Chapter 1

OK, so here's how this whole thing got started: I'm sitting in my recliner on my fat ass in front of the tube. I'm sure most of you have been there before; a hundred and fifty channels and not one damned thing worth watching; brainpower need not apply. The thought floats around in the back of my mind that I should be doing something other than thumb exercises to burn up a few calories but I just keep sitting there punching the damned channel selector on the remote.

The issue was that I'd been in vegetable mode for a year and a half, ever since my divorce. I just couldn't seem to work up the motivation to get back into the chase and that was the biggest reason why all my clothes were shrinking. I suppose a head doctor would have tagged it 'mild depression' and prescribed some arcane chemical designed primarily to make him and the pharmaceutical companies just a little bit wealthier.

Don't get me wrong; it's not like my whole life was a train wreck; I had my own civil engineering business and it was pretty darned successful. My house was even paid for because, thanks to the economic crash, I got it for a song (I felt bad for the previous owners but they were about to be foreclosed and had to sell and I needed to buy so we made a deal. Timing is everything, right?). I was driving a nice car and I had plenty of money in the bank so by most standards I was definitely doing OK. It was just my personal life that had turned to crap. I mean, Jesus! there I was, thirty-five years old, growing a beer belly as well as a buffalo butt, sitting in front of the idiot box on a Friday night and feeling sorry for myself. How pathetic is that?

The split between my ex and I was amicable enough. We didn't wind up hating each other or anything but there were irreconcilable issues that eventually drove us to a mutual agreement to go our separate ways. Fortunately, there weren't any kids that had to share the trauma of a failed marriage. The big difference in how my ex and I handled the split was that she got on with her life and I sat around in a blue funk. Hell, she was dating again a month after I moved out and now I hear she's getting married again. I'm afraid I didn't cope nearly as well as she did.

I must be some kind of a world-class weenie when it comes to handling emotional trauma, real or perceived, because every time I thought about taking on another relationship, I'd get the cold sweats. There was one lady in an office in the same building as mine that started coming on to me after word got around that I was available but my fear of the price I might have to pay was greater than my need to get laid. I know that's hard for anyone with normal hormone levels and functioning genitalia to comprehend but it was true. But then that's why God invented porn and self-abuse, right?

But I digress: The TV screen is flashing past reruns of 'Beverly Hillbillies' and 'Dukes of Hazard' when some kind of blockage breaks loose in my neural pathways and I hear this shout echoing through my skull: 'THOMAS! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?

Answer? I knew very well what I was doing – I was wallowing in self-pity and slowly morphing into a slack-jawed recliner spud in the process. I just couldn't let this go on! I got up, turned off the tube, put on my boots and a jacket and headed out the door. I wasn't going anywhere in particular, I just needed to walk. It was a cool night, perfect for a constitutional. I live in a mid-sized Colorado mountain town so even though the calendar said it was spring, there was still a lot of snow on the ground. I walked for damn near two hours but I couldn't tell you where I'd been because I wasn't paying any attention. I just thought about who I was turning into - Joe Sixpack on steroids! For you real 'Joe Sixpacks' out there, no disrespect meant; it's just not the way I want my own life to go.

By the time I got back to my house and unlocked my front door, I knew my life was headed in a new direction. I didn't know if it was going to be a good thing or a bad thing but it was definitely going to be a different thing. Step number one: I sat at my computer and brought up the 800 number of the satellite TV service. When the techie finally deigned to speak to me, I asked her to please stop service immediately and close out my account.

Apparently they get this kind of frustrated outburst all the time because she goes, "I'll be happy to take care of that for you Sir but for only five dollars a month, we can keep the account open so there won't be a deposit and service charge when you're ready to resume service."

"You don't understand, Miss. I have no intention of resuming service."

"I'm sure you believe that now, Sir but our experience has been that most people eventually do."

She had no intention of making it easy. "Here's the thing, see. I don't doubt your statistics and I'm sure you mean well but the mindless drivel your service broadcasts may have already done irrevocable damage to my brain and I will never allow it to enter my personal space again. Cut it off!"

"Are you certain you want to do that, Mr. McMillan? It's really no problem for us to hold your account open." No doubt the woman had been to persistence school.

"OK, let me try one this more time. CUT! IT! OFF! NOW! Did you get that, Ma'am?"