Chance lit a cigarette as he stood in front of his office window, buckling his pants while his eyes scanned the city below. He caught a slight reflection of himself in the glass and brushed his dark hair to the side. He flexed slightly thinking of all the times he planned to work out more as he got older, but his slender build had always been good enough for women, so why bother? He refocused his thoughts on the city in front of him. Hundreds of buildings all contributing to a mini-light show. Some tall, some short. Some wide and some skinny. He loved the view from up here. His office sat on the 20th floor of the prestigious McMinnis building, named after his father. The view had built a sense of pride and confidence in himself. One day, all this will be mine, he thought, chuckling at the notion.
His father, Charles McMinnis, created the company when he was only 28 years old. Chance had always resented that fact. He wished he could say his father got lucky with his success, but that would be a lie. Despite Chance’s feelings towards his father, he knew he was a brilliant man who had changed the technological landscape of the entire world. The company now led the way in many areas of technology, with military-grade technology for the government being its primary focus. Chance never was able to match his father’s abilities nor passion for the business. He did, however, enjoy the money and power the company created for his family. He lusted for the opportunity to cash the checks his father did. Chance’s intellectual shortcomings, however, caused constant tension between the two. Charles constantly berated Chance for his inability to grasp even the most “elementary ideas” of his. He also accused his son consistently of being too immature and incompetent to run the business after he retired. His father liked to threaten him weekly that the company could pass to someone else if Chance did come to meet his standards. Chance, however, always balked at the idea. His pride will not let him pass it to anyone outside the family.
“I’ll see you in the morning, sir,” a voice said quietly.
Chance turned slightly, meeting the eyes of his secretary as she stood near the door, her purse in one hand while the other tried to straighten her hair. He noticed her blouse had a few buttons still undone and had been tucked messily back into her skirt. Her beautiful green eyes had a hint of shame to them. He waved his hand dismissively and said, “Yeah, yeah.” She nodded and turned towards the door. He noticed her skirt was ripped in the back. That will be a fun story to tell her husband, he thought to himself. He finished his cigarette, dropping it to the floor, knowing someone else would clean it up. He stepped on the butt and checked his watch, sighing because he knew his wife would already be upset. Not that he really cared. Chance had made “working late” a habit ever since they got married. Regardless, he thought it best not to make the situation worse than it had to be. He grabbed his coat from the rack and headed to the elevator.
----
It was a thirty-minute drive to his home from the office. As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed his daughter, Mary Beth, had left her bicycle in the yard again. He parked his car and made his way to the front door, passing the bike. As he entered the home, he shouted, “Beth, she left her damn bike in the yard again.”
“Are your arms broken? Pick it up and put in the garage,” Beth screamed back.
Bitch, I work all day, so why the fuck can’t you do this shit, Chance thought. He grumbled but walked outside anyway to put away the bike and then headed back inside.
Their two-story brick house was located in one of the more affluent subdivisions in the area. A white picket fence clichély surrounded the front yard. The backyard was spacious and contained various fruit trees. The front door opened to a short yet wide hallway lined with family photos. The hallway opened up to the living room, which Beth had spent months decorating. Two couches sat in the center with a hand-crafted glass coffee table in front of them and a foreign rug underneath. The television rested upon the wall above the fireplace with two small bookshelves built into the wall on either side. The rest of the house consisted of a kitchen, a laundry room, 4 bedrooms and the 3 bathrooms. His father had given it to them as a wedding gift. Beth thought it was a loving gesture, but Chance knew it was another way for his father to have more control over him.
As he walked inside, Chance noticed he did not smell food coming from the kitchen. He walked into the living room to see his wife sitting on one of the sofas with her feet propped up watching TV. “Dinner?” he asked.
Those pretty blue eyes shot a cold look toward Chance. She was as beautiful as the day he met her with her long brown hair flowing elegantly down over her shoulders. Still got curves in all the right places, too, Chance thought. In high school, she was the prize every guy wanted to win. She was the ideal girl next door: beautiful, smart, caring, and fun. Yet, as the years past, he found himself growing more irritated by her. He was not sure if she had changed or if he had. He questioned whether he still loved her or if he ever did at all. He was never sure. Processing emotions never came easy to Chance. He had often thought of seeking a divorce, but always decided against it, however, as he suspected it would be too costly and time-consuming. It was easier just to sleep with other women and hope she never found out about it. He never cheated out of malice towards her, but rather out of the enjoyment he got from “conquering new territory.” He also, although he would never admit it, had grown accustomed to her presence in his life. The thought of her not being there terrified him.
“Well, we eat dinner at 7:00, dear. It is currently fifteen minutes to 9:00. Figure it out,” she said, her tone dripping with malice. Chance noticed an extra annoyance in her customary eye roll when he got home too late for her liking.
Chance felt a bit of anger begin to quell inside him. The way she said dear mixed with that tone always pissed him off, and she knew that very well. His first instinct was to retort with a stinging comment he knew would eat at her, but he did not have the energy for a fight tonight. He just wanted to eat and go to sleep.
So instead of lashing out, he took a deep breath and asked, “Okay, do we have any leftovers or something else I can stick in the microwave to eat?”
He noticed she gave extra emphasis to her exhale before saying, “No leftovers. Should be some pizza rolls or something for you in the freezer.” Her eyes remained focused on the television.
Her and those stupid fucking shows, Chance thought. “Mary Beth asleep?” he asked hoping for a response minus the eye roll.
“You know she goes to sleep at 8:00. If you were home earlier more often, maybe you would have a better relationship with your daughter. She loves you, Chance, but she is getting to the age where she is noticing your absence when your gone and your distance when you are here,” she said solemnly.
“A simple yes would have been sufficient,” Chance rebuked before leaving the room.
Chance ate quickly in silence at the kitchen table before showering. When he got out of the shower and walked to the bed, he noticed Beth was already pretending to be asleep. Another night without sex. Not that I wanted to anyway. Still, she doesn’t know that. Thank God for my secretary, I guess.
Chance awoke the next morning to find Beth’s side of the bed empty. Guess she took the kid to school already, he thought. He fumbled for his phone to check the time. Shit, late again. After getting dressed, he spent an extra 20 minutes attempting to find his keys before realizing he had left them in the car. He sped all the way to the office, hoping a cop did not ruin his day.
----
Chance stepped off the elevator and walked toward his office. After a few feet, he began to wonder why the office was so quiet. Usually, the mornings were filled with ringing phones, loud printers, and chatty workers. Today, however, it was eerily quiet, like the calm before a storm. As he neared his office, he figured out why. A few doors down, in the conference room, he could hear a familiar voice yelling furiously. He pried the door gently and peeked in noticing the room was filled with management, all seated around the table as various assistants stood behind them with the rest of the employees standing alongside the walls. He slithered into the room, spotting an empty chair close to the door and tiptoed gingerly toward the seat.
“Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” his father exclaimed.
“Sorry, Dad. Mary Beth had a nightmare, and we could not get her back to sleep for hours. On top of that, traffic was backed up for a mile or two,” Chance lied as he sat down.
“Right,” Charles said sounding unconvinced. “As I was saying…”
Chance’s mind began to wander as he tuned out his father’s big spiel of the week. Today was Friday, by far his favorite day of the week like most employees. For Chance, it meant a great night at his favorite bar, The Shitty Pint. He told his wife he was involved in a highly competitive dart league that competed there on Fridays and Saturdays. He did play darts there, once. It officially kicked off his weekend of boozing and partying while his wife and kid had their own type of fun. He used to drink during the weekdays, but Beth had a habit of nagging him every time he came home drunk. They seemed to have compromised by reserving his drinking nights to Friday and Saturday.
The bustling sound of bodies heading towards the door snapped Chance out of his daydream. Workers passed by Chance, avoiding his eyes as if he were infected. He looked across the room to find his father staring at him through cold contemptuous eyes. Shit, he thought.
“What do you think we should do?” his father asked.
“About what?” Chance asked, immediately regretting it.
His father’s stern face grimaced. Despite nearing his twilight years, Charles McMinnis was still a formidable and handsome man. His tall body and broad shoulders caused him to tower over most men. His salt and pepper hair gave his sharp features a highly refined and distinguished element. He also had an innate ability to make Chance feel small and worthless. Chance was intimidated by his mere presence, although he did his best to hide it.
“Oh, I don’t know? Maybe the fact that our highly sensitive code has the potential to increase artificial intelligence 100x got leaked to our biggest fucking competitor!” Charles exploded.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Chance cowered back in his seat. He felt like a little boy being scolded at the dinner table for not eating his vegetables. He felt no anger rise in him, only fear. Anger would come later when he sulked in his office. He could easily lash out toward his wife, child, employees, or people “beneath him” whom he did not fear physically, but bigger, stronger, and more powerful people, men in particular, caused him to shy away and be passive. His father was all of those things and more. Chance looked down in his lap as he twiddled his fingers nervously trying to find the right words.
“I…I…I.” Chance stuttered.
“I…I…I.” his father mocked. “You have the nerve to come to work an hour late at a job that I GIFTED you the President-in-Waiting position only to sit in the meeting and not fucking listen! Have you forgotten the prior incident already? We cannot afford another PR nightmare, Chance. The stockholders might begin to jump ship if they lose faith in us!” Charles yelled. His face flushed red with anger.
Chance gulped as his palms began to sweat. He had been doing his best to move on from that day. Chance excelled at stifling emotions and blocking out certain events, but that day still haunted him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, “No, sir. I haven’t forgotten it. I… I am sorry.”
Charles looked at him with disgust, his eyes alight with fury. The tone of his son’s voice must have irritated him. He always said when someone of note confronted Chance, he stuttered and talked too timidly. It was, according to his father, one of his many weaknesses. Charles had always told him if he ever wanted to be a true leader, he would have to stop being such a coward. He walked briskly toward Chance as if about to strike. Chance cowered in his chair. His father paused right before his son, giving him a contemptuous look before shaking his head and walking out of the room, slamming the door behind him and yelling, “Get your shit together!”
Chance rested his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands trying to calm himself by breathing deeply. He had not cried in years and his father would not be the one to break him now. Charles saw crying as a weakness of people unable to properly control their emotions. Even as a child, Chance was not allowed to cry incessantly or unreasonably without being severely scolded by his father.
After a minute, he slowly stood up from his chair, making sure his weak knees did not betray him. He walked towards the door, pausing as he put his hand on the handle. He banged his head lightly a few times against the door. I don't wanna go out there. I don't wanna see their smug smiles of satisfaction at my expense. Fucking cretins. He opened the door slowly and peered out. He took a deep breath, trying to appear carefree before walking to his office. He noticed his secretary sat at her desk a few feet away from his office. Where was she earlier? he thought. Chance felt the eyes of the office follow him. His heart began to beat faster as his mouth dried. Don’t show them weakness. He gave a half-hearted smile to his secretary as he reached for his door.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Good morning, Valerie,” he responded before darting into his office.
He walked over to his desk, kicking one of the two chairs in front of desk before circling around to fall into his chair, causing it to roll back into the window. Floral paintings hung on the wall of his office while various pieces of furniture filled the room. One of his previous secretaries, her name escaped him, had insisted on a few plants in the office for a more “homey” feel. He lay his head back, replaying the short conversation he had with his father. Anger began to build inside him. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He wanted to scream. He wanted to take that stupid plant and throw it through the window, or better yet, break it over his father’s head. The image of that made him grin. One day. One fucking day I will confront him, he thought. He rubbed his eyes trying to relax himself when he heard a knock.
“What?” he yelled.
The door opened and Valerie strolled in with a sticky note in her hand. Part of him wanted to yell at her for not being there to warn him of the meeting, not that it would have helped. Plus, the last thing he desired after another sexless night with his wife was to lose this outlet. She looked great today wearing a low-cut grey and white blouse that revealed more than it should. She walked over behind his desk placing one hand on the back of his chair allowing him to see her tight skirt hugging her backside firmly. She had her gorgeous blonde hair tied behind her head, allowing more of her beautiful face to be shown. She always knew how to wear just the right amount of makeup. He suddenly felt much less angry. He relaxed his hands and sat up a little straighter as he took the note from her with one hand while the other felt her backside, causing her to blush slightly.
“Drew again? I do not have time for him today. Tell him I am busy and will call him Monday,” he said, his hand now moving up and down her leg.
She nodded and began to head for the door.
“Valerie,” he called.
She turned to him giving him a seductive look. “Yes?” she asked.
He bit his lip slightly. “No calls today. I want to be left alone. I don’t give a shit who it is,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
He spent the rest of the day browsing random websites, hoping his father never dropped by unexpectedly. Every time he heard someone rustle past his office, his heart would skip a beat fearing his father would open the door to pick up where he left off earlier. He never did. Time seemed to drag on at an irritatingly slow pace. Finally, the clock struck 4:30, which everyone knew was Chance’s quitting time on Fridays. Finally, he thought.
----
Chance swung the door open to The Shitty Pint hard, causing it to bang against the wall. The smell of urine and alcohol immediately hit his nose. He gazed around to see how busy the place was. He noticed one person sitting at the bar taking a sip of his drink as he stared at the TV watching a rerun of an old college football game. Two other men stood near a pool table arguing over who was going to break. The place was rundown. It consisted of a small bar with liquor bottles set atop two rows of shelves in front of a mirror. Ten bar stools with tattered covers lined the counter. A small side door led to a run-down kitchen that offered only 3 appetizers. There were only three tables, all of which were dirty. And at the back of the bar sat two pool tables, one of which had only 6 balls. It may be a shithole, but the drinks are cheap, rules flimsy, and the occasional semi-attractive woman is easy, Chance thought to himself. He walked up and sat at the stool farthest from the stranger sitting at the opposite end.
“Jack and Coke,” Chance ordered. The bartender gave a slight nod and began mixing his drink. His name was Vince, and he was also the owner. He was a tall, portly man with a receding hairline and a full beard. Chance liked him well enough. He poured the drinks and did not ban him when he got carried away sometimes.
“There,” Vince said quietly as he set the glass on a napkin in front of Chance.
“Where is Claudia?” Chance asked.
“Quit, like all the others,” Vince replied sourly.
“Why did this one quit?” Chance inquired curiously.
“I dunno,” he started as he began polishing some of the glasses with a dirty rag. “Could’ve been the late hours, shitty pay, or the faint smell of piss that lingers throughout the place. Course, it could have been last week when you got shitfaced and called her a toothless tease of a crack whore, because she wouldn’t suck your dick for an extra five-dollar tip.”
Chance stared at the man blankly for a few seconds before bursting out in laughter, nearly spilling his drink. “Motherfucker, did I really say that? Ah man, I am really sorry about that. No, truly, I am,” Chance pleaded, noticing the owner’s furious glare. “I promise, Vince, from now on, I will be on my best behavior. You won’t ever lose another crack whore waitress because of me. Can’t promise the piss and shit smell won’t do it, though,” Chance professed holding up two fingers and then crossing his heart.
“Whatever, man,” Vince responded as he turned to walk away, mumbling to himself. He stopped at the other end of the bar pretending to clean, signaling their conversation was done.
Chance just shrugged. It was not the first time he had caused someone to quit their job, and he knew it would not be the last either. He finished the rest of his drink and immediately gestured for another one. While he waited for his drink, he looked to the end of the bar and noticed the man from earlier eyeing him, still nursing his drink. His gaze caused Chance to feel uncomfortable. “Something I can help you with, friend?” Chance asked.
“No,” the main replied swirling his drink with his right hand. His left hand was hidden in his jacket.
“Then why the fuck are you staring at me?” Chance bellowed. The two men playing pool, hearing the yelling, paused their game and began watching intently.
“Come on, Chance. Don’t be a fucking prick to new customers. This bar ain’t gonna stay open with just the regular drunks like you in here,” Vince intervened.
“No problem,” the stranger said. “I apologize, sir; it will not happen again. Please, let me pay for that drink.”
“Well, I’ll be damned if that isn’t the perfect way to apologize. All is forgiven, good sir. Let us return to our thoughts as we slowly kill our livers,” Chance stated sarcastically before giving the man an insincere bow. He then smiled mischievously at Vince who glared at him.
Vince set the drink in front of Chance, no napkin this time. The stranger raised his glass. “Cheers!”
“Cheers,” Chance responded, raising his glass before draining it then gesturing for another. For the next few hours, Chance drowned himself in whiskey and chatted with some of the regulars who came in for a few drinks. He made dirty jokes, educated his fellow drinkers on the finer points of running a successful company, made snide comments about the weatherman’s predictions, and attempted to flirt with the only two women who mistakenly made their way to the bar only to leave shortly afterwards. He loved it all: the booze, the conversation with people “beneath” him, the flirting (successful or not). It allowed him to feel free from all the shackles around his neck. Not his father, his job, his wife, nor his kid could bother him here. Every Friday and Saturday night, he was truly unburdened, and he could never get enough of it.
The night flew by in glorious fashion until Vince shouted, “Last call, assholes.”
The stranger from earlier, who nursed his one drink the entire night, paid his tab and walked out, nodding at Chance as he left. The only others left were the two men playing pool from the beginning of the night. They approached the bar, dropped some money on the counter, gave a friendly gesture to the bartender, and walked out all the while arguing over who truly was the better player.
“One more,” Chance slurred.
“Come on, man, everyone else has left. Can’t you just leave, too?” the bartender pleaded.
“One…more…” Chance slurred again accompanied with a loud belch.
“Kid, I see you come in here every Friday and Saturday night and drink till you can barely stand. I deal with you from when you get off work until closing time. I know you got a wife and kid. Shouldn’t you try to get home a little earlier so you don’t sleep the entire day away tomorrow before you end up back here again?”
Chance sighed. “Fine,” he said reluctantly. “How much do I owe you?”
“$150,” said the bartender.
“Are you fucking kidding me, man?” Chance yelled with alcohol-induced courage.
“Do you remember how much you drank?”
“No,” Chance responded nearly falling off his barstool.
“Exactly, pay the fuck up and get out, man; it's late,” the bartender shouted.
“Alright,” Chance said waving his hands downwards. “Chill, man. Here is $152. Keep the change. I’ll see you tomorrow, my man.”
The bartender picked up the money and counted it before looking away. “Always the big tipper, aren’t ya, prick,” the bartender muttered as he walked away.
Chance stumbled towards the door, too intoxicated to care about the owner’s rudeness. Outside, he searched his pockets for his keys, walking in a zigzag pattern towards his car and nearly falling three or four times along the way. The area was quiet this time at night. All the restaurants and bars were closed, the streets were empty, and most of the lampposts in this part of the city were broken or flickered eerily. A dog barked in the distance, interrupting an otherwise silent street on a chilly night. As Chance finally made it to his car, he dropped his keys on the ground, stumbling as he bent over to pick them up. After three swipes, he finally got a hand on them and got into his car. He began searching the radio for a song he liked. Need some music, he thought.
As he reached for the gear shift, he noticed something move in his rearview mirror. Before he could react, he felt a hand grab the top of his head pulling him against the seat. The attacker’s other hand appeared in front of him shoving a rag into his face before Chance could scream for help. He struggled to fight back, trying to break the stranger’s hold on him. He clawed at his attacker, but felt nothing except leather. He began kicking his legs and attempting to rock backwards, but the kicks had no power behind them. His vision began to blur as his arms and legs grew heavier. His eyes lowered and his limbs stopped moving. He could still faintly hear the dog barking in the distance. A sweet smell was the last thing he remembered as he lost consciousness.