Chapter One: Livin' the Dream
Christopher Simmons slouches on a second-hand couch. Light from an old television flickers through the darkened room as his face warps with disgust.
These people are freaking nuts.
Multiple feeds show countless ecstatic smiles and those stupid 2015 glasses. The crowd seems thrilled to be packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the bitter cold of December.
"Where do they find these people?"
Chris doesn't mind the large 'MUTE' notice in the corner of his screen. It's better than hearing sickening cheers, strained commentary, and pre-recorded music numbers that famous faces pretend to perform. The entire New Year's charade annoys him. He wouldn't be watching at all except for a personal need to see the ball drop. Witnessing the end of 2014, despite the pure symbolism, affirms that the worst mess of his life is officially behind him.
Last year. I can say it happened last year.
Throwing his head back, Chris coaxes the last stubborn drops from a beer bottle. As he does, headlights passing beyond his window create a dramatic scene on the ceiling above. Shadows cast by his model X-wing starfighter and Cylon Raider chase each other in a frantic dogfight.
Chris sighs as he looks around the room.
The entire apartment overflows with science fiction memorabilia. What was once littered throughout a three-bedroom house is now compressed within the walls of this 'cozy' apartment. That's how the woman at the office described it anyway: "cozy." Over a dozen models hang from the ceiling on fishing line, collectibles crowd several make-shift shelves, and posters cover the walls. In addition to Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica, there are samples from nearly every sci-fi franchise to appear on screen: Bablyon 5, Stargate, Firefly… you name it.
The couch frame creaks as Chris grunts and lifts himself to walk the short distance to the refrigerator. The brief journey takes him past autographed posters of Claudia Christian, Katee Sackhoff, and Tricia Helfer. Some of Chris' buddies give him grief for having a signed poster of Jamie Bamber nestled among science fiction's most attractive women, but if he had to pick one man from the 'future' to become, it would be Lee Adama. Chris pops the top off a fresh bottle, tips it in a silent toast to Grace Park's "Boomer" poster, then lumbers back to the sofa.
As he slumps back down on the couch, Chris eyes a spiral-bound notepad lying on the cushion beside him. He picks it up and sighs at the resolution list he started writing over an hour ago. The first line he'd written was "get over the…" with a final word so angrily scribbled over that it's become unrecognizable—but he knows what he's been calling her well enough. He sighs even more heavily at the second line: "Lose 20lbs." His eyes wander from the list to the beer in his hand, the pizza box on the coffee table, and the soft bulge that hides his belt. He trades the beer for a pen and scribbles vertical lines over the "2", changing it into a big, fat, ugly "1."
"Let's be realistic, Chris," he mutters aloud.
Finally, the countdown partially hidden by the 'MUTE' notice flashes red. Chris fumbles for the remote to turn on the sound.
"Seven… six… five…" the revelers chant.
Chris raises his bottle of Bud Light in a toast to the screen as the ball hits bottom. The entire population of Times Square erupts in cheers amid a dense cloud of streamers and confetti.
"Happy friggin' New Year," Chris grumbles.
Chris quickly taps the remote again, replacing the display of fireworks and kissing revelers with an Xbox logo. His list all but forgotten, he sets his beer down and picks up a game controller.
The next morning, Chris wakes up with a start. His phone alarm vibrates the coffee table, in turn rattling three empty bottles. He struggles onto his side as the couch complains.
"Lightweight," he groans at the trio of bottles as he silences the alarm.
Chris slowly gets to his feet and stretches. A noisy yawn escapes him as he rubs his eyes. After shrugging at the mess from the night before, he trudges to the bathroom. He hopes a long, hot shower will shake the dull feeling of sleep and alcohol.
Returning to the couch, Chris slides the empty pizza box over to reveal an old laptop. He scoffs at the ancient machine.
What a piece of crap.
Chris lifts the screen and presses the power button. He hangs his head and sighs, knowing it will be some time before the dated computer struggles to life.
Waiting for the PC to boot, Chris slowly shuffles to the kitchen. He grabs a blueberry bagel from a bag on the counter and holds it with his teeth. He turns to pull a diet soda from a fresh case purchased in anticipation of his resolution to trim down.
"That's 120 fewer calories a pop…" Chris mumbles through the bagel as he pops the can open. He pulls the bagel from his mouth and takes a sip—his face puckers. "…if I can get used to this crap."
Back at the couch, Chris nearly finishes the bagel before his work laptop's login screen appears. He glances at the Xbox controller on the coffee table and, for a moment, considers shutting the computer back off.
They'd believe me if I said this piece of shit died on me.
Chris' contemplation ends after weighing the consequences of sabotaging company property to sell the story.
"Alrighty then," Chris grumbles. "Let's see what other geniuses got a new printer for Christmas."
Chris pauses and cocks his head.
Have I always talked to myself, or just since the divorce?
Chris shudders at the brief recollection of a chapter of his life he'd rather forget. He hunches over the laptop and distracts himself with work.
Having less seniority than most of the team and no family event to use as an out, Chris is stuck monitoring product support tickets over the holidays. He's immensely grateful that he doesn't have to answer phones at the call center. It's not that he minds talking to people, but nine times out of ten someone calling the help line is either angry or stupid. Someone using the email system is typically more patient and resourceful, given that the email link is on the same page as the FAQs and self-help documentation. Chris still finds the occasional long-winded rant and ignorant question among the emails, but he firmly believes in the distinction between ignorance and stupidity.
"You can fix ignorant," Chris smirks to himself, recalling the comedy of Ron White.
After working but a handful of straightforward support tickets, Chris' buddy Mike pings him with a chat window. Mike is in the same seniority boat as Chris and is already dying for a distraction. The personalized status on Mike's chat window hasn't changed since they started working on the same team two years ago: "Livin' the Dream!"
"Hey bud," Mike types, "have you seen Guardians of the Galaxy yet?"
"Dude, like months ago," Chris responds as he rolls his eyes.
"I just watched it yesterday. It was rad!"
"No one says 'rad' anymore, Mike."
"I don't think anyone says 'dude' anymore either."
"At least I don't act like I just turned 21."
"Lawl," Mike replies, adding an animated middle finger emoji. "I am so calling you 'bro' now."
Mike quickly follows up with an animated GIF of the Night at the Roxbury guys doing that stupid head bob thing. Chris sighs and stops typing, hoping that Mike never actually calls him "bro" at the office.
"Anywho…" Mike continues. "Wanna meet up for lunch? I hear Phil's is catching on to the bacon-everything craze. They've got a new burger with bacon baked right into the bun! And you know… Phil's has the best fries."
Chris' eyes look upon the beer bottles, pizza box, and bulging gut he hopes to eliminate one day. Despite an underlying feeling of self-loathing as his eyes settle upon his resolution list with the big fat ugly one, his decision's been made.
"That they do, Mike. I'll meet you at 11:30."
After handling a few more routine service requests with template responses, Chris checks the time. The old laptop may take forever to power up, but it's quick to fall lifeless. He grabs his keys and coat on the way out of his 'cozy' apartment and steps into the cold, January air. They'd been spared the heavy snow that hit further north, but there's still a healthy dusting of fresh powder. Chris shakes his head, knowing that a cracked and broken concrete parking lot hides underneath.
If I don't slip, I'll probably trip.
Chris sweeps the dry powder from the windows of the old Honda hatchback he bought after the divorce. The engine complains when he turns the key, but the car eventually rattles to life. As the cold bucket seat soaks into him, he thinks of the new Ford Explorer with heated leather his ex got out of the deal. He shakes the thought with a growl then shifts the manual transmission into gear to head to Phil's Diner.
Traffic is relatively light being New Year's Day. Chris makes it a point to watch other drivers closely on a day like today, because you never know who's still blitzed from the night before. More than usual though, his thoughts are pre-occupied with the divorce.
Chris eases up to a red light and allows his funk to consume his thoughts. He used to be able to say he was happy—his friends and family would say they could tell. He's not exactly sure when things changed between him and his ex, but the relationship deteriorated at an alarming rate. Hate is not an emotion Chris has truly felt, but the same cannot be said of his ex. When it became clear that his floundering career wasn't going to support her to her expectations, she came to despise him.
The traffic light turns green. A not-so-subtle honk lets Chris know that his thoughts have drifted for too long. The unpleasant memories and impatient driver prompt him to tighten his grip on the wheel. He scowls at the rear-view mirror as he hits the gas and releases the clutch.
Pulling forward into the intersection is the last thing Chris remembers before being taken by the light.