Harold Bowman stared at his brawny figure in the mirror of his hotel suite's bathroom. His eyes were red with blood vessels that banked from the farther whites of his eye to the rim of his iris, and he was both perspiring heavily, and visibly shaking. None of the other times had been as bad as this one. He could remember the nightmare as if he had just walked out of it's daytime office.

All his clientele surrounding him in a room of a building still in construction. A skyscraper twelve stories high and in the middle of downtown Seattle. The amount of clientele in the room is steadily growing, all of them yelling numbers and figures from the day's trade pushing him closer and closer to the edge of an open window pain. Harold is yelling at his employees to get a grip but nobody seems to hear him above the clamor.

Just as he tiptoes on the edge of the open face back of the room, a voice calls out to him.

He recognizes it from somewhere but can't place it exactly. And in the split second he tries to recall it in his memory a hand belonging to the voice reaches out through the crowd as if to save him.

Harold hesitates for just a moment before he is thrown off the building by the pushing crowd. He hurdles downward screaming in terror, hits the ground, and almost simultaneously wakes up in his bed, soaked with sweat.

Harold grabbed one of the complimentary glasses from the sink countertop and filled it with water. Drinking it down in one swift swig, he swiped at the faucet handle and filled another.

He had a meeting in the morning, and no amount of coffee was going to restore him to proper condition. Harold hadn't slept more than 20 hours in the past two months. That wasn't good for the 50 hours or so that he put into work every week.

Coming out of the bathroom, he looked around his neatly decorated deluxe suite.In it, a king sized bed with a 55 inch curved Samsung LED smart tv in front of it hanging on an adjustable crane. Harold stared at the king sized bed in Ill Humoured chagrin. A 6 foot by 6 foot bed, softer even than the bed he had at home that was about as useful as a waterproof towel.

Harold sighed to himself and rubbed his forehead. He might as well get some work done if sleeping wasn't an option. Picking up his briefcase from besides he rifled through papers and brought out a portfolio he had recently obtained about a possible business investment. "LoveMeNow" a new dating website that had just sprung up out of San Francisco, California. Numbers and figures for how the company was doing financially and structurally. He would spend a couple hours reviewing this information, decide whether it was a worthy investment or not, and then move on. It was 2'o clock in the morning when he started. It seemed like it was no time at all before the sun's light began to break through the parting of the curtains. He was on his fifth investment prospect by then. Harold set down his newest portfolio and rubbed his forehead again. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was get ready for work, but the sun's appearance meant that that's what time it was.

Harold jumped in and out of the shower letting the water run ice cold so that he could shock himself awake, brushed his teeth, shaved, put on deodorant and some of his expensive Clive Christian "No.1" before dressing himself. He was out the door by seven thirty.

The sun in Santa Barbara was only just starting to to rise into the sky, giving a golden hue to the world as it did. Harold sped down highway 101, in the direction of the downtown office building in which the promotion meeting he was here for was to occur. The rental car he had picked out, a mazzerati, was fast and agile. Different than the car he had at home, but still suitable to get him from A to B in fashionable style. Twenty minutes into his drive he hit the morning traffic. Harold let off a sigh and adjusted his seat to a more comfortable position, he might be here for awhile longer.

Traffic. The fact that people like himself had to deal with it was astounding to him. Harold often wondered why there wasn't a lane available exclusively for people as successful as himself. People have to move for fire trucks, and ambulances, why should top executives be any different? The choices they made probably saved just as many lives as the fire trucks did, monetarily.

Harold Fellings Bowman, That was the name that was printed on his birth certificate 48 years ago. Born to Shanara and Steve Bowman, in a small hospital in Minnesota.

Caucasian, bronze blond hair, blue eyes. natural tan. Harold was a stockbroker with Ultracare investments, and had been with them for 23 years. Ever since he had graduated from New york University in 2011. If you had of asked him back then if he enjoyed what he did, he would tell you "go to hell, and when you get there you'll see me at my desk making phone calls".

He had endured four grueling years as an intern there before he had been hired on as an official employee. Even after he had been hired as a "stockbroker's assistant", he still worked like a dog for 6 more years before he finally started making a decent amount of money. But with a whole lot of hard work and fierce dedication, Harold slowly climbed the Ultracare Investments ladder.

Now he was the supervising broker to over 30 employees, and through his own trading investments made over a million a year.

He started fresh out of college living in a garage apartment with a broken a/c. Now he lived in a 3,000 foot condo in upstate New York. Before he rode the bus to work, or occasionally got rides from friends. Now he had two vehicles both with a window sticker price of well above 100 grand. He was wearing cheap suits from JcPenny when he first joined up with Ultracare. Now his closet was full of Hugo Boss, Tom Ford, Gucci, and Hickey Freeman.

Before he was a the minion, the lackey, spending his days running in circles and jumping through hoops for a fraction of a real paycheck. Now he was the boss, making his own decisions, calling his own shots, and through his own expertise making the money he had always wanted out of life. But money couldn't change traffic, as much as Harold wished it could. He slowly inched closer to downtown Santa Barbara thinking of ways to solve this dream problem he was having.