Chapter 1

My name's Steve, and this is my story.

I stood in line at the local grocery store, tired out of my mind and feeling my body trying it's hardest to just shut down there on the spot. You know what I mean. It's that feeling where your arms and legs either tingle or go completely dead weight on you, and you don't realize it until you try and move, and then they creak a little bit? Just like that. It was 11 at night, but GOD it seemed later. I had been asleep for all of about forty-five minutes when Jen had shaken me awake.

"Are you awake, Steve?"

"Arrunh?"

"Steve... wake up... I need you to run to the store for me."

"Hnnuh?"

"I can't sleep with this migraine, Steve. You know that. I need you to go and get me some Tylenol PM so I can sleep tonight."

"... Huh?"

After much cajoling, I managed to wake up enough to realize what was being requested. From past experience, I knew it wasn't worth the fight it would cause to refuse, or try and talk her out of it. My best chance of getting sleep was going to be to haul my ass out of the warm bed, get dressed, drive to the 24-hour supermarket, buy some medicine, bring it back, and shut her up. Otherwise my life was just going to be hell, not only tonight, but tomorrow and for the foreseeable future, too.

That's why I was now standing, mostly comatose, wearing the shorts I sleep in, with the first T-Shirt I had been able to find through the haze (a classy number... black, with "Fire Me... Please" on the front), and my tennis shoes with no socks, in line watching the guy in front of me buying a chocolate cake, a newspaper, and some condoms. I didn't even try to put those pieces together. When it was my turn, I shuffled up to the register as the lady greeted me with a smile. I tried my hardest to return it, but my grimace earned me a long look before she grabbed the Tylenol and ran it across her scanner.

"4.79, Sir."

I fumbled through my wallet and pulled out my ATM card, which I swiped through the reader in front of me. I keyed in my PIN code, as always getting some small pleasure out of the four numbers I had chosen before getting married. Jen had wanted me to change the numbers to match "our" numbers. I guess that needs some explaining. When I was in high school, I played football and basketball. Not particularly well, but I did play. I was fond of 'sticking out', at least as much as my conservative parents would allow, so I chose uniform number 13 for both sports. Vive Le Resistance. When the time came to choose a PIN number for my ATM card, I was with my buddy Dino, and flippantly chose 69 to partner with my 13, thereby making my PIN 1369. Fast forward to married life, and Jen's favorite number is 77. She declares that I should really 'want' to change my PIN number to 1377 to reflect her and I as a couple. I hem and haw and change the subject and tell her it's complicated to change, and basically stall until she forgets the idea. Every once in a while it comes up, but for the most part it's a very small victory for individuality. Go me.

Declined. What do you mean, declined? Oh lord. Apparently there's no money in the account... again. I did the blush and shuffle, mumbling my apology as I rummaged through the receipts in my wallet hoping for a flash of green. I was rewarded with a 10.00 bill that looked like it had seen better days. Still, though, it was money that Jen hadn't known about, which meant that I could spend some of it on myself and claim that I had found a five and not a ten! With demented glee (as much as could be generated from near-catatonia) I turned and grabbed three Slim Jims, a Reese's Fast Break, and a pack of gum and put them on the conveyer belt. The cashier added them, eyeing me longer than last time.

"8.94, Sir."

I handed her my crumpled up ten, and took the dollar and six cents change and receipt. I happily took my bag of goodies, being very careful to throw away the receipt and the six cents (no pockets in my baggy pajama shorts), and then wondering what to do with the dollar. On the way out, I had decided to just stuff it back in the recesses of my wallet when I passed the lottery counter. You know, one of those bright orange counters with all the different cards and an area to pick your numbers? I figured what the hell, right? I stepped up to the counter after dropping my keys and wallet into the shopping bag to free up my hand with my dollar. I had never even considered playing the lottery before, and had absolutely no clue what to do. I only knew it was a dollar a play, and that you were supposed to pick your own numbers. But what were you supposed to do with the dollar? I could figure out the Scantron-looking cards, I supposed, but then what? Take it to the cashier to pay for it? I was confused, and looked around for some help. Right. At 11:15 at night on a Tuesday, I was going to get someone to help me learn how to play the lottery.

I shrugged and gave up on the idea, but when I went to leave I noticed a similarly-colored machine off to one side. This one was much easier to figure out. I put my dollar in the slot, decided to let the machine pick my numbers, and within ten seconds had a nice printed ticket with my lottery numbers on it. Five bucks successfully wasted, and Jen wouldn't be any the wiser. Feeling proud of myself, I made my way back out to my car, digging around with one hand in the bag, fishing for my keys. I got in and sat back, listening to the quiet of the car's interior. I figured I could take five minutes, tell Jen that there had been a long line in the middle of the night, and enjoy my repast. I pulled out one of the Slim Jims and popped it open, took a big bite and relaxed back into my seat. I stuck the lottery ticket into the ashtray of the car, folded up nice and small, and reminded myself to move it before Jen saw it, to cover all evidence of my foolish spending.

It's not that we were poor, you see. We weren't. I made a good amount of money at my job, and Jen brought home some from the fast-food place. All told, we had plenty of money left over every month, on paper. The problem was that when I had ahold of extra money, it vanished into thin air. One might point to the ten dollar bill as evidence of this, I mused as I finished my first Slim Jim and wished I had thought to grab a soda. But the long and short of it was that Jen had ended up in control of the finances. I had been tired of the stress associated with not having any money, and knowing that the REASON I didn't have any money was because I had blown it all playing online poker or signing up for various porn sites, or just flat out pissed away on comic books or video games. After a few close scares with the bills, I had declared (to Jen's relief) that I was tired of being responsible for the finances, and that I would earn it if she would keep track of it. My salary was much higher than hers (which is a reflection on how little she made, not how much I did), and she quickly got us caught up on the bills.

She also got a new car, which got detailed fairly regularly, traded in her wedding ring for a MUCH larger one, and started wearing leather jackets and carrying a nice leather purse. That's not to say that I didn't get the things I wanted, I guess. I did when we could afford them, but most of the things I wanted were things that we couldn't afford. A part of my brain told me that the reason we couldn't afford them was because of the leather and the new car and the detailing and the ring, but I tried my best to ignore thoughts like that. Now, however, sitting in my tiny little commuter car (I had wanted a new Mustang for my 25^th birthday... which didn't happen), I was alone and free to think all the hateful thoughts I wanted. So I did, as I finished up my third Slim Jim and my candy bar. I swallowed a few times to hopefully get rid of any taste in my mouth in case she wanted a kiss when I got back home. It wasn't likely, since she was playing the migraine angle tonight, but it was possible, and I was careful.

I got back out of the car and threw away the shopping bag with the wrappers of my feast, and stuck the bottle of Tylenol in my pocket. I made the drive home quietly and slowly, enjoying the chance to be alone, and parked in the driveway. I tried to be quiet as I opened the door, but the dogs heard and started barking like mad downstairs. I sighed and just closed the door normally and made my way upstairs. Jen was awake when I got there and immediately asked what had taken so long. I handed her the Tylenol as I explained that there hadn't been anyone at the register, since they were short one stockboy, and the cashier had been helping to stock. She accepted this, and gulped a few Tylenols dry down her throat. She smiled and thanked me, then laid back down as I kicked off my shoes and took off my shirt and climbed into bed. By the time I got in, she had already rolled away and was facing the far wall. I gratefully settled in, got comfortable, and was asleep before I knew it.

I woke at 230 the next morning, as planned. I got dressed completely in the dark and tried to sneak out for work without waking Jen up. I almost made it, too, except that there was a creaky spot on the floor in front of our door, and I wasn't able to avoid it. The creaking noise made Jen stir, and I went over and gave her a hug and told her I was sorry for waking her up. She mumbled something and rolled back over to go to sleep. I headed back for the door, and managed to make it down the stairs without stirring the dogs. I stumbled out to my car and headed for work.

I didn't have that much work to do that morning. In fact, I didn't have much work to do any morning. But I always went in as early as possible, or stayed as late as possible. It beat the hell out of being at home with Jen. I had even slept at the office a few times and told her that I was working on a life or death project, rather than go home and face her. It wasn't that she was a total shrew, though she could be at times. She was just very unbalanced, and in retrospect a good portion of that was probably my fault. She and I had met when I was sixteen, working at the local burger joint. She had been one of the assistant managers, and I had a good old-fashioned schoolboy crush on her. She was short, cute, and had huge breasts. What more does a young boy need? I pursued her in the time-honored idiot adolescent way, just trying to get noticed any way I could. I would act up, be the store clown, get flippant and rebellious, all to get noticed. She was the quintessential good girl, though, and was not at all amused. I had given up on anything happening, and one day she put in her notice and said that she was moving to Florida to go work with exotic animals. So much for that fantasy.