Struggle's No Stranger

She took everything. The truck, the trailer, the signed Toby Keith guitar I won at the American Legion raffle a few years back—it was all gone. Sitting in a Waffle House, it dawns on me that my life is a poorly written country song.

Lainey leaving me is tough, but I’ll get past that. Right now it’s the money that’s the problem. Using a borrowed pen, I began tallying up the debts I’ve listed on my paper napkin.

Paying off the truck, the Sears credit card we used to buy a new dishwasher, the student loans from when Lainey took art history classes at the local community college…all of it totaled up to an amount so astronomical, it was laughable--$19,783.

Lainey is leaving me, and for some reason I’m stuck with the bills? Turns out her part-time job at Save-N-Pay wasn’t to earn money for a girls trip to Branson; it was to pay for the fancy TV divorce lawyer that’s helping her screw me over.

But what’s done is done, and now I need to find a way out. Struggle’s no stranger, and it’s never killed me before. I’ll start by asking Frank for a few more hours a week at the recycling plant. He usually pays overtime in cash. But how long will that take?

I cradle my head in my hands and my neck cracks as I turn it from side to side. I peek up at my surroundings. From the linoleum counters to the teeth of my waitress, everything here is a varied shade of yellow. It’s depressing.

I head to the restroom to splash some water on my face. In the mirror, my reflection launches an assault. I’m looking rough. Red-rimmed eyes, protruding cheekbones, and a patchy beard-- honestly, it’s no wonder Lainey left.

I grab the edges of the sink, ignoring the sticky residue under my left fingertips. “Get it together, Rob.” I whisper into the sink, splashing my cheeks with water from the rusted tap. I dry off with a paper towel but stop before tossing it in the bin. There’s something in there, partially covered by rubbish. Wishful thinking kicks in and I wonder if it’s a wallet.

With a wad of towels, I uncover the item, disappointed to find a notebook—small, black, leather-bound. Great. Not exactly what I need right now, but I flip through it and notice a few blank pages. This might be better than planning out my life on a used napkin. I grab the book and make my way back to my table.

Relaxing into the booth, I remember something my high school counselor told me. “When everything feels out of control, make a list. It’ll help you get your head straight.”

I probably should have listened to some of her other advice, but that’s what stuck. There we go, I’ll use this book to make a list.

It turns out the book’s previous owner had the same thought. From what I could tell, the pages were full of lists, although I wasn’t completely sure because almost everything was crossed out, sometimes with such vigor that the ink bled to several pages underneath. From the looks of the chicken scratch and ripped out pages, this guy wasn’t exactly in a good place, mentally or emotionally.

I flip to a clean page and grab my pen. What’s do I need to fix up my life? Half joking, I write:

• I need $20,000.

A sequence of 5 loud pops erupt from outside, and I look up in time to glimpse a flash of light that, after 36 years in east Detroit, I recognize as gunfire. As unfazed as I, the grizzled cook hollers from behind the kitchen window. “You know what to do—pay up and get out. We’re closing.”

I throw my last bit of cash onto the table and grab the notebook. Outside, I see footsteps in the snow heading west, in the direction of the motel I temporarily call home. I don’t want any trouble, so I opt to take the longer route, to the east.

I make it just a few steps when, for the second time today, something catches my eye. This time it’s a splotch of red in the bushes. “Please don’t be a body.” I silently pray. I’ve got a warrant out, and I don’t want to call the cops.

It’s not a body, but a faded red messenger bag. I look around the empty streets before picking it up. If I don’t take it, someone else will. And maybe, if I can find the owner, there’ll be a reward.

Fighting the snow and wind, I make my way to the motel. I toss the bag onto the bed when I enter the room, and it lands with a thud. There’s something solid in there. I desperately need a shower, but my curiosity is piqued. I fling open the zipper and catch my breath.

This is a joke. It has to be a joke.

Because in this bag, there are hundreds of $20 bills, neatly rolled, tightly packed together. These are new bills, too—they weren’t collected over time by some wack job who doesn’t trust banks. By the looks of it, this money wasn’t acquired ethically.

The thought of a shower leaves my mind. I dump the bag out and begin counting. In the end, there’s $20,000 sitting on my bed. It’s enough to pay off my debts. It’s exactly the amount I wrote down in that black notebook.

I look skeptically at the book, now laying on the floor. At the soup hall I visit on Wednesday nights, they’re always talking about miracles. Is this a God thing?

But I don’t think God would send me drug money. Maybe the high school counselor was right. Writing things down can really make a difference. Maybe I should write more often!

I laugh at my own joke—a deep and rumbling laugh for the first time in years. Alone in my motel room, I realize with a start that I’m giddy. When is the last time I felt this flutter in my belly?

I grab a pen from the nightstand and I smirk, picking up the book from the floor. May as well carry on with it, then. Sardonically, I scribble.

• I want Lainey to love me again.

I don’t really, but the idea of her wanting me back releases another chuckle. I launch into a stream of consciousness.

• Get a new boss.
• Get a phone number from that Roxy’s cocktail waitress.
• Find a new job.
• Get a truck.
• Move out of this trash hotel.
• Get tickets to the Def Leppard reunion tour.

My heart is pounding and I’m writing quickly. This money can’t be real--is this a fever dream? I need a cold shower to wake up. I double-check the deadbolt on my door—it’s a little nerve-wracking having that cash spread out on the bed--and head for the restroom.

I stand under the water, fantasizing about paying off the bills. Lainey’ll go crazy wondering where I got the cash. She’ll probably come crawling back, and I’m imagining how I’ll tell her to piss off when a ringing disrupts my reverie.

My head whips around. It’s the motel room phone, but who knows I’m here? Only the guys from work. My mind wanders to the cash on the bed. I’m really starting to feel uncomfortable with it there. I grab a towel and rush to the nightstand, hand shaking as I pick up the phone.

“Hey man, it’s Willy. Did you hear about Frank?”

I sigh—it’s a coworker. “No man, what’s up?”

“Dude. He’s dead,” he exclaims, pronouncing the last word as if it has two syllables. “Shot himself. My wife saw the ambulance outside his house and went over. I’m just letting everyone know. Looks like we’re gonna be getting a new foreman pretty soon.” He hangs up without a good-bye, leaving me holding the phone, still dripping water onto the carpet.

I heard him, but I’m fixated on the TV. There’s a live report from just down the road. There’s someone with a rifle, storming into apartments and businesses, yelling nonsense about a missing bag of money.

So far the body count is 7, with 13 wounded. 3 kids are dead.

I stand silently, but my mind races. $20K. New boss. Strange coincidences, that’s all. Consciously, I know these events aren’t related to what I wrote down. Nothing else in that notebook has happened. Still, I’m unnerved.

The phone rings again, but I ignore it. Someone is pounding on my door. I peer through the peep hole and take a step back. What the hell is Lainey doing here? And how did she find me?

She’s yelling through the door, begging to talk. “Just for a sec, I’m sorry! Please, Rob, just a short talk.” Any other time, I’d open that door. But I’m freaked. How did she find me? What does she want? And why is she here now, half an hour after I wrote down her name in that book?

It’s like the things I wrote are happening, but they’re not happening in the right way. I wonder again, is this a fever dream?

A man’s voice joins Lainey’s outside the door. He sounds angry, but I can’t make out his words. I hear Lainey though, with her shrill accent, “I don’t have your friggin money you--” But she’s cut short by 2 quick pops.

My breath is caught in my throat. The room is spinning. The phone continues to ring, and I pick it up. “Call the cops!” I whisper frantically.

The front desk girl replies. “Sir, I can’t understand you, but your payment was declined. You’re being asked to move out tonight. Contact management with questions.” She ends the call with an abrupt click before I can reply.

The man is suddenly beating on my door. I lunge behind the bed. If he wants in this room, that hollow-core door won’t hold for long. A shot rings out and a blast of cold air rushes through a newly-created hole. He’s coming in, and I’m betting my new buddy is looking for the money sitting next to me.

My mind flips to the crossed out words in that notebook. This can’t be because of the book. But what if it is? I grab the notebook and pen. Scribbling frantically, I cover the words with deep scratches, ripping the paper.

With a swift kick the door gives, and the man enters the room. His eyes widen as he takes in the money laid out on the bed before directing his gaze to me, still sitting half-naked on the floor, notebook in hand. I glance up from my list, only half crossed out, just in time to see him raise his rifle.