text: Night in the city was a dreary sight. Fog rolled in heavy soon as the sun had set and couldn't burn it away anymore. Homeless crawled out of the corners of the city like rats to sit down with towels and re-stitched blankets, crumpled beanies, and fingerless cotton gloves near blackened with dirt. With their cardboard pillows and canned food, they asked for contribution as men and women in business suits ignored focusing instead on the neon signs ahead, their Bluetooth headphone-smartphone combos muting the post-work world. Skyscrapers towered cold and austere above, dotted with yellows and whites of apartment lights. Above, watching their movie alone or having microwaved dinners. Downtown sound was one mass conversionary bustle, loud laughs, and louder drunken ones. Groups huddled together close talking and joking to create the warmth with one another that the city would not provide, and individuals walked fast, looking steely and destination bound. Parks which would be filled with children in the morning were now campgrounds for people whose lives didn't go the way they thought it would as tired business people drank margaritas in a bar, maybe more lonely than the collective inhabiting the playground. **Start:** Freedom! Great terrible freedom. Finally out of the bleak 70 hour a week accelerated 3 year career track starter pack. Handed in the notice to the hour of my arrival. No exaggeration, even checked the cliché of a wristwatch. What once encompassed all my waking hours in audit has dropped to a reasonable 9to5 in industry. But every time something is reduced, something comes to take its place. The curse of freedom. Protestant work ethic. The burden of responsibility. Having to think. To choose a new path. Choose to do something or nothing. But there's only one right answer to satisfy my younger self, who believed that complacency was death. So what should I do then, freedom? Evening sunset after work. Sizzling leftovers rotating in the microwave. Silent except for the chewing and the rain against high rise apartment glass. Muted TV dances colors and ideas to occupy. Done, plates washed, freedom, Macintosh. NO, go back to freedom. Look into the world again as something to act in, to shape. All these connections in my head. Fertile soil. Ideas roaring loud and then halt. Feels like its crystallized. Seed yearning to grow. All that’s left is to act. Can't just sit here. Doesn't matter what I do. Just gotta get out. Well then. I've got some good money. Don't spend often. Early retirement sounds too good- freedom right around the corner. But I'll consider tonight an investment. The miming weatherman on the TV says it'll rain again. Pull on the summer jacket on a warm night- for the look. Lift the keys off the screw hammered into the plaster wall. Helmet and gloves under arm, one handed open, lock the door behind. Motorcycle roars to life in the basement garage. Kickstand up. City lamps glow yellow recede alongside the skyline. Car tires sigh. Wet streets mirror neon traffic lights. The dark churning sky periodically webs up electric blue briefly before the rumbling aftershock. Through the door, the storming world ends where the warmth of the wooden bar begins. A comfortable buzz of conversation fills the air. Live calm rock plays on the small stage to the left. Smells of warm beer and bacon-hamburger leverage hunger. Walking to the bar, a thousand colored, calligraph labeled gems present themselves as vodka, tequila, whiskey, rum, and gin. In here shoulders relax as if a weight were taken off. Order a drink at the stool. “Beer”, don't care what kind. “Surprise me.” After a few sips, look to the band. Damn, looks good waving her hips slow in that tight black skirt. Sings well too. Wonder how it'd be to do all that, just sing and make music, to shift and shape the mood of a place til its just right. So the house goes happy and talkative. Gotta be a hell of a psychologist. Pool tables at the back. Two white haired old men. One in cargo shorts and black T-shirt has large hands like a tradesman. Another with a kitten T-shirt, headband, and glasses- comparatively small but intelligent and confident- probably a business owner. An inebriated aging woman with them dances around silly and pretty so the old men smile and enjoy their retired nights a little more. Playfully whines as she misses a pool shot. Deep sigh with a half-done drink and lean against the edge of the bar. Watches people dancing on the small space of the floor open in front of the musicians. Even if I couldn't hear it I'd know what was being played. It's that kind of music that makes you want to move just that way. Taps the notes of the song against his pant leg like a piano he learnt young. But remembers what he's come here to do, and piano fingers aint it. So he starts tapping his foot to the beat instead, large and dumb and social. Takes a sip of beer, and comments on the music to the guy next to him who doesn't look like he wants to talk. I was right. At least he responded. How about the one on the other side? Listen to a couple more songs. In the corner of his eye, Tom sees whiskey go down and adams apple bobs against stubble shaved neck. He's looking forward, as if asking for conversation. "Where you from?" Tom asks loud over the sound of the music and chatter. There's a pause as the man's 'other' scan ensues, then "Seattle. I grew up around here, stayed for business" the businessman says roughly and gruffly but more receptive than the other. "Ya? Well what do you do?" "I'm a partner with the PwC office. One of the guys who runs the place." Guy said it proud, like he deserved respect and awe. Probably used to that sort of thing. Young upstarts spoil these fuckers. "Huh. How many years you been doing that?" "16" Nodding, Tom turned back round to the music. No need to rush it. The guy wants to talk about himself. Can see it in those motherfucking eyes. Sip of beer. Glad I can't truly get drunk or I'd be too honest to play this game. Music goes along its track and the dancers follow suit. Can tell the game of pool is won. The high-pitched voice of the silly pretty woman shouting victory double hand high-fiving her white haired tradesman partner. The retiree in the kitten shirt acting displeased as if he cared about the competition in the first place, but really he's just doing it so she can gloat playfully. "Ya, I work at the EY as an auditor. Been working there for about 2 years now." Tom said knowing the guy wouldn't ask. "Two years? Hah, you've got a long way to go. Stick with it kid, it gets better. Trust me." God gruffly proclaimed, "I hated those early years. Feels like watching paint dry." "You certainly wouldn’t get that impression from the new grad corporate propaganda" "We do that so we can lock em in. Recruiting would be a pain in the ass otherwise." Smiling facetiously, he bobbed whiskey. At least he's honest. "...Then they say, 'it's not that bad I guess', ha-ha" he laughed with whiskey breath hot brushing Tom's face. Tom laughed politically and brushed his fingers across his moustache as a means of feeling sensation and to fill in the imperfect silence of a half second not having anything to say. Took another drink of beer to get rid of that. "Bastards" looking the businessman keenly in the eye. Break Looked across the bar, saw a young woman in a tight black cocktail dress, wide collar which hugged the edge of the shoulders and bottom which stopped above the knees. Brown hair tied up in an artistic knot behind her head. Small, cute, and sexy shouted from the black purse over the side of her chair. She was leaning chest forward towards the bar, smiling at a suited career man mid-forty peaking salt and pepper. She was playing with him, could see it in her eyes. Salt knew her game and played his strengths. He probably had a lot of women. Plenty of young ones like her too. Business execs and young women go together like bratwurst and wine. Tom felt an attraction to her and a slight smile come onto his face as he watched her. Pepper talking confidently, and her playfully patting the back of his arm when he told something witty, or that he thought was witty at least. Tom and Partner found racquetball in common and agreed to play the next day. Business cards change hands. Pepper and Sexy left together. Disappointing. That night, in the excel spreadsheet was marked: Row; executive #23. Columns; name, phone number, company, hobbies and interests, where from, where met, and leads. Teeth brush, wash face, sleep. Visions of the wide tomorrow flood mind as consciousness is left on the pillow. Freedom has given way to something. Early morning rise, checks his spreadsheet, closes the laptop. Finds the address in a text sent last night from Seattle's favorite PwC Partner. Grabs his duffle bag with clothes, towel, glove, racket, balls, headband, and goggles. Flipped the strap over his shoulder, keys off the screw. Roaring motorcycle to the corporate style gym holding 50 levels of condominium above. First day of his new membership. Ya I go there all the time, he said. $50 a month for endless potential. Scanned his fresh plastic bar code. Walked past the counter. Scratched his neck and sees Sexy on the treadmill. Notice one another but neither acts on familiarity. Men's bathroom, naked old men with white towels in the locker room. Well-presentable gym shorts and shirt on. Well washed to look used, new so he would fit in. Fixed his hair. Neat but not overbearingly so. Back into the open, chest out shoulders back, confident and relaxed. Shake hands with the face of PwC in front of the glass-wall racquetball courts. "Meet \[so and so\] \[executive numbers 24, 25, and 26.\] And this is Hank, he's the handyman." A game of singles to warm up, then cutthroat. Tom starts with #23, Mr. PwC at the bar to see how good he is. Close game, plays hard, but, what, I shouldn't beat him on the first try should I. Oh, what a surprise, I lost. Handshake and good game, but show a little frustration. Mix it up and cutthroat with handyman Hank and #25. Fuck, the handyman hits rollers. Shower and change into fresh respectable clothes, also new. To lunch. Three dollar signs on google maps, nice. "We met at the Chamber of Commerce." Huh, take note of that. Hell, I'm going to have to fill a notebook when I get back. But just nod as if you've heard it all before. Politics. But an hour and the city gains color. Maybe the mimosa? Let the guard down a little. Pretty funny guys. Laid back. Why am I still acting like I'm playing politics? "Ya, absolutely. I'll see you all next Sunday!" Grey again- work. Weekend comes. Sits at the bar earlier this time, now more confident in overcoming freedom. It'd be better to see the people filter in than to sit at home. Beer. Surprise me. Sexy comes in with a navy hugging dress this time, hair tied up but let down when she walks in. She's probably the same age as me. Share glances as she's passing and a first-time full body 'other' scan meets approval. She smiles this time. He looks after her with a residual response smile and then shakes his head to himself. Man, look at the way she walks in those high heels. Moon rises. Conversations grow warm. Kitchen heats up. Pool balls click. Singer brings out the psychological stew. Did you miss it? There's the end of the world right there and into the new. Sexy sits at the other side of the bar. The men shift like magnets, and sooner than you'd think. She leaves with one of them again. Time, time, time. Time that no one cares about. Routine. Grey work. Racquetball’s got some color, but it's back to grey at the bar. She's there before him one of these nights. Hasn't got a guy next to her this time. "I'll fix that." Well, they talk a little. Its politics. Act so I get what I want, but be patient. Nights come and go according to the game. But one night, starting to get bored, forget to play politics. It turns out better than he'd thought. The routine of the bar takes on a new color and it's their color. Long weekend from work one of these times. "You want to do something then?" "Sure" Sam responded.