John’s hands shake as he loads the magazine.

A picture hangs in the rear-view of the green station wagon. It spins as a hot summer breeze blows through the open window; the faces of a woman and two children alternating with the blank white backing of the weathered photograph.

Not now.

John refused to look at it, willing himself to focus only on the bullets.

Land of the free. The American dream. It had all been a lie. As the years flew by, his dream was slowly crushed by the ways of the world.

Not my fault. Can’t say I didn’t try.

Nervous fingers drop a round. Cursing, John leans to retrieve it from the floorboard, and bangs his head into the horn, causing pedestrians to stop and look.

Grinding his teeth, John mutters another curse at himself as he straightens up, giving the impression that he’s not about to do something stupid. Easing back into the seat, he realizes that nobody took much notice anyway.

It was the lawyers, doctors, judges, and business folk that filled the sidewalks and crosswalks of downtown, and they didn’t take much notice to anything other than themselves. They all walked the same way, talked the same way; like they were better than him.

He knew robbing a downtown bank in broad daylight was the dumbest idea he’d ever had, but he was out of options. And he figured something that crazy… he might just get away with it.

Sometimes you gotta go with balls instead of brains, he thought.

Sweat beaded upon his brow as he looked at the entrance to the building and pushed the last bullet into the magazine. One cop on the inside wouldn’t be a problem. One wouldn’t be, but there would be more within the span of three minutes, give or take twenty seconds. That was the response time to the bomb threat he called in last week, so he calculated it to be the same on a robbery.

Eyes closed. The sweet smell of fresh cut grass.

Photograph turning slowly.

He refused to look at his family one last time, and gripped the mask that he would put over his face.

John clenched the gun in his hands as he slammed the magazine into the pistol and took swift steps into the bank.

* * *

The bank robbery didn't go as planned.

I couldn't go through with it.

No alarms sounded. The police didn't show up. No high-speed chase ending in a glorious blaze of gunfire with thousands of hundred-dollar bills scattering across the freeway, fluttering in the breeze as I lie dying, face down on the cold pavement.

No, John Crussel didn't die today. Not because of the risk; I’d do almost anything for my family—give my own life if need be.

It wasn’t the cop in the corner. From the looks of his age, he could barely aim a gun, let alone squeeze the trigger. And it wasn't the average Joe carrying a pistol on his side that made me change my mind. He would have been the first to take a bullet to the head if he tried to be brave. And it wasn't the bank teller who eyed me suspiciously as I patiently waited in line to hand her the robbery note.

It was the picture of my wife and kids that hung in the mirror of my old, green station wagon that wouldn't get out of my head. They were the reason that I didn't pull the tucked pistol. They need me, and I can’t leave them. I want to give them a better life; one better than I'd ever had or deserved. But I knew that robbing a bank, and getting away with it today, would be virtually impossible.

I looked down, ashamed to have even come this close.

There’s got to be another way.

Why am I even still standing in line? I thought. Get your act together, John, and get the hell out of here.

I turned to leave, and that’s when I heard them.

"I can't believe you made that much money from playing a damn video game," a man standing behind me in line for the bank teller had said.

"Five thousand. Easy money," the other man bragged.

I stayed put and kept my back to them, listening.

"From a video game," the first man stated, his tone thick with disbelief.

"Yep. Can even transfer money from your bank account into the game if you want. But it's not what you’d think a normal game would be. There can be real-life repercussions,” the man said, and began talking about the details of the game.

“Next,” the teller called.

Alterlife, he called it. A virtual reality massively multi-player online role playing game. VRMMORPG for short.

“Sir. Next,” she called again.

“You’re next in line,” the guy behind me said.

“Oh, right.” I stepped to the counter.

“How can I help you today?” she asked.

Without saying a word, I grabbed a dum-dum sucker, cotton candy flavor, and held it up to her with appreciation.

I left the bank, my mind reeling with the possibility of making money from a game. I've the slightest idea of what Alterlife is about, but I'm willing to try it. It's a damn video game. How hard could it be?

Couldn't be any worse than robbing a bank.

Safely back inside my car, I let out a sigh of relief. I took the picture of my family in my hands and pressed it to my lips.

“Thank you.”

* * *

I used to be a gamer back in the day, and always thought myself quite good. A quick learner from an early age, not many of my friends could beat me. Had a Nintendo when I was five. Xbox in my teens and twenties. But when the kids came into my life, I quit gaming.

There's not enough time in the day when you're struggling to keep a roof over your family's head and food on the table. I’ve been working construction for the past ten years, and have recently been taking jobs on the road because the money’s good. But it seems that there’s always another job to take, another dollar to make, somewhere. Luckily, I’ve had a road job close to home now for the past couple of months, and have been able to eat supper with my wife and kids every night. I don’t care how nice the hotel is, there’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.

I wish I could have that every night.

I fire up the car and hit the streets of Johnson City, Tennessee in search for the nearest store that might carry the game. To my surprise, and even more to my dismay, the first three stores were sold out. Driving down the bypass, I see a billboard advertising Alterlife—“Your Dream Life is Waiting. What Are You Waiting For? Live It Now.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a game advertised on a billboard before. I can’t believe I didn’t take notice before today. This game must be bigger than I thought.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I’m probably so far behind the curve now, I’ll never catch up to the competition. Another missed opportunity. Still, I’ve got to try.

I pull into the mall and head to the game store, knowing all too well that it’ll likely be sold out there, too. I quickly walk into the place with my hood pulled over my head and hands in my pockets like I’m about to do a drug deal in some back alley. Funny, because I’ve never used drugs before. Never even took a drink of alcohol. Every time I tell someone that, they look at me like I’m either bullshitting or crazy. Call me a weirdo, I don’t care.

Another empty game display case. Shit.

I shake my head and turn to leave.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks. A young man with short, bleached hair -- black roots showing underneath -- and bleached eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t happen to know when the next shipment of Alterlife comes in, would you?” I ask him, approaching the counter.

He laughs in reply. “Good one, man.” I glare at him and he stops laughing. “Oh, you’re serious. I’m sorry, but I have no idea. Last I heard, there won’t be another delivery until later next year.”

“Next year? What a crock of shit. Why advertise a game if you don’t make enough copies for everyone to buy?” I bite back.

He shrugs. “It’s a hot game. Everyone’s playing it,” he replies as though I should know. “Maybe the game creator didn’t think it would take off like it did?”

The heat rises to my face and I come to realize that this guy can’t help me. “Guess not. To hell with it then.” I turn to leave.

“Wait,” he calls before I go and motions me to the corner of the counter. He leans in close and keeps the conversation between us. “Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything, but you seem like you really want the game.” His eyes shift around the room, then find mine again. “I got a copy, but it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred.”

“Five hundred dollars! Are you kidding me?”

He looks around nervously and puts his hand up to shush me. “Keep it down, man. Jeez. Look, do you want the game or not? You won’t find one for any cheaper than that, I can promise you.”

“I don’t have that kind of money. Even if I did, I wouldn’t spend it on a stupid video game.” I leave before things escalate between my fist and his face.

The clerk holds his hands up. “Suit yourself, man. If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he calls to my back as I exit the store.

* * *

The virtual reality system – NueView – costs five-hundred bucks by itself.

A grand just to play a damn video game. No way I’m doing that. Don’t have that kind of money anyway. Even if I did, Jenny would kill me.

Through the city streets and out into the country I drive, taking my time. Across the green rolling hills, I take the long way home five miles under the speed limit, thoroughly enjoying the five-dollar cup of coffee that makes me feel better for pissing my day away. I used what change I could scrounge out of the car so Jenny wouldn’t notice it on the bank statement.

Out of all the things I could have been doing on my Friday off, I’m running around town trying to find a video game that I think can make me a lot of money. “Damn, John. You’ve finally hit rock bottom.” I laugh at myself. “First you try to rob a bank, then this…”

I didn’t actually try to rob the bank. It never got to that point.

I shake my head, knowing this whole video game thing is a bunch of nonsense. I pull into a gas station to throw the coffee cup in the trashcan that’s by the pump, then turn down the old dirt road that leads me home. The familiar sound of gravel crunching under my tires comforts me. It lets me know I’m home.

Rent is six-hundred a month. But for a three bed/two bath, that’s about the best I could find. As long as my wife and kids are safe and there’s food in the cupboards, I’m a happy man.

“It’s a man’s responsibility to take care of his family. They come first, you come last,” my old man once told me. Those words have stuck ever since. He always made sure Ma and us kids were fed and clothes were on our backs, leaving little for himself other than the bottle. Sometimes I wonder if getting drunk was all he ever wanted. Suppose that’s why I’ve never taken a drink.

I’m not like you.

Kicking one of the porch steps, it’s in need of repair. I’ll have to get on that soon.

“Jenny, kiddos, I’m home!”

“Daddy!” my youngest screams and hugs my leg. Doctors said she wouldn’t live to see her first birthday. Now, Carla’s three going on four.

I drop my lunchbox and pick her up in my arms. “Carla. Daddy missed you so much. How was your day at preschool today?” I place her down as she talks.

“I played soccer. And ate all my lunch!”

“That’s my girl,” I praise, rubbing her on the head. “Did you score a goal?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not today.”

“That’s okay. There’s always tomorrow,” I tell her and brush her cheek with my thumb.

“Hey, pop,” Ben greets me from the couch in the living room.

“Hey, punk.” I steal the remote out of his hand and gently shove his head. “How about you help your mother with the dishes instead of watching TV? Look at her slaving away over the stove while you sit on your ass.”

Passing the dining room table, I walk to my wife.

If you’d ask her, she’d say the house is a wreck, supper is burning, and she’s a hot mess. But she’d be wrong. The house isn’t that bad, the food is fine, and she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. “Hey, baby.”

She shakes her head at me while frantically stirring a pan of meat sauce. “I’m sorry supper isn’t ready yet. It’s been a crazy…”

“Come here,” I interrupt and pull her close. After we kiss, she smiles and giggles like we’re twenty years old again. She turns back to the stove. “How was work? You’re a little later than usual.”

I didn’t go to work, Jenny. I lied to you because I didn’t want you to know that I was planning on robbing a bank today.

That’s what I should have said. I should’ve told her the truth.

“You know, just another day. Thankful for the overtime.”

“Well, can’t say we don’t need the money right now.” She gives me a peck on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too.” I look at the pile of dishes in the sink. “Dammit, Ben. If I have to tell you one more time to get in here and do these dishes, no more TV for a week.”

He throws his arms out in frustration. “Alright, I’m coming!”

I knuckle his head. “Arghh! Quit it!”

I wrap him up tight. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, pop,” he wheezes out.

A glass of milk is my ritual when I get home; has been ever since I was a kid. Except there’s none in the fridge. “We forget to buy milk?”

“No. We just didn’t have the money for milk this week,” Jenny replies.

I close the fridge. “Devin just paid me back. What about that money? I gave you that hundred bucks. Where’d it go?”

“Where does any money ever go, John?” She looks at me with spatula in hand, waiting for an answer. “Bills, John. Bills.”

“Oh, you mean those things that keep sucking our bank account dry?” I play.

She shakes her head with a grin and turns back to cooking. “Yeah, those.”

I wrap my arms around her waist and cradle her stomach. “I know we’ve got a lot on us with Carla’s medical expenses, on top of everything else, but we’ll be alright, babe. I promise. We always find a way.”

She touches my hand. “I know we will. And yes, we do always find a way.” She forces a smile.

I hate when she does that; hate when she pretends that things are okay.

Walking to the pantry, I feel the financial burden sinking in, like a rope tied to a heavy stone that’s dragging me under water. I need to make some money fast. Maybe I could ask the boss man if I could get some overtime. Work has been slow lately, but maybe he can do me a solid.

It’s been a few months… I could donate my plasma again. Last time I got sick, though.

Or I could ask Mr. Jones at the end of the road if he needs anything fixed up around the house.

The man from the bank comes into mind. I can’t get his words out of my head. “Five thousand. Easy money.”

“John. Did you hear me?”

“Huh? Yeah, I heard you, babe.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“Hate it when I do what?” I ask, letting go of the pantry door, turning to her in ignorance.

“When you’re not here, with us. When you’re not present. Your mind wanders off, and I swear that sometimes, you’ll just be gazing off for minutes at a time.”

“I think that’s exaggerating a bit, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. Now, can you please go and help your daughter like I asked multiple times? I’ve got to finish cooking.”

My son will back me up. “Ben, was I dazing off?”

Rinsing a dish, he turns his head to reply. “She asked you three times, dad.”

I throw my hands up and go put Carla in the bath. When she’s all washed up and drying off with the towel, I make her a promise. “Daddy’s gonna make everything okay. I promise. I’m going to give you a great life. Nothing is going to stop you from living the way you want to live. Nobody is going to say what you can or can’t do. I won’t let them. I promise.”

She looks up to me with her big brown eyes. “Everything is already okay, daddy. You’re home now with me and mommy and Ben. I love you.” She hugs my neck then runs off to get dressed.

I remain kneeling on the floor, watch the water drain. Thinking.

The innocence of a child is so special.

They’re not jaded by the world yet.

* * *

I spend Sunday with my family, and try to take my mind off of the black cloud of financial depression that’s hanging over me. It helps to watch Carla laugh as she frolics around the playground. No worries, no responsibilities, no pressure. Just being a kid. Enjoying living.

Two other kids run up to her, and Carla takes off after them.

“Looks like Carla made some new friends,” Jenny says happily.

I was like that once. Carefree and full of life. But life has a way of beating you down. Just as persistent waters pound on rock, time erodes away at you and the next thing you know, you’re on the closer half of seventy. Working for the man takes priority, determining how you spend your time and who you spend it with. Hell, I see the guys at work more than I do my own family on a daily basis. Something about that just doesn’t seem right to me.

And time keeps ticking.

The days and the weeks seem like a slog, but the years fly by—something the old-timers have always told me. Living as long as I have, I now have to say that I agree with them. And now that I’ve lived long enough to grow a little wiser, I can feel the years speeding up as I get older. On a calendar they look linear, but I swear it’s more of an exponential gain.

Jenny’s grabbing us a couple of hotdogs from a food truck, and Ben’s staring at his phone. If it’s not television or video games at the house, it’s the damn cellphone. Always looking at a screen. It wasn’t how I grew up, and I thought I would give him the same upbringing. Suppose times change and you can’t give them everything you’d like. Jenny wanted him to have a phone. Says it’s for his safety. At least he has a part-time job to pay for it.

Sunday is family day. And it’s over in the blink of an eye, spent largely in part by dreading the beginning of a new work week.

Sunday night, my wife and I watch TV in the bed. Don’t say a whole lot. Both knowing we gotta work tomorrow.

Monday.

Mondays are a bitch.