Fortune

By Bruce Weiss

In Fortune (a novel by Bruce Weiss), a middle-aged man named Jakedown on his luck, just divorced, and facing job lossfinds himself a fugitive.
Seized from the wreckage of his old life, however, is one meaningful memento, one with the power to reignite his interest in life, but one that sets him on a dangerous journey that he could never have imagined. Jake has retrieved an old diary written by someone whom he believes to be his grandmother, a sixteen-year-old Irish girl named Jenny, who was forced to emigrate alone to America in 1914 before disappearing. In the binding of the diary, Jenny has left a key to her home in Ireland and the key to a great mystery. The key will not only unlock a door but also troubles that are more than he could never have imagined
A story of international intrigue, menace, and murder, not to mention a fast-paced and compelling novel with well-portrayed characters, this is a riveting read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496968418

Bruce Weiss

Bruce Weiss has published 10 novels, a text book, and short stories. Historical fiction is the genre with surprising and unanticipated twists and turns. Undergraduate degree from BU, graduate degree at Wesleyan, 20 years teaching social studies at the high school level, 3 years after retirement teaching in Cuzco Peru. Married to Ivy, father of daughter Sasha who did not fall far from the tree, and granddaughter Harper, a world class equestrian at Skidmore. My email address is [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

January 16, 1914

This will most likely be my last entry in my beloved diary, a book that I received as a gift a little more than a year ago. It is being written while we are still at sea, so very far from my home in Ireland. This diary was a gift from my father and I had intended to write a bit each day about the voyage to America, but like the other passengers, I was too sea-sick.

My fellow passengers and I were huddled together in the belly of our ship for most of our trying journey. On day three the seas became terribly rough and after that, we were told to remain below deck. As I write these words my fellow passengers are running from one side of our ship to the other, each hoping to be the very first to catch sight of the great city of New York. We have been at sea for nine days and the anticipation of what might be found there is felt by everyone, including me. Today is also an important day in my life because it is my sixteenth birthday. What a strange start to a new year and a new life.

On the open decks of our ship the Guardian, passengers speak in many languages that I had not heard before. The ship’s origin was Belfast in the north and it docked in Queensland where I and others boarded. We were told that it would take eight days for the transit, but today is our ninth. My father told me that we would be safe at sea because the company had been building sturdy sea going vessels since 1860. The man who sold my father the ticket said that I was one of many young people emigrating to America.

Today for the first time, I too feel the great excitement because our voyage is nearly over and there is an outpouring of joyfulness and happiness that I had not seen or heard before. It seemed as if our entire passage had been done in silence, but I sense and feel a great change.

The crew on board our ship seemed to have gone out of their way to make our journey even more difficult. As I write this they are shouting that they will take the worthless money that we brought with us and exchange it for the new American dollars.

You must give us your old money and in return, you shall receive fistfuls of wonderful new American dollars so that you can buy your fondest dreams.

I had been warned by my father, possibly the last words that he spoke to me in my dear Ireland, that I was not to trust the people who worked on the ship, telling me about the bad experiences that his relatives had on earlier crossings.

I have thought much about the strange days that led up to my leaving my home, the last week filled with ominous words and frightening warnings. The mysterious and terrifying strangers who came to our home told me that I would carry a set of very important papers to America for them. If you lose those papers or if you allow them to fall carelessly into someone else’s hands, you will never see your family again, one of them hissed frighteningly at me. People on the ship might try to get your money and God know what else…..but by sweet Jesus, may God save you if anyone other then the right men get those papers. You must guard them with your life.

I have no idea what the papers say or why they were so important to those men. I did overhear one of them whisper a bit too loudly that what I would carry on my body was more valuable than anything that the other passengers might have in their possession. In a voice that certainly was not meant for me to hear, one of the men whispered to my father that what I was carrying to America could quite possibly save a world from destroying itself, sweet Jesus.

My life changed when the strangers first came to our home. I had seen men like them dressed so richly only once in my life, and that was with my father when he took me to the city with him. They wore shiny long black coats, tall black hats, and silk ties and high laced boots. The three men who came to our house were dressed like that.

I have several terrible images that I cannot get out of my head and I am certain that I shall always carry them with me. One of them was the frightful look on my mother’s face when the strangers first entered our home and if I close my eyes, I can still see that. All my life I had believed that my mother was the bravest woman in our village, unafraid of anything or any person. When I saw the expression on her face that day it felt as if I had been slapped in the face. My father, certainly not a weak man, shied away from those men and he could not look them in the face.

I was frightened and saddened by the look on my father’s face. It was as if he was suddenly a stranger to me, staring forlornly at the floor in the presence of the strangers in our own home. My father was a very strong man but when the strangers entered our home, I sensed that he had become a different person, a man that I did not know. The strangers spent some time whispering to him and when they did, I could see the foreboding and fear in his eyes and when the men handed him a thick envelope, they all turned and stared menacingly at me. My heart pounded harder and louder than I thought possible.

When the three men turned to leave, one of them paused and stared at me and I will also remember that intense look as long as I live. It felt as if he was looking not at me, but right through me to my very soul and I don’t think I had ever been as frightened in my entire life.

We listened to the footsteps of boots as the men retreated down our little walkway that lead to the lane and when I dared look up at my mother again, she had a look on her face that I had only seen once in my life. That was the day that the Good Father in our church lectured us on the ways of the devil, telling us that he would always do things that would tempt us into evil. It took much courage for me to finally ask my mother who those men were, but she ignored me, or perhaps she hadn’t heard me. I looked nervously at my father but he seemed as frozen and lifeless as one of the statues in our church. Neither of them spoke for the longest time and at that moment, I began to believe that was how death came to us, at the bequest of strangers who came to your door, beginning with a simple, innocent knock.

I thought about that moment often as the ship rolled and groaned on it’s westerly journey. When I realized that my parents could not or would not tell me anything about those men, I rushed to the door and I stared out at the strangers. It took a few moments for my eyes to get used to the bright outdoor light and when I was able to see clearly, I saw the large shiny black car and the three men standing by it. They talked for a moment and curiously, I spied a small boy with very deep, dark piercing eyes staring out the rear window, not at the men, but at me. He looked both forlorn and frightened, a boy perhaps half my age. Even from that distance his eyes seemed to reach out to me, almost pleading and I felt his sorrow and pain. Our eyes were locked until the men got into the car and with a great plume of blackness from beneath, it slowly moved in a large circle and then it passed beyond the swale and disappeared.

Two days later I was put aboard the ship by my father. In those two days, no one mentioned the strangers or the purpose of me having the papers they had given to my father. I carry them beneath my clothing as I write this. My father and I hardly spoke on the walk to the port, something that contrasted so sharply from the frivolity and excitement coming from the others who prepared to board the old vessel. Many of my soon to be fellow passengers were praying, while others were offering thanks that they had been allowed to leave a wretched world behind for a better life.

At last my father did speak to me, although it was in a whisper that I barely heard. Just as I was about to board the vessel, he explained that the land that I was leaving behind would soon be ablaze, like a forest of dry tinder. He told me that the land was beginning to smolder in far away places, but that soon those flames would consume Ireland and the rest of Europe. He spoke with no emotion in his voice, telling me that the fire, once blazing, would be uncontrollable and that it would spare no one. He said that even though Europe was still calm, nearly as calm as I would find the seas before me, that it would not remain that way for long. It was on the third day of our voyage to America when the seas became so terribly roiled, as if my father’s words had come true. Instead of the sea though, I thought about what my father said about Europe, and about my Ireland. His warning filled me with the kind of alarm I always felt when the Good Father lectured us in church.

As I finish this entry in my diary, I can hear much commotion about the ship. I could not guess how many passengers she carries, but certainly many more than live in our tiny village. Each passenger with the exception of me has taken a place at the railing, searching for their first glimpse of the American land. Something is happening.

Our ship has suddenly became ghostly quiet. Just moments ago, all the joyful emotions were doused, as if a giant wave had rolled over us. An announcement has just been made in several languages, telling us that our ship would not make the New York port until tomorrow’s first light. When the words stopped, a large flash of lightening soared across the sky, seeming to nearly touch our masts. That vision was followed by a thunder clap so loud and long, that it seemed that it would never end. A sudden storm has stopped our forward progress we have been told and with that pronouncement, everyone now looks forlorn. We will have to wait one more day to find what awaits us.

When we reach the American shore tomorrow, nothing will ever be the same for them or me again. I will honor my father’s words and deliver the papers into the hands of men who will be waiting for me. I do not know who they are or what they will look like, but I was told that they will know me. ‘Saviors of Western Civilization’ was how one of the strangers referred to the men who would meet me on the Ellis Island. I have no idea what those words mean but I will turn the papers over to them and then what? Perhaps I can ask the men for a bit of money so that a ship might take me home. If not, I do not know what my future might be or if I shall ever return home again. Perhaps the fire that my father spoke about would make me understand what has happened. Tomorrow as we approach the New York port, I will try to imagine a new life for me. Sadly, Jenny

January 17, 1914

It is very early and there is darkness all about the ship but I shall attempt to write one more diary entry before we are under full power again. We were ordered on to the main deck this morning before sunrise so that we could see the great lady in the harbor welcoming us. The sky is already beginning to lighten in the east.

There are hushed voices everywhere spoken in a hundred different tongues and without understanding their words, I seem to know what they are all saying. At times, the ship lurches forward and the voices become eerily silent as everyone stares longingly ahead. Everyone has their eyes strained on the brightening horizon, each hoping to be the first to see the lights of the city.

At times, someone will shout something and people would all turn to stare into the void before our ship. The ship’s engines which were quiet all night have come to life and the vibration that it makes seems to touch something that none of us has ever felt before. It is still too dark to see the city lights yet as everyone looks ahead, I look behind us and realize that I am further and further from my home.

In only a few hours we will be arriving in New York at the immigration island. How will I know the men who await the special papers that I carry? How will they know me? Where will I go when we land? And what of the small boy with the dark mysterious eyes who was entrusted to me? What will become of him? The answers to all my questions will have to wait. I am so terribly frightened.

January 17, 1914 My second diary entry this date

Something has gone terribly wrong, I fear. Shortly after the city finally appeared on the horizon, we were told to gather our belongings to prepare to catch the smaller launches that would take us from the ship to the Island. When I stepped into the small boat I could hardly breath because we were packed so tightly together but in time, we sped toward the Island where men took the boat’s ropes and tied us to America.

I and others were immediately overwhelmed by the number of signs that hung over a hundred different doorways. There was much shouting in every imaginable language and everyone seemed to be in a rush to go someplace although I did not understand where I should go. The door with the sign ‘MEDICAL’ had a very long line but when I was about to enter it, I was pulled aside. There were nurses in crisp white uniforms carrying large clipboards directing fellow passengers into a number of rooms marked ‘EXAMINING ROOM, but I was also taken from that line. FAMILY GROUPS, DINING HALL, and DETENTION PENS; there seemed to be doors for everyone but me. There were many other room names that I did not understand and every time I ventured onto one of the long lines, I was taken by my arm and moved away.

The day passed with a great deal of confusion and I seemed lost. An elderly man offered me a box with some fruit inside that I ate. Night fell on the Ellis Island and all the of doorways were closed, the official business of the day over. Most of the people who had made the ocean crossing with me had successfully made their way through what the officials called, processing. They were given their transit papers and that entitled them to board another small boat that took them to either New York or New Jersey. I was finally approached by a tall stern looking man who told me that my papers were not in order and that I would need to spend the night in a dormitory on the Island. When I couldn’t stop crying, the man said that perhaps I would be going ashore in the early morning.

Now I fear that the men who were supposed to meet me today on the Island will think that I have not come, or that I slipped away unnoticed in one of the large groups. Almost everyone who accompanied me on the voyage was allowed to leave but I and a very few others were told that we would remain here for now. I was assigned to a woman who took me and several others to the building where I will sleep tonight. What will become of me?

I had been told so boldly that I would be met when I was through the immigration process by certain men who would know me. I might never know if they saw me or not, or even if they came to find me at all. I had been given the task of accompanying a small boy on our journey who never spoke a word, and I never learned his name, nor had we exchanged any words. We had simply stayed very close to each other in the ship’s hold. In the course of the days that we were together, I began to sense that he was different from the other passengers. We all wore our best clothing but compared to what he wore, we were terribly shabby but during the voyage, something about the boy’s clothing finally came to me. It wasn’t the home spun that most of us wore. His clothing appeared to be made with very fine fabric that none of us could have afforded. The way he ate (mostly bread) was with a gentile nature, as if he had been raised perhaps as a gentleman. And the way he held himself….he appeared too dignified while the rest of us truly did not appear to be anything more than poor peasant folk.

He passed through the custom line to be questioned, and then he simply disappeared into one of the rooms marked, MEDICAL. Before I could catch up with him, a uniformed women blocked my effort and when I looked around again, he was through the door and it was closed behind him.

I am very frightened that the authorities on the Island will now find the papers that were stashed under my clothing. I had been warned so sternly that I was never to allow them to fall into anyone else’s hands. Although I have never seen one word on the papers that I carried, I do believe that they have some special power and that they are very important. I fear that when I undress tonight for bed, the papers will be discovered by someone who should not see them, and then taken from me.

If whoever was to meet me wants those papers, they will have to come again tomorrow because I must spend the night here on the Island. The Lord knows where I will go if I am allowed to leave.

I will try to hide the papers in a place where no one can find them but me, and then perhaps I can retrieve them later.

January 18, 1914 Before the morning light

Ten of my paces forward from the front door of my overnight lodging and then a sharp right turn and another ten paces. The building where I found sleep impossible had a sign that said, BUILDING NUMBER 13…..WOMEN ONLY. I walked another ten paces to the right and I stopped in an area between two large gnarly trees. Taking a sturdy branch from one of the trees that had fallen, I lined it up so that it pointed directly toward the large green light that sat atop the tallest building on the New Jersey side of the river. Using the end of that stick to dig, I dug as deep as I could and I buried the important papers that I had carried from Ireland.

I did not want them to feel the moisture of the earth so I put the papers inside of the canteen that I had carried. I had a candle that I had taken from the chapel when we were allowed to pray and I used the wax to seal the top of my canteen so that water could not seep in. I dug even deeper until I could place my arm down to my elbow and it was there that I gently placed the canteen with the papers inside. My hope is that the papers will not have to stay there long and that the right people might be able to have them soon.

Until the time that it reaches it’s new owners, I shall refer to that canteen as my time chamber. I hope that the papers will be safe there, at least for the time being. I don’t know which is worse; having the papers delivered into the wrong hands, or not having them given to the people who were expecting them. It is all so terrible depressing.

I wandered back to my dormitory so as not to be missed, wondering if my time chamber would be lost and forgotten. I wondered what would happen when the people who wrote the papers and the people who were to receive them realized that they had disappeared. Would I become a hunted woman for the rest of my life? Worse, if the papers were lost and not retrieved, what might happen to the small boy? Did the papers pertain to his life and nothing more? Perhaps it was his birth certificate or his parents names. Did someone come for him? Who will take care of him? Was he possibly still on the island? And what will happen to me today? If I am released from the Island, will those men ever find me? I had kept the tiny hope alive that these men might be so pleased with me that they would afford me some money to purchase a ticket that might allow me to return home.

Jenny

January 19, 1914

I must write this quickly because I was told to pack the small sack that contained my few belongings so this is what I shall write. Whoever shall find and read my diary one day, whether it falls into the hands of a stranger or a friend, please return it to my family in Ireland. The diary would have no real value to anyone but my family and I hope that one day they might know that I reached the shores of America safely. They will know that the diary was written by me. If the words seem foreign, my family will still know that it was from me because of what I have set firmly into the binding, the key to the front door of our home. If we are never to see each other ever again, I want them to know that as I start a new life, my thoughts will always be with them, every moment of my life. If something bad happens to me, I want them to know that my last thoughts were of them. God bless you all, your daughter, Jenny

CHAPTER TWO

Friday, November, 1989

New Jersey

If bad luck came in threes, then Jake Fortune was a prime candidate to have something else jump up and bite him in the ass.

For all practical purposes, his fifteen year marriage had ended years earlier but it had been officially dissolved on Tuesday with the final divorce decree. As he had been forewarned by his own lawyer, and as he had ruefully expected throughout the long and accusatory proceedings, the former Mrs. Fortune would soon be living very nicely. She would get sixty-five percent of everything he owned after he was court ordered to make an accurate list of all of his assets.

Fifteen years of what Jake had once considered the ‘fine life’ had come crashing miserably down upon him with abandon. The good life, if there truly ever was one, was over and dead. He found the lawyer’s decree stuffed rather unceremoniously under the door of his tiny, cold water and unfurnished apartment on the wrong side of the city. He was only miles from his former home but he felt he might as well have been relocated to the slums of Calcutta, or to the darker side of the moon.

Jake always suspected the terms of the decree would easily favor his former wife but he was still shaken the day the papers arrived. The court experience seemed to have dragged on forever until its fitful and most auspicious conclusion. His infidelities and his close relationships with several friends, including Johnny Walker and Jim Beam hadn’t helped his cause. His wife’s lawyer had done an excellent job of discrediting him and she seemed to get a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure out of extolling every miserable facet of his sad life to the court.

What Jake had not anticipated was that his divorce would also affect his job. Two days after the decree had been finalized, he was unceremoniously let go from his managerial position, considering that loss a calamity far more devastating and unexpected then the divorce. He quickly suspected either his wife or her lawyer had telephoned his boss at Atlantic Petroleum, and either one could have delivered the gossipy, disorderly news about their employee, he assumed.

His boss said it was simply a matter of downsizing the organization that had taken place and it had no bearing on the messy divorce, or Jake’s years of service but he suspected rightly that there had been another reason for his firing. He believed the gossip about the divorce and the gory details exposed by his adversaries had been the real cause of his termination. Fired after twenty years of concerted effort and sacrifice, he mused. What his boss did not say was that the higher ups in the company knew he was an excellent worker but sadly, the publicity and the dirt surrounding the divorce became an embarrassment to an organization going through a rough period of it’s own. Recent oil spills into pristine waters had brought the company much bad news.

In a daze, he sorrowfully cleaned out his office and the more he thought about his life, the angrier he got. He pounded his empty desk in frustration, yelling, sixty-five God damn percent. That was what would have to be turned over to Mrs. Fortune.

How ironic, he mused, that the lawyers had come to that number.

Without a job and his good salary, sixty-five percent of nothing would serve her right, he steamed. Her greed and her vengeful lawyer had succeeded in killing the golden goose by getting him fired, and if they had not contacted his boss, things might have worked out differently for everyone. There would certainly be no more golden eggs.

When one of the bosses at Atlantic Petroleum told him to stop by before he left that afternoon, Jake thought briefly he might have his old job back. Instead, he was handed an envelope by the man’s secretary who scolded him in a demeaning tone telling him since he did not have an appointment, the boss would not see him. When he leered angrily at the poor woman, she said there was a generous severance package inside the envelope but if he didn’t leave the building immediately, it would be rescinded.

When Jake exited the building, he hurried across the street to the park and finding an empty bench, he greedily opened the envelope. Inside was a short typed note stating the severance money was paid through the good graces of Atlantic Petroleum. In his hands he held a company check, signed by an attorney who had known ties to wife’s lawyer’s firm. The curt note also said ‘this will hold you over until your talents find you a new position elsewhere.’ He carried that envelope with him all day and into the night without looking once at the amount on the check inside.

Late that night, unable to sleep or to think of anything but the day’s sad events, Jake managed a smile. He had finally taken his first peek at the check, staring at it with much amusement as he read and re-read the numbers. The last part of the note mentioned it was a very generous bonus.

He forced a second smile when he realized that the check was made out to a Jack Fortune and not Jake. It was made out for the sum of eight thousand dollars and some quick math told him that was roughly four hundred dollars for each year he had worked for the company. More figuring told him nearly six thousand dollars of that amount would immediately be court ordered over to his ex-wife, via her lawyer of course. Nice little divorce present, he realized.

There were only two moments of happiness for Jake that entire terrible day and the first happened when he uncorked the bottle to pour himself his first stiff drink of the day. Although it would make him miserable later, as it always did, that first jolt always brought a smile and a feeling of relief. The second moment of happiness was the rush of satisfaction felt when he tore the check into tiny pieces.

He sat back in his rickety wooden chair, glancing about the unfurnished flat he had rented, surmising there were only two definite things in his life at that moment. The first was he had a court ordered appointment to be at his former residence at exactly ten o’clock in the morning the next day. An off duty police officer, his wife’s lawyer, and even his own worthless lawyer would be there and each of them would keep close track of the minutes. He would have exactly one hour to gather all his belongings and not one second more. That hour, he suspected, would cost him a ton of money.

If he was late for the appointment or if he missed it, there would be no second opportunity to gather his belongings. If he was still there after eleven o’clock in the morning, he had been informed it would result in an arrest for trespassing. He would only be allowed to take his own personal belongings as anything belonging to he and his ex-wife jointly would have to be discussed by the lawyers, and that work would be billed at three hundred dollars an hour. If he chose to debate who owned what during that hour, there would be less time to grab his things and leave. If he chose to argue what he felt was just or right, it was on his time.

When he was about to leave the court room the day the decree was read, his wife’s lawyer leaned toward him and whispered, Don’t forget to bring a garbage bag or two to carry your things. The former Mrs. Fortune smiled at Jake’s discomfort, shaking her head and mouthing the words, ‘I got you, you bastard.’ The last court room words from Mrs. Fortune were spoken to her lawyer in a loud, derogatory voice. I will not be at MY home when my former husband makes his appearance. Make sure he tips the cop.

The second definite in his life was that he had to get to his safe deposit box at the bank the first thing in the morning before the former Mrs. Fortune or her lawyer got there. The safe deposit box had been Jake’s secret. Even though he had not told his wife about it, he had always believed one day he would share that secret wealth with her. Pouring himself another stiff drink, he had the terrible premonition that the court had somehow used it’s see-all power to discover his secret cache and if it had, it was a foregone conclusion it would be seized or frozen.

If all went well in the morning he would clean out the safe box, arriving at the bank the minute it opened and after that, he would go to his former home and gather his belongings. As to where he would go when he had his possessions and the money, that was something he had not considered yet. Nearly twenty years with Atlantic Petroleum had netted him in excess of thirty-five thousand dollars in bonuses, all secretly stashed away over the years. It was a bit dishonest not to tell his wife but the truth be known, it was being saved for their retirement and it was to be a welcomed surprise. Pouring a third drink, he knew the money was now all his to help start a new life somewhere.

Jake Fortune stared at his sparse new surroundings, consisting of two bare rooms with several old chairs and a broken table and a cot. When he had first moved out of his home he’d rented a small, decently appointed condo and he was quite happy there until someone called the owner to report that Jake was soon to be a deadbeat. He had no doubt who made that call. In desperation, he found the cheap apartment he could rent by the week and after a short stay, he hoped he would figure out his next move. As usual though when things were not going well, he ultimately surrendered to the overwhelming desire to drink his problems away.

The flat was depressing, more so at that moment then when he first saw the bleak place. When he spent his first night there he had been awakened by the sounds of gun shots not far off in the darkened streets below. The sound of sirens was never absent. Those haunting sounds made him feel even more vulnerable and when the panic and then the terror set in, that was the time he needed a drink, something he used in order to survive the cruel world.

He referred to the over powering obsession with the drink as the ‘summons from the Demons,’ believing those invisible gremlins had been born the same day he was and over the years, they demanded constant gratification. When things were not going well, they were the ones who appeared to help him take control of his life. The day the decree arrived and the following day when he got sacked were banner days for the Demons.

He had been on the wagon during the days leading up to the court’s decision, prodded to do so by his lawyer. It made him more jumpy than usual and he sensed the five days without booze was simply a lesson about how painful withdrawal could be. After five days he learned he could hold out no longer.

The judge directed his words to Jake in a scolding, lecturing tone. You get no brownie points or bonus points from this court for giving up drinking for five days. You need help young man and I suggest you do something about your drinking before you lose a lot more than your wife. He could not guess at that moment his job was going to be the next loss.

Sitting in his empty apartment, the Demons convinced him there was no reason to refrain from drinking any longer; that there was nothing left for him to lose. He argued with the Demons, telling them that it was not the right time because he had a very important meeting the next morning. He argued he could not afford to be late or miss that appointment, nor could he delay getting to the bank. The Demons reasoned with him, telling him that he didn’t need to drink very much that night, just a few to take the edge off the terrible day. That seemed to make sense he guessed but then again, the Demons always seemed to make sense.

He had learned some time ago how to somewhat live the life of a thoughtful drinker. The bums on the steps of his apartment house were far worse then him he believed, and he proved he was better by stopping for a five full days.

One of the things he had learned over the years was to always leave a bit in the bottle for the morning so the hangover would be less painful. Since he needed to get up rather early to get to the bank and his former home, he planned to leave just the right amount so he could jump start the day. He reminded himself if anything happened that kept him from getting to the bank and then to his former home by ten, his life would be doomed. Knowing he would have to have most of his wits about him, he put the bottle down, believing he’d had enough. If he screwed up even a little, he understood, his life for all practical purposes would be over, leaving him with nothing but the few broken pieces of furniture left behind in the flat by it’s previous renters.

He realized he had developed the usual good buzz although the terrible feelings still bubbled to the surface. As usual after the third drink, those feelings weren’t as agonizing or painful anymore. The elixir had worked as it always did in the beginning and it seemed to temporarily make his life a bit more manageable. The Demons however, saw things differently at that moment and unbeknownst to him, they had begun to work overtime, arguing he was not through with the evening’s drinking just yet. A bit more would help him sleep, they cried.

He rocked back and forth on the wood chair, clutching the bottle in one hand and holding a drinking glass in the other. A glance about the room made him realize for the hundredth time there was no clock in the place. Misplacing his watch days earlier, he had no idea what time it was.

Days later he would refer to that evening as the worst night of his life. He rocked so hard the chair fell over backward and his head cracked against the floor boards, the bottle flying from his hand and rolling to a corner. Crawling desperately after the bottle, he gasped as he watched the golden liquid spilling onto the floor, thinking the wet was his own blood. Confusing words flooded his head. It’s the first day of the rest of your life, the judge had said to him in such a demeaning tone. You start where you stand, young man, he had been lectured. So this was the first day of the rest of my life he mused, laying helpless on the floor, watching the liquor slowly soak into the dry wood.

Resting his back against the wall and not bothering to retrieve the glass, he took another long pull from the bottle. I have to win just once in a while, he cried to himself. The simple law of averages should allow me just one lucky break.

Less than an hour earlier he had been dwelling on his sad life and he had been sober. Shaking his head as if that would make all the terrible thoughts and the drunkenness go away didn’t help. A good night’s sleep was what he needed and in the morning he would have a little bit more of the hair that bit him that would allow him to proceed with his important morning business.

Staring at the last bit of liquid in the bottle and pushing it aside, he heard the Demons sing, ‘Poor me, poor me, pour me another drink.’ He felt helpless, sensing he was losing all control once again. Jesus, he yelled, Am I having a heart attack? The Demons only laughed.

Taking deep breaths to try to bring about some sense of sobriety, he felt the crisis slowly passing. He raised his hand in case the Demons had anything more to say, shaking his finger to indicate he not would listen to them anymore that evening.

Hobbling and staggering into the tiny bathroom, he pulled himself up by the sink to stare into the mirror. The image in the mirror had a youthful, warm face with just a hint of a shadow that had appeared long after the morning shave. With one eye focused to see better, he thought he looked remarkably alert and clear and even sober, but the longer he stared, the more the face in the mirror morphed. The skin tone slowly lost it’s smooth texture and he found himself staring at an old man’s face. Leaning closer to see better, he realized his nose had become streaked with red lines, making it look much like a folded old roadmap. The eyes were not clear but watery and red, and there was a definite dullness in them. He moved his mouth around to see if the image would do the same and it dutifully did. When he closed his eyes he thought he heard the image in the mirror speaking to him. Look at you. He was afraid to open his eyes again.

Splashing some water onto his face and running his fingers through his hair, he thought about running out to pick up some insurance before the package stores closed. A good drinker always knew where the package stores were located, learning the hard lesson life became a little more difficult the further one was from a good gin mill or a well lit package store. Bob’s Spirits was not terribly far away but there was one problem. Mrs. Fortune got the family car and he was at the mercy of his feet and the local buses.

Ten minutes after he boarded a south bound bus he saw the warm lights of Bob’s coming into view. Although it was not a particularly cold night, he stood outside the store, pressing his body against the large front glass window to feel the warmth of the neon light displays. To Jake, the store and others like it were palaces or cathedrals. Pausing for a moment longer to stare in the window at the many wonderful colored bottles, he reminded himself they held more than liquid. Each bottle held kindness and hope for him. He could never really put into words the feeling he got when he walked into a liquor store, but he knew it was a damn side better than good sex.

The next morning he could not remember whether he took the bus back to his flat or if he had walked. He tried to remember walking up to his apartment front door but he had no memory of that. He had a vague recollection however, of slamming the door shut and then collapsing into his familiar chair, but he could not remember how much he drank after. When it was light outside, he’d assumed he had spent all night asleep in the chair but he seemed to remember someone had talked to him during the night. He fought the eerie feeling that told him he had not been completely alone.

He came to believe someone had come to his door during the night but in the hazy morning light, nothing made sense and he couldn’t be certain. Looking about for the a clock to tell him the time, he became unsettled and panicky when he realized once again there was no time piece in his place. He cursed the misfortune of not knowing the time or when he should leave for the bank. A mighty kick sent the chair across the room in pieces, the sound of the crashing sounding like gunshots in his head. In frustration he screamed, ‘WHAT TIME IS IT? Looking everywhere for his misplaced watch he continued to scream, WHAT TIME IS IT? Feeling frustrated, miserable and above all lost, he became more and more unglued, needing to know the time. Running back to the mirror he checked his appearance, knowing he would have to probably go out very soon.

An angry well aimed punch shattered the mirror into tiny pieces that flew all about the room. Running out the apartment door he saw a man leaving another apartment down the hallway. He was about to yell, to ask what time it was when he realized something was sitting in the hallway. Looking down, he saw four neatly tied black plastic garbage bags and on one of them, a note addressed to Jake Fortune. Jake tore the note from the bag and read.

‘Mr. Fortune, when you didn’t show up at your former home at the authorized hour this morning, the court duly authorized me to collect your belongings and to remove them. Having done so, I have with my own time and expense delivered these things to your new address. Obviously when I came by this morning with the police officer, you were in no shape to understand what was happening. When you are ‘feeling better,’ I hope you will understand you have no more legal right to anything at your former address. Your time is up and any attempt to return to your wife’s home will be dealt with by the police. Any attempt to contact Mrs. Fortune will result in the violation of a court restraining order. Thus, Mr. Fortune, our business is concluded. And P.S. No charge for the delivery. Martha Monson, Esq.

Jake looked up and hollered to the man who was walking down the stairs. Please tell me what time it is because I’ve lost my watch.

He heard the faint answer as the man continued down the stairs but he did not believe him. It’s a bit after eleven he thought he’d heard. Jake shook his head in disbelief and yelled to the man once again

The man repeated his answer as he walked out the front door.

Jake took several deep breaths to settle himself, his heart beating erratically and his head pounding. He hoped the man had been mistaken about the time, or that he hadn’t heard him right but he doubted it. Looking back down at the garbage bags at his feet he didn’t know if he should scream or simply cry.

He picked up each bag and tossed it into his apartment and when he closed the door and stared down, he realized his only worldly possessions sat before him. Not quite forty-five years old and sitting there on the filthy floor was the total sum of all he had accumulated in his life. It wasn’t fair.

In a moment of rage he kicked one of the bags, scattering pieces of plastic and articles of old clothing all about the room. He recognized his Polo sweater by his feet, his old patched-up pair of jeans, and the well-worn work gloves with the holes in the thumbs. He kicked the bag again and out flew one of his suit jackets.

BASTARDS, he shouted, as he began to realize what had happened, sensing the sad reality of his situation. I must have slept through the ten o’clock appointment he cried, and her damned lawyer must have followed through on her threat. BASTARDS, BASTARDS, BASTARDS…….

He picked up the second bag and tossed it with all his might across the room, kicking the third and fourth bags until he was out of breath and sweating. In less than a minute the entire room was filled with shredded pieces of torn plastic, clothing, shoes, toiletries, and some strange looking objects. Someone in the building living on the floor above began stomping furiously, shouting, Hey, shut the fuck up down there.

Outraged, Jake ran out his door and up the stairs to the apartment to do battle. When he reached the landing he came to the realization there was no fight in him, only the sound of his own heavy breathing and his footsteps in retreat. Returning to his place he stared morosely at his scattered possessions and the wounded, raging animal in him died a little more.

He began to understand his life had come to nothing. In a dream-like trance, he began to walk about the room, picking up the things that had been thrown from the bags. With much gentleness and sorrow, he began folding a few pieces of clothing and placing them neatly on his bed. Stopping from time to time to stare at something he did not recognize, he heard himself say, not even a lousy photograph, or a tool, or even a golf club……nothing. Jake Fortune, forty-five years old, this is your life. It was hard to fathom that in all the world, his only possessions barely covered the floor and the bed.

Sitting by his meager possessions he felt the life being slowly sucked out of him, like air from a leaky tire. There was no place to go and he’d lost everything, wondering if it was even remotely possible to fall any further. He felt there was no past to his life anymore, and there was certainly no future. The despair and emptiness felt suffocating but mercifully, he remembered something important. Was it too late to get to his safe deposit box? Besides the sadness and the anger that had seemingly devoured him, a feeling of profound worry was added. If it was too late to get his money because her lawyer had gotten there first, then there would be no reason to live anymore. Reflecting on some of his actions, he regretted tearing up the severance check.

He felt sick but it was a different kind of feeling than the effects of the evening’s drinking because something was churning in his stomach, and it wasn’t cheap booze. There were plenty of people to blame for his predicament, he lamented, but he held one group most responsible. The Demons had once again done him in, far worse than what his wife and her wretched lawyer had done to him. And let’s not forget the asshole bosses at Atlantic Petroleum, he hissed aloud.

When the world seemed the darkest and it seemed as if there was no real reason to take another breath, a picture of the bank safety deposit box came to him. It was the only thing left in his life that might be worth something but sadly, it was miles and miles from his apartment and he feared it might already have been raided by the authorities. He knew he had to force himself to gather his wits, certain he had to get to the bank to find out if he had any life left at all.

Looking briefly into the tiny shard of mirror that remained in the frame, he knew what he had to do. Taking deep breaths to calm himself, he took the first step.

Running out the door he fought to remember whether the bus stop was on the corner or whether it was by the light. At the corner he saw two people waiting and he asked if they knew the time. A little after noon, he was told. Jake felt another stake being driven into his heart.

He studied the bus schedule and plotted his journey, nervously reaching into his pocket with the hope he had money with him. The change from the last evening’s purchase was there and he prayed he had just enough for the bus fare. After the first bus ride, he transferred to the second that would take him to the front door of his bank. The closer he got, the more terror he felt and the more he prepared himself for what he thought would be another terrible disappointment. Bad news always came in threes, what about four, he thought?

When the bus arrived at his stop he took a deep breath and cuffed his hands to his mouth to be sure there was no odor of alcohol on his breath. Looking around slowly as if he were casing the bank rather than doing business, he walked tentatively through the front door, reminding himself to look and act as nonchalant as possible. Glancing about nervously, he was relieved he recognized no one, and no one seemed