He was out way too late.
His head told him that. The bags under his eyes would tell everybody else.
He shouldn’t have gone out. It didn’t make sense to. Like everything else in this town, the Royals suck again this year. And the slower the game, the easier it is to just BS your way through a couple more beers.
He’d hear about it when the statement came, and he’d pass it off as networking. And it was–except nobody knew anybody who wanted to buy. Tons of guys wanted to sell. For God’s sake, he talked to three who were so far underwater that a short sale sounded like a wet dream.
God, he wanted to go back to bed. The bright pink sticky note on the mirror with the grocery list made him want to stay there.
This was no recession-grade list, he thought to himself. Roosevelt was not providing Almond Milk and Kombucha to the Civilian Corps, or whatever the hell they were called. What is Kombucha, anyway?
“Whole Foods, my ass,” he yawned aloud, “More like whole paycheck.” Another not so original joke that he passed off as his own.
He heard his daughter’s alarm clock go off. Time to move faster. The coffee had better have been set last night.
In the car tonight, I was thinking about the character from my first fiction post and wanted to write another scene that might fit somewhere in a longer story. The Royals are playing in the ALCS tonight, and it made me think back to how bad they were during the recession years. The idea of the morning after a fruitless trip to a sports bar sounded like something this character might experience. I thought about adding a detail about “Dad Rock,” and weaving in a recent revelation that my taste in music is not as trendy/cool as it was about 5 years ago, but then I got to wondering if “dad rock” is too recent a term? I don’t want to create an anachronism, even in a first draft, even if the distance between 2008 and 2014 doesn’t seem so far.