Interest
Authors: Kevin Gaughen
INTEREST
INTEREST
Kevin Gaughen
Interest
Copyright © 2015 by Kevin Gaughen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are being used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover art by Benjamin Ee
Published by the author:
Kevin Gaughen
PO Box 1517
Mechanicsburg, PA 17055-9017
USA
ISBN-10: 0986380520
ISBN-13: 9780986380525
First Edition: May 2015
Acknowledgments
I’d like to express sincere gratitude to the following people:
First, to my mother, Louisa Gaughen, who, from my earliest memories, tirelessly encouraged me to read and write. I don’t know where I’d be if my mom hadn’t always inspired literacy, learning, and discovery.
Second, to my father, Thomas Gaughen, who always taught by example to relentlessly push forward through adversities, no matter how awful they might seem. No hell is deep enough to stop Tom Gaughen.
Third, but certainly not least, to my wife, Laryssa Gaughen, for her unflagging support and encouragement as I worked on this book for months on end—while we were raising three young children and running a small business, no less. Laryssa’s loyalty and selflessness always inspires me.
I’d further like to thank the following family and friends whose review of my manuscript helped me polish this story into something almost readable.
Beta readers:
Tobin Coziahr
Joanna Ferguson
Grant Gaughen
Laryssa Gaughen
Thomas Gaughen
Maria Elaina Martinelli
Teresa Pezzi
Michael Sams
Stephanie Shapiro
Japanese Translation:
Yukiko Kine Rolich
To YOU:
Yeah,
you
, sitting there with your paperback or e-reader:
Thanks for buying my novel!
I’m self-published. And since I have a fool for a publisher, I humbly ask one favor of you, my dear reader: please let me know if you find any errors. And by that, I mean
any
errors—typos, plot holes, incongruities, grammar mistakes, etc. I’ll do my best to make the corrections you suggest in future revisions of this book. You can reach me at
[email protected]
. Don’t be shy; I’d love to hear from you—even if you don’t find any problems!
I hope you enjoy the story.
—Kevin
“Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it, earns it. He who doesn’t, pays it.”
—Albert Einstein (attributed)
Contents
1
“Shit’s getting dangerous,” Len said, watching the White House burn on national television.
“First the FBI building, then the CIA, now this. What do you think it means?” Stewart, one of Len’s coworkers and a frail man to begin with, was looking especially wan.
“It means we need to drink more.” Len lit a cigarette.
“Have they issued a statement?”
“From where, the Brady Press Room? It’s on fire.”
“Jesus. I wonder if the president survived.”
“Who cares?” The words and spontaneous laughter escaped before Len could check himself.
Len’s editor shot him a nasty look. “Len, what’s wrong with you? People are dead. There’s chaos in the streets. And why are you smoking in the office?”
“Sorry, Jack. I’m a little out of it. Haven’t been sleeping well.”
Rather than putting it out, Len decided to finish his cigarette outside. He walked through the building and out to the street. To hell with work today, he thought while standing there at the curb. In fact, to hell with everything. It was noon; time for a burrito.
Len walked past closed shops and demonstrators. Each passing day seemed to bring the city a little closer to a collective nervous breakdown. Today, some people in the street looked like they’d had lobotomies—standing around, staring into the sky at the fighter jets circling the city. Others seemed as though they were one parking ticket away from a full-on panic attack, chatting hysterically with any stranger who would engage them. A deuce and a half full of National Guardsmen nearly ran Len over as he crossed the street.
The little jingle bell rang as Len pushed the door open. “God bless you Mexicans,” Len exclaimed upon entering the taqueria, “you’re always working. Everything else is closed!”
“Señor Len!” Paco, a portly man covered in tattoos, was sitting behind the counter watching the chaos on a little TV. “Can you believe this
mierda
? It’s like Chiapas over here. Why aren’t you working? Big news day!”
“No one knows anything yet, and every hack in the business is writing about the same event. What’s the point anymore? El Ultimo
con lengua
,
por favor
.”
Len carried his food to a table by the window. The national guardsmen who had almost plowed him over minutes earlier were now setting up sandbags and a .50-caliber machine gun on the street corner. Len found it all quite theatrical—an overt show of
doing something
to calm the cattle into thinking security was possible. The real danger was that there were heavily armed, twitchy, uniformed teenagers just fifty feet away.
He’d barely gotten halfway through his meal when his phone rang; its screen showed a number he didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Leonard Savitz?” The voice was female.
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“I just killed the president of the United States. I would like to meet with you.”
“Hilarious. Who’s this?”
“Today your daughter Octavia is wearing the yellow Steelers shirt that you bought her last fall. Your ex-wife, Sara, who drives a green SUV, just picked her up from kindergarten.” The woman’s tone was eerily flat.
The blood drained from Len’s face.
“Who is this? This isn’t funny.”
“Tomorrow we will find you.”
Click.
2
“Sara, take Octavia and get out of town.”
“What? Why?”
“I can’t explain. Just do it. Go to your mom’s place or something.”
“Len, we’ve discussed this before. You do not dictate what I do with her when she’s here.”
Len paused and tried to collect himself. “Sara, something is going down, and I’m worried about her safety.”
“What exactly is ‘going down’?”
The sarcasm annoyed Len. “Turn on the TV.”
“What does that have to do with us? We’re not government, we’re not targets. Besides, the whole city’s on lockdown.”
“Look, this thing somehow involves us personally.”
“Oh? How do you figure?”
“I can’t explain.”
“Why can’t you explain?”
“You’ll just have to trust me on this.”
“Trust. Right. That worked out really well for me for six miserable years. If you knew something, you would be able to tell me what exactly. But you aren’t explaining anything so, QED, you know nothing. I told you to see a doctor about your drinking, Len.”
“Sara, I need you to listen to me for once. Have you not seen the news? It’s not safe for either of you to be in the city.”
“Oh, please. I don’t need a man to tell me what’s safe and what isn’t.” Sara had a remarkable talent for turning absolutely any topic into a gender-politics issue.
“I don’t know how to get through to you. I never have.”
“It’s a shame they don’t give Pulitzer prizes in feeling sorry for oneself.”
“Goddammit, if something happens to my daughter, Sara, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“Good-bye, Len.”
Len suddenly missed the old days when he could slam a phone receiver down.
___
_
Len attempted to explain the disturbing phone call to his editor back at the office. Jack was a thin man with gray hair and a boyish face. When wearing a shirt and tie, he looked like a college kid playing dress-up, despite being in his mid-forties. It was Jack who had taken the chance in hiring Len as a staff writer fourteen years ago. Len had been a twenty-something nobody with only a few published freelance stories under his belt, but Jack could sense potential. He took Len under his wing and assigned him the kind of stories that weren’t usually entrusted to cub reporters. Len appreciated the opportunity and put in long hours to do his best work possible. He was always impressed by the way Jack would go to the mat for his employees, even if they were in the wrong. Jack and Len were close in age, and neither was known for teetotaling; over time, a solid friendship developed between the two. Jack had even been a groomsman in Len’s wedding. He was one of the few people Len trusted implicitly.
“Lenny, relax, it was probably a prank,” Jack said with his typical level-headedness. “Did you try calling the number back?”
“Of course I tried that. Apparently it’s some copy-print place in Omaha. They didn’t know what I was talking about and said no customers had borrowed their business phone today. Do you think I should call the police?”
“Look, we tell the truth for a living, which means we make enemies. You, you
particularly
, have pissed off an awful lot of people over the years. You’ve single-handedly kept our legal department in business. Someone is angry about some piece you wrote, and this is their little revenge. Don’t let them get under your skin.”
“Jack, this woman gave me the creeps. Something was seriously off. She had no emotion in her voice. She knew what my daughter was wearing and what kind of car Sara drives. And why would she claim to have killed the president?”
Jack gave Len a skeptical look. “No one knows if the president is dead. There hasn’t been any announcement. Also, do
you
even know what your daughter is wearing? I thought she lived with your ex. Someone’s yanking your chain, Lenny. I bet it was that district justice. Remember? She’s been threatening to sue us over that story we ran, the one about her drinking on the bench.” Jack put his hand on Len’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Look, you’ve been a little on edge lately, and what’s happening today isn’t helping. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“Because we’re already shorthanded, that’s why.”
“So what?” Jack shrugged. “Everyone’s going to be running syndication over the next week. This is a DC story; the
Pittsburgh
Examiner
isn’t exactly on the front lines. Go home, turn off the TV, have a drink. All this crap will still be here tomorrow.”
Len walked home on city streets thick with hysteria. Cops on horseback, cops with riot shields, cops shooting dogs and Tasering little old ladies: just the usual responses to crises these days.
Len often found himself missing the bad old days of Pittsburgh. The city’s economy had collapsed after the steel mills were offshored in the 1970s, and the entirety of western Pennsylvania plunged into a profound, decades-long funk in which all anyone had was football and awful beer. It was a glorious sort of despondency: abandoned factories, endlessly gray skies, and long, nasty winters. On every corner there was a busted-ass watering hole with blacked-out windows and fake wood paneling inside, where unemployed mill trash drank and smoked all day until their teeth fell out.
Yet there was a kind of peace in the hopelessness, because no one expected anything. Len had learned the hard way that unrealistic expectations were the cause of most misery in the world. Back then people would invite you to their house for dinner if they thought you were hungry. One minute you could be wondering where your next meal would come from, and then an hour later you’d be passing the potatoes to someone’s grandma in their dining room. The whole town was in it together, and it felt like family. No one asked you what you did for a living at a cocktail party in the hopes of one-upping you with pretentious crap. There were no cocktail parties, and it was impressive just to have a job,
any
job. The city was full of real people in those days, not hipster jag-offs.
Whatever.
Things change
, he reminded himself. A BMW driver blabbing on his cell phone blew through the intersection as Len was trying to cross.
Len’s apartment was a third-floor walkup in Bloomfield, the old Italian neighborhood. He’d been there since the divorce. Rent had been cheap on his street until a bunch of yuppies took over and cluster-bombed the place with boutique shops and theme bars.
Walking past the mirror in the hallway of his apartment building, he stopped briefly and stared with agnosia at the reflection of a middle-aged man. He used to be a handsome young guy before life kicked the shit out of him. Lines on his face now, eyes tired. At least he still had his hair.
After divorce, he’d heard, you picked up right where you left off the last time you were single. Len’s case was textbook rebachelorhood. His apartment smelled like an ashtray. Save for one small photo of his daughter, there were no pictures on his tar-stained walls. The only pieces of furniture he owned were a futon and a mattress on the floor. Len didn’t care. He was finally free of Sara’s tyrannical imposition on his time and peace of mind.
About a week after moving into this apartment, he woke up one day with a most unusual feeling: the euphoric sense that anything was possible and there were no more unnecessary constraints on his existence. He recognized it like a long-lost friend from his younger days: the feeling of unbridled optimism that naturally welled up in a man when he didn’t wake up every morning to unnecessary anxiety and harping discontent.
Len poured himself some bourbon and took it out to his fire-escape balcony. The weather was happily oblivious to human concerns; the day was sparkly clear, and the sun shone down warmly. Len felt the booze creep into his veins and his anxiety about the phone call subside.
Jack’s right,
Len said to himself.
I’m worried about nothing.
