

Daniel stared at his friend. This was the thing that drove him crazy about Paul. Everything was an argument. "Well, considering the fact that I just quit my job on the spur of the moment, then obviously I couldn’t fucking stand it anymore, so I’d say that sounds pretty fucking literal to me."

Paul shrugged. Whatever.

They sat in silence for a while. Daniel picked at a wart on the knuckle of his right hand. He knew he shouldn’t pick at it, because every time he did, it just seemed to get bigger. He had tried to kill it with an over-the-counter remedy, but the stuff had proven worthless.

So, said Paul. What are you gonna do now?

Well, obviously, I’m going to look for a fucking job.

Paul stubbed out his cigarette. No shit. What kind of a job?

Daniel sighed. Hell if I know, he said. It’s not like I have a ton of marketable skills.

How well do you know computers?

You should know, I call you whenever I have a problem. I can turn it on, I can use Word and Excel and iTunes. That’s about it.

Paul shrugged. We don’t have any openings, anyway.

Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. Then why the fuck were you asking what I knew about computers?

Their waitress arrived. You guys still doing all right? She was chewing gum, looking bored.

I’ll have another Bass, said Daniel.

What about you, sweetheart?

Paul eyed his bottle. Yeah, I’ll have another Bud Light.

Sure thing.

Daniel watched her as she walked away. Man, do you have to be covered in tattoos to work here, or what?

Apparently, Paul regarded the question as rhetorical, because he said, Are you going to try to get another editing job?

Daniel sighed. I suppose I should, he said. Although the thought of doing the same thing for someone else doesn’t sound too appealing.

So what else could you do?

Not much.

Paul stared at him, obviously expecting him to elaborate.

I can write okay, Daniel said. I suppose I could look for some kind of journalism or technical writing gig. I don’t really want to do editing. Other than that … I guess I could deliver pizzas.

Can you teach?

Daniel shrugged. I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind teaching, I guess, but I don’t have the credentials. I mean, I don’t have a teaching certificate or whatever.

I think some teaching jobs don’t require one.

No shit? Daniel was interested. Like what?

I don’t think private schools require a teaching certificate, said Paul. I think you just need a degree.

Huh.

College, too. Although you probably need a master’s degree. I don’t think the community college district around here has the highest standards for its professors.

Well, that’s me. Daniel sat back and thought. The idea of teaching didn’t sound too bad. Especially at a private school, maybe the kids there wouldn’t be a bunch of inner-city thugs.

I have a B.A. in English, he said. Maybe I could teach English at a private school. They probably pay better than public schools, anyway.

No, they don’t, said Paul. They pay worse.

Daniel stared at his friend. How do you know?

That’s what Barbara said.

"Oh, well, if Barbara said it."

Paul shrugged. She should know, she’s a teacher.

Daniel thought, What am I doing here?

The waitress returned with their drinks and set them down without a word.

We ought to go inside, Daniel said. It’s hot out here, it’s nice and cool in the A.C.

Can’t smoke inside, said Paul. As if to illustrate his point, he lit another cigarette. Daniel sighed.

So, did you give ‘em two weeks, or what?

Hell, no. I just walked out.

Paul raised his eyebrows. Do you think that’s smart?

Yes, obviously, I think it’s a stroke of fucking genius.

I mean, if you’re looking for a job, it’s usually a good idea to have a good reference from your last place, Paul said. He took a drag, exhaled. It’s also a good idea to still be working.

No shit.

Well, I’m just sayin, said Paul. Daniel hated the expression, because it meant nothing.

Well, obviously when you quit your fucking job on the spur of the moment because you want to murder your fucking boss, you don’t sit down and write out a long-term plan, he said. You just quit and get the fuck out of there, like I did.

Paul shrugged. Not what I would have done.

Well, we can’t all be you, can we?

They sat in silence. Daniel chugged half his pint.

If you want, I can ask Barbara to see if there are any teaching jobs she knows about, said Paul. A peace offering.

That’d be all right.

Do you have a résumé?

Yeah. I haven’t updated it in a while. Didn’t know I would need to.

I’ll ask Barbara when I get home.

Cool.

They sat in silence for a while. Daniel eyed a group of three young women at a nearby table. Paul, following Daniel’s eyes, turned and gave them a quick glance. He turned back and raised his eyebrows. Not bad.

Yeah.

The one in the jeans.

Yeah. Daniel stared at the girl. She was leaning forward in her seat in a provocative way, and her midriff-baring shirt revealed a lower-back tattoo. While he stared, she turned and regarded him with a quick look. Her face registered boredom, and she turned back to her friends. Daniel let his gaze wander over the parking lot.

So, do you have any savings? asked Paul.

A little. Not much.

Yeah? Like, how much?

Couple thousand dollars.

Paul nodded. That won’t last long.

Like I said.

What about a 401-K? You got anything like that?

Nah.

That’s too bad. My company has a great 401-K plan.

Glad to hear it. Daniel chugged more beer. Maybe I’ll move away.

Move? To where?

Hell if I know. Someplace other than here, I’m tired of this town.

Paul looked alarmed. You can’t just pick up and move without a job, he said.

Says who?

Well, think about it. You’ve only got a couple thousand dollars in savings. How much does it cost to move? You’d have to rent a truck and all that.

Yeah, well, not if I sell all my shit. I don’t have that much stuff, anyway.

Paul leaned forward. Okay, but even if you don’t have that much stuff, what are you going to do when you get to wherever? You gotta rent an apartment or a house, and most places won’t rent to you unless you can show proof of income, which means you gotta find a job. And I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but they’re not just giving away jobs out there.

Daniel knew his friend was right, but he felt like arguing. He shrugged. I could just chance it, he said. Like my friend Isaiah, he just threw some shit in a backpack and took off for Europe once, had a blast.

Paul was looking at him as if he had just proposed becoming a male prostitute. What are you, nuts? You can’t just take off like that.

Says who? Daniel was becoming increasingly annoyed. Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can’t do? You’re not my dad.

Says anyone with common sense, said Paul. You can’t just take off for Europe with nothing but a backpack. It’s dangerous.

Suddenly, Daniel was done. You know, he said, standing up, not everything has to be a fucking argument. He fished a couple of bills out of his wallet and tossed them on the table. Paul looked up at him, his expression shocked and hurt. Daniel felt an instant of regret, because he knew to walk out now would hurt his friend’s feelings. But the feeling quickly gave way to anger. He’s hurt because he’s too stupid to realize how annoying he is.

Daniel walked away. On the way to his car, he thought, What’s gotten into me?

• • •

He let himself into his apartment without bothering to turn on the light. He slowly worked his way through the darkened apartment and into the bedroom before he turned a light on. His room was sparsely furnished - a bed, a dresser, and a small nightstand. The only other object in the room was his easel. It supported a small, blank canvas, as it had for months.

Daniel stood in the doorway, as if hoping to see something that wasn’t there before. After a moment, he lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling fan. He watched the blades go around. They had accumulated an almost amazing amount of dust in the three years he had lived there.

He took out his phone and hit a number on speed dial.

Hello? she said.

Hey, what’s up, he said.

Nothing. What are you doing?

Nothing. I quit my job.

You did what?

Yeah.

When? Today?

Yeah.

Whatja do that for?

I couldn’t stand it anymore.

She sighed, and he could hear her disapproval in it.

What are you gonna do now?

That seems to be the question of the hour.

A long silence went by.

Listen, he said. Do you want to go get a beer?

Umm … I can’t.

You can’t? Why not?

Well … I kinda have plans.

Plans?

Yeah.

You mean a date?

Yeah.

With who? he asked. He couldn’t help himself.

A guy from work. It’s no one you know.

Huh.

More silence.

In fact, he’s gonna be here any minute, she said.

Well, don’t let me keep you.

Are you okay?

I’m fine.

I’ll call you tomorrow.

Great, he said, and snapped the phone shut. He set it on the nightstand and stared at the fan. That’s fucking great.

After a while, he got up, but there was nowhere to go. He looked at the easel. The blank canvas. He walked over and picked it up. His paints and brushes were on the shelf. He placed the canvas back on the easel. A moment later he returned to the bed and lay down again.

Who am I kidding?

Finally, there was nothing else to do except just go to bed.

• • •

He awoke at 7:30, even though there had been no reason to set the alarm. Normally, he would be getting up about now - or at least, he used to. Lately, he had been dozing until almost eight. Now, there was no reason to get up. Might as well sleep in.

After a few minutes, he fell asleep again.

• • •

When he awoke for the second time, it was almost ten, and his bladder felt like it was about to explode. He staggered groggily to the bathroom and relieved himself, leaning forward with one hand on the wall. He wondered what to do. Go back to bed? Look for a job? Eat breakfast? Bed was the easiest choice, but he had already been irresponsible enough, he decided. Best to take a shower and wash the sleep out of his brain.

Half an hour later, he fired up his laptop and sat down to a breakfast of instant coffee and a banana. He chewed and sipped while his ancient Hewlett-Packard booted up. He worried it wasn’t long for this world. He had been toying with the idea of a new computer for months. Why hadn’t he just gone ahead and bought while he had an income? He brushed the question aside and opened his browser. The temptation was to spend several hours dicking around on Facebook, but he figured he was on a roll, so he went right to the online version of his local newspaper. He hadn’t had to go job-hunting in three years, and the page was radically different than he remembered it, naturally. It took several false starts before he was able to simply call up a list of available jobs.

He looked first under the Education heading, and was quickly bombarded with page after page of jobs for which he was not qualified. After about ten minutes, he gave up on that and looked under the Technical Writing tab. Here he found several jobs that, in theory, he could perform - none of which interested him in the slightest. After exhausting that category, he sat staring at his screen for a few moments, then hit a tab that said, Professions.

The resulting list was a grab bag of various jobs, most of which required advanced degrees. Daniel scrolled down, scanning the titles. He could feel himself starting to get drawn into a tractor beam that was emanating from his bed. He sipped the last of his coffee and continued to scroll down, when a heading caught his eye.

Teach English in Korea! (Continuous Recruitment)

Huh, he said. He stared at the posting for a moment, and then clicked the link.

Live and Teach English in Korea!

No previous teaching experience required! Begin teaching in just two months. You can save up to two-thirds of your income due to an extremely low cost of living! All you need is a Bachelor’s degree and a one-year commitment to teach in South Korea. Annual salary of $25K - $38K USD. We pay your airfare and furnished accommodations. 15 national holidays + 10 vacation days. You can fly to Japan or China in just 2 hours. Visit our web site to learn more! Interested? Email your RESUME or APPLY ONLINE.

Daniel sat staring at the screen while thoughts whirled in his brain. He couldn’t just up and move to Korea.

Why not?

He thought about it. Yeah, why not? Isn’t that what he told Paul he wanted to do? Get out of town?

I was just talking shit.

But why not? There was nothing tying him to this town. No job, no girlfriend, no family, not even so much as a goldfish. There was no reason he had to stay here. He could do whatever he wanted. He was a free man. He re-read the ad. Save up to two-thirds of your income… Well, that would be nice. He sure as shit wasn’t saving any money here. Not with the way he ate out most nights and racked up a hellacious tab at the Sham a couple of times a week.

The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. What would they think if he just split town? What would Paul think? What would she think?

Who cares? Fuck her.

That’s crazy talk. You can’t just move to Korea.

But why not? It could be an adventure!