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This was the end of his career, and if he wanted to keep living in the city he’d need to take the first job that came along. He could learn to write more entertaining stories. He’d rather lose a hand than write lifestyle. Most digital newsrooms wouldn’t know what to do with him. He didn’t have enough savings; he should’ve tried for a bigger-paying TV gig years ago. This was just the push he needed. He’d have to give up the apartment in a month, two, three at the most. Much as it would be humiliating, his parents would loan him money. He’d never ask them for money. He’d never give them the satisfaction.
He should go to bed, but he wasn’t tired. He lit a smoke, ashed in an empty bottle. Derelie believed in him, she loved him. Derelie loved Jackson Haley, investigative reporter, but when he was Jackson Haley on unemployment, she wouldn’t love him half as much and he wouldn’t deserve her love. Her career was taking off and his was over. A has-been. Part of the way things used to be in a world that valued distraction more than truth. He’d drag her down and she was nobody’s footnote.
She’d leave him.
She’d be right to leave him.
He should let her go before what they’d had was poisoned.
He couldn’t get his thoughts to line up in any rational order, so he drank, smoked and seethed until he was tired enough to sleep, and when he woke there was a pillow under his head and a bright throw rug over his legs and the stench of eggs cooking that made him gag.
Derelie stood over him with a glass of green evil in her hand. “Hangover cure.”
He rubbed his eyes. His glasses were somewhere. “What’s in it?”
“My dad’s patented recipe, best you don’t know.”
He drank it, as foul tasting as it was smelling, and then stumbled to the bathroom to shower. He couldn’t eat the food she plated; his stomach too unsettled. He gave monosyllabic answers to her cheery questions. The more she cared, the more he got annoyed by her unfailing calm until he was disgusted with himself.
While Derelie puttered around the kitchen he sat at his desk and returned his father’s call. His mood was dark enough for it.
There was a windy static sound. Dad was on the golf course. He switched to speaker to try to hear better. “What happened, Jack? You pissed off the wrong person?”
The whole industry was pissed off. “Victim of disruption.” Which was the truth, but it didn’t help his situation.
“What are you going to do?”
“Get a new job.”
“I’d have thought you’d use this opportunity to change direction before you’re too old to catch up. I don’t know if that’s even possible now.”
“You know, the robots are coming for surgeons too.”
“Always with a line. Glib and smug, Jack. I’d hoped you’d turn out a better man.”
“You’ve made that consistently clear.”
“A child choosing the wrong friends is one thing. A man choosing to squander his life and talents on spurious pursuits is unforgivable.”
He rubbed his forehead. “What did you want, Dad?”
“Are you drinking?”
“Suffering.”
“Doping?”
“No.”
“Still smoking, I imagine.”
“I’m a lost cause.”
“Are you suicidal?”
He almost laughed. If he was, last person he’d tell was his father. “No.”
There were voices. “It’s my tee time. Whatever you’re going to do, don’t wallow.”
