

## Shell Out

A short story

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### Jeremy Bursey

Copyright © 2015-2020 by Jeremy Bursey

All rights reserved.

zippywings.wordpress.com

Smashwords Edition

E-book edition: 1.2

ISBN: 9781311264060

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Some real-life cities, towns, institutions, or products may appear to lend authenticity to a scene for literary purposes, but this work does not intend to endorse or malign them. There is no catharsis or advertisement happening here. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

No part of this text may be reproduced in any other work without giving credit to the author. No part of this text may be used for commercial purposes, except by reviewers or critics, without the author's permission. The complete text is intended for personal use only and may not be used for commercial purposes, or duplicated in any other form for purposes other than personal, noncommercial use, or posted to any other site without the author's permission.

### Contents

Title

Copyright Information

Edition Notes

Part 1: Every Boy's Dream

Part 2: Stolen Pen, or The Bourne Reality

Part 3: Psychic Friends Hotline

Part 4: Like Most Kids

Part 5: Traffic Ticket

Part 6: eBay, or Desperate Measures

Part 7: To Love a Gold-digger

Part 8: The Nice Guy

Readers' Group Discussion Questions

Other Books

For Reviewers

Join My Mailing List

Author's Note

E-book Version

Revision History

About the Author

Contact and Questions

Coming Soon

### Edition Notes

Thank you for downloading _Shell Out_. Before you read, I want to inform you of the differences between this and earlier editions of the story (in case that matters to you, or in case you have an outdated copy). A more detailed "author's note" about the story's development will follow the last chapter.

This e-book update (2020) includes a new opening chapter that better reveals the main character's conflict and goal, and it fixes a few grammatical and stylistic issues from its earlier versions. Beyond that, the story remains mostly unchanged from its original electronic edition (2015) or its printed version in the creative fiction anthology _Seven-Sided Dice: The Collection of Junk, Volume 3_ (2006, no longer available). This update also adds a series of discussion questions for readers' groups after the final chapter, and it removes a bonus section of scenes from _Cannonball City:_ _A Modern-day Fantasy, Year One_ and my unreleased anthology, _My First Mullet_ , both of which bloated the original file size.

The original version is still available in the electronic and print editions of _Zippywings 2015: A Short Story Collection_.

### Part 1

________

### Every Boy's Dream

A year after high school, when his father had told him he could go to college, Greg nearly flipped out. He had spent most of his childhood believing he was doomed to follow in his father's burdened footsteps, working one odd job after another until extreme back pain landed him in the hospital or a coworker accidentally dropped a brick on his head. So the news that he could take a different path was an early birthday present. According to his former teachers, college would lead to good jobs that paid for better houses, two things that his father never had.

But when his father explained that he would have to find his own means to pay for it, Greg's heart sank. Loans were expensive, scholarships went to the smart kids, and living on the street sounded much worse than living in the trailer he called home now.

"Just get a side job," his father said. "Hard work makes the man and the money. I would've done it myself had I any sense when I was your age. Hippie life, you know?"

Greg's vision blurred. He saw the light coming in through the windows, but everything it touched turned to haze.

"When will I have time to study?"

"Ask one of the other millions of kids who have to work their way through college."

Greg frowned. He didn't understand why anyone would want to work _and_ go to college when doing both would leave hardly any free time for himself. The whole point in attending college was to create a life he enjoyed. Why sacrifice fun for work when it would just lead to more work? It sounded stupid to him. He shared his thoughts with his father.

"It's just how the world works, Greg," his father said. "If you want a better life than what I've given you, then you need to make the money. Don't you remember what your third grade teacher once told you?"

He remembered. _The richest moms are the happiest moms. For those of you with poor moms, please tell her to call me when Daddy's not home._

"Yeah, I didn't understand him at the time," he said. "Now I do."

Greg's father put his hand on his shoulder.

"And thank you for not taking his advice. But never forget his subtext. If you want the happier life, you'll have to earn it. I can't give that to you."

Greg nodded. He'd been hearing that mantra since adolescence began.

He spent that evening crying himself to sleep. What he wanted was the nice house and all the trappings that came with becoming a successful adult, but he didn't want the life that would prevent him from enjoying it.

As he pulled his blankets to his neck, then threw them at his feet, then kicked them to the floor, then dragged them back onto the bed, and repeated the process several times, he realized that pain was inevitable. Either he busted his butt for the next sixty years for the chance at a joyous life, or he relaxed all the way through the misery and spent the rest of his life exactly where he started it. Neither path was ideal. There had to be a third option.

The next morning, he decided he would settle for the happy medium. He would pick the cheapest school with the lowest graduation requirements, so he could leave something on the line for himself. That way, he could still go to college and tee himself up for a prosperous job while not having to work forty hours a week at minimum wage to pay for it all.

When he found the school that best fit his needs, he showed it to his father and smiled. His father skimmed the brochure and nodded.

"This school doesn't guarantee accreditation," he said.

"What does that mean?" Greg asked.

"It means you'll throw away all of your money. No accreditation means no worthwhile job." His father gave him a sobering look. "It means this school is worthless."

Greg frowned. He was worried that _no accreditation_ meant no future.

It was settled then. He had no choice. If he wanted the better life, he would have to sweat. There was no way around it now.

"Okay," he said. "How about this one then?"

$$$

The following fall, Greg enrolled in a university two hours from home. Despite what he'd told him months earlier, his father had squirreled away enough money to pay for his first semester, including classes, room and board, and food. Greg thanked him for his generosity.

"Just remember," his father said, "this is all I've got for you. Make it count. Don't waste it on stupid stuff. I can't bail you out if you mess it up."

Greg nodded. He suspected his father could give more, but he would use it to help Greg's two siblings instead.

"I'll do my best."

Greg's father shook his head.

"Always remember what Sean Connery says to Nicolas Cage about doing his best."

Greg remembered the lesson. It came from a famous line in a movie called _The Rock_.

"I'm not a loser," Greg said.

"I know you're not." Greg's father patted him on the head. "So don't let college turn you into one. Stay away from politics. Also, avoid women if possible. They're dangerous. And find a job. You'll thank me for it."

That was three years ago. As Greg sat in his apartment thinking about his life since leaving home, he realized it was possible he hadn't followed his father's advice.

### Part 2

________

### Stolen Pen, or The Bourne Reality

As much as he was looking forward to seeing _The Bourne Ultimatum_ at the Cineplex with his friends that night, Greg had to decline the invitation. Now that he was a member of the early twentysomething crowd, he understood that sometimes responsibility overshadowed fun or desire or hunger, and heading to the movies now would've been irresponsible. Sure, he could rebel against the adult thing and go anyway because he loved _The Bourne Identity_ and couldn't wait for the sequels. But then what? His friends weren't going to pay for his ticket. They were all bringing dates. They were already looking at nearly ten bucks for their tickets, times two, and another ten for their drinks and popcorn, times two, and no one was going to two-time his date by paying for Greg as well. Simple economics. He could go, but he would have to stand outside for two hours while his friends enjoyed the show. He wasn't an idiot.

Turning down the invitation had to be the rational decision then. Because he was no longer a teenager, he needed to do the responsible thing, and the responsible thing for a twentysomething on this lively Friday night was to stay home and padlock his wallet. Unless he had imagined it, he kept a ten-dollar bill inside. He probably _could_ have paid for the movie. But bills were due in a week. He had to make it last. He knew it was another step on the road to becoming a better man.

"It's for the best," he said to himself. He clicked his heels three times, just in case.

He figured he could make staying at home fun somehow. Maybe he could search the carpet for potato chip crumbs. He'd spent the last month staring at them, telling himself he'd get around to dealing with them, because he had to clean his place at some point, and he had to keep up the appearance that he was no slob. Maybe he could make a game of it, see how many he could scavenge in a minute and then try to beat that record. But then he thought about his stomach and how he'd probably need a snack later.

Of course, he'd never hear his stomach rumbling at the cusp of midnight. By ten o'clock on this lively Friday night where young lovers enjoyed each other amid the glow of Jason Bourne kicking ass, twentysomething Greg had already passed out on his couch from having cried into the crook of his elbow for an hour and a half, wondering if he would ever climb out of this black hole that had found its way under his feet. He was really looking forward to seeing that movie with his friends.

The sound of his phone was the only thing bringing him back to reality. It had woken him up. He'd almost let the ringing die out when he reached for it.

"Greg," said the voice on the other end, "where are you, man? We're still waiting to eat, and the movie starts in an hour."

Greg was still on his couch, arm still crooked over his eyes. _I'm broke, you idiot._

"The girls brought a friend of theirs, Rachel. She's exactly your type. Exactly. You need to get here right now."

He pulled himself to a sitting position, stared at the wall. Most of the girls he knew were _not_ his type, at all.

"There's still time to get here," his friend said. "But hurry. Rachel's hungry, and we promised you'd buy her meal, like you would on a date."

Greg continued staring at the wall. It seemed his friend was giving him time to think about that. When Greg didn't respond, his friend clarified the most important part of his message.

"We got you a date, man. Captain Riggs Steakhouse. Get over here now."

His friend hung up. Greg sprang from his couch and raced to his bedroom, searching for his wallet. When he found it, he opened it for another look.

The same ten-dollar bill waited for him to make a move. The average meal at Captain Riggs Steakhouse cost at least thirteen and change, not including tip. And he'd still have to buy a movie ticket–no, _two_ movie tickets–afterward. If Rachel were of any dating value, she'd want to see a new Jason Bourne movie, too.

He stared at his wallet. Then he stared at the wall. Then he threw his wallet at the wall.

Then he went back to the couch and belly-flopped the cushions.

The only thing permeating his dreams that night was the stark reality that he was getting too old for this growing-up crap.

$$$

The following Friday, with the ballpoint pen he had stolen from a box of Office Depot brand generics dying in his hand, Greg signed the three-figure rent check, careful not to gash the paper with the almost bone dry tip, and he wept to himself. As he ripped the sheet from his thinning checkbook, he was sure the tearing had split the structure of his wounded heart. Another lost chance at freedom, he thought.

Scrambling for an ounce of hope, some indicator that he displayed a shred of financial success, he looked around his dingy apartment, taking inventory of his sparse supply of amenities for validation: a chair, a nineteen-inch television, a two-cushioned sofa, and a coffee table all sat quietly, refusing to stare back. No magazines sat on the table, nor were there any extra pillows populating the sofa, and there certainly weren't any remote controls matching the television. The desk he'd gone browsing for at Office Depot the other day, the day when he had stolen the pen, was still sitting on the showroom floor for all he knew. And now, judging by his current bank balance, it seemed adding accessories to his bare apartment would've been a task for fairy tales.

He stared at the numerical figure in that little rectangular box. There was no way a party could expect a payment so high. He tried to laugh. Tried to keep that optimistic perspective that his professors had told him about. But he couldn't lie to himself. He knew this wasn't funny. His tears of sorrow were growing to a boiling anger. The apartment wasn't even worth half the price they wanted for it.

A punishing economy with no side-love for college students. It was a common theme that every person his age dealt with, but his theme was uncommonly harsh. His theme was chronic. Every time he thought he was close to financial advancement, the winds of reality swept through his living room and blew his livelihood out the window, laughing in its singsong fury all the way down the street. The bank register appeared to laugh at him, too, the way the pages flit open like a sly grin. He flipped it to the last record to see the horror of his past figures carrying the same denominations as this, many topping the upper end of three digits. A bead of sweat rolled from his forehead; this couldn't have been fair.

Another bead of sweat–or maybe a tear–rolled from his eye as he recorded the rent's value under his account total. The final balance came out thin–skin of his teeth thin. Once this check made it to the renter's hands he'd become flat broke. And that would stick him with canned soup and water for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for at least a week. Good thing he still had four dollars left from that ten-dollar bill he'd kept in his wallet. He was starving by now.

As he sat thinking about where to go from here, he wondered if anyone wanted to buy his stolen Office Depot pen for support.

$$$

It was funny, really. Three years ago Greg had it all worked it out. The plan was to leave home, move halfway across the state, and attend the University of State to study philanthropy. From his education he would learn all he needed to know about entrepreneurships, tycoonisms, and dollar hoarding. They'd teach him business, microeconomics, and show him the cheat codes to every _Tycoon_ computer game in existence. The plan was perfect. Fulfilling it would've made him more successful than his father. All it required was a small cash reserve for an apartment and a little extra for his summer semester's tuition, which he had, with change leftover to buy a shiny top hat and flirt with any random cute girl that crossed his path. The American Dream, made for him, and set loose on Easy Street Highway. Flawless.

But then disaster happened: economic turmoil flipped its middle finger at him. Although he landed his apartment and paid for his tuition–with cash leftover to buy two tickets to _The Bourne Supremacy_ –the open job market stood behind two massive iron doors and soldered it shut with melted locks. His perfect blueprint for managing some gazillionaire's money had somehow gotten lost at the printer's shop.

Greg spent his first month in the big city with the Classifieds on his lap, circling any insignificant, no-degree-required job he could find. The majority of available positions involved telemarketing or other tragic options that demanded unhappy people to fake a smile, even when no one was looking. None of that was his forte, but when the end of the month came, he knew he had to do something for income. With the market he craved somehow lost in shadows, he realized lowering his standards was the only way to pull it off.

He applied to a local temp agency for additional help, thinking it would never fail since it understood his urgency for employment and had the resources to stick him in a crappy position immediately. There wasn't much glamour in a job like telemarketing, but it paid better than fast-food places, so he swallowed his pride, stuck out his thumb, and hitched a ride to Walmart–a common temp agency hub–for his interview. He would've driven himself had he not needed gas for emergencies.

After delivering a successful interview through fake smiles, he landed his first telemarketing job with a local phone company.

At first he assumed he could advance the ranks to become CEO of the corporation. Then reality hit him when he failed to make a sale during his first month. His employers furthered his understanding when they assured him he would go far–very far–as long as it was with a different company.

When another rent's due date reached the horizon, Greg returned to the Classifieds. There he circled a job that didn't have so many sales demands. When he told his friend about the job he'd found, he scoffed at him.

"Dude, I've found you one better," his friend said. "Pays by the hour, but it's generous. You just gotta be able to talk to idiots."

Greg thought about the requirement. Then he nodded.

"I have plenty of experience in that," he said.

### Part 3

________

### Psychic Friends Hotline

He managed to survive for a little over a year at the Psychic Friends Hotline, which was amazing considering he sometimes misunderstood his own mind. The position had given him a unique opportunity to interact with interesting people, and he learned much about human psychology during his many experiments. And, despite his initial high climaxing in the first month and the subsequent fall resembling a slow-motion dream where he'd jump out of a plane as it raced for the side of a mountain, just to discover that he had forgotten to take a parachute, he gave it his heart because it gave him a paycheck.

But, as the thrill drew closer to death, he began to lose his step. His interest followed. The effects were gradual, but he could sense the difference between now and his first day. The standard protocol had sown in him the seeds of boredom, and he needed to spice things up. His readings had grown riskier: he was giving them futures that would change their destinies. And he knew the risk had an expiration date that would eventually spoil him. But he kept it going for as long as he could. His paycheck was enough that he had forgotten what it was like to eat noodles on the couch in front of a dead TV on a Friday night.

He fell in hot water when he took things too far and a caller suspected him of fraud. It was a shame, too, because his future-predicting skills, or what passed as skills, landed him a weekly paycheck almost worth smiling about. The call in particular, which brought the head psychic to break out his big fat red pen, began after lunch:

"Well, Heeeelllloooo," Greg said, as he dangled the handset by his mouth. "Thank you for choosing the Psychic Friends Hotline where your future can make your dreams come true and all that fun stuff. Let us join minds, Mis . . ."

"Wow, hi," said the male caller. "I can't believe I'm finally calling the Hotline. I've thought about it for months, ever since my girlfriend dumped me, but she used to make fun of it, saying it was a big joke. I couldn't get the nerve to call until a girl at Crappy Burger said, 'Tommy, you need to get over Mandy. She was never good for you. If you call the Psychic Friends Hotline today, the friendly psychic can tell you your future so you don't have to end up with girls like her again.' Wasn't that nice of her? So here I am, calling the Psychic Friends Hotline, and I'm nervous, but I need advice."

"Well, Mister Tommy, let us see what we can find–"

"You know my name? Wow, you're the real deal, man."

"Of course, Tommy. I'm a psychic." Greg took notes on some Post-its while he listened to the caller and regurgitated his information. So far he kept the caller's name and gender recorded next to a doodle of a rooster he had been scribbling since his conversation with the previous caller.

"That's so amazing. That is so frickin' awesome. I'm listening to everything Kelly says from now on. So what's my relational future?"

For effect, Greg emitted a droning noise–he liked to do this whenever he needed the illusion of reading futures. Habit had also brought him to spit and gurgle at the end of the show. The entire system took about sixty seconds of the caller's time.

"According to my amazing psychic powers I can predict that getting over Mandy will be in your best interest and that awaiting a new love is in your future."

"Really? When?"

"Well, Tommy, I predict a new beautiful woman will show up in your life very soon. And this woman, Tommy, you will not only find attractive, but with her a relationship you will also desire."

"Wow, really? Are you sure?"

"Do not underestimate the all-knowingness of a Psychic Friend. There will be a girl arriving very soon who will catch your attention and fill your thoughts with love. And this woman will be highly, highly attractive."

"Omigosh, omigosh, that's so frickin' awesome."

Greg paused as he waited for Tommy to stop hyperventilating. In the meantime he wrote down _attractive woman_ , _Mandy_ , and drew some feathers on the rooster.

"Tommy, are you okay?"

"What else can you tell me? What else can you tell me?"

Greg cracked a smile, as he always did when he got a caller begging for information.

"I predict this woman will seduce you with her beauty and make you want to sleep beside her all day and night, and perhaps even around lunchtime." _Sleeping beauty._

At this point Tommy's words flew off his lips so fast that Greg could no longer understand him.

"Tommy, I sense you are happy about this revelation."

"This is the greatest moment of my life! Thank you, Psychic Friends Hotline!"

Greg lurched. "But, Tommy, there is still more to this tale."

He normally preferred the easy way out, and this was the one time he should've taken it. Since he was getting paid by the hour, not the minute, he tried to end his calls after the first load of crap was dished. But for some reason, whether it was a desire to look productive to his boss, boredom, or just the thick layer of smoke in the air getting to his brain, he couldn't resist dragging this one out.

"What's that, Psychic Friend? What could possibly be better than a beautiful woman coming into my life?"

"Well, Tommy, I'm afraid there's a bulldozer accident in your future."

Tommy's chipper spirit took an abrupt turn.

"What do you mean? I thought this was about my love life."

"It is about your love life, Tommy, but the path to happiness will be temporarily detoured by a bulldozer–a big yellow one."

He began sketching a bulldozer next to the rooster. He couldn't remember if the shovel was supposed to have teeth or not.

"How so?"

Greg found a tabloid magazine opened along the corner of his desk and consulted the cover story for details. It was one of his tricks for finding life details in a hurry.

"I sense the bulldozer will be under the control of a crazed vampire named Gruptach the Wagner, who will use the device to wreak havoc on humanity."

"No, that can't be."

"Oh, but it is what I see. A terrible vampire in really horrible clothes–I'm guessing from one of those whacked-out French designers–will try to infect the living with his bloodsucking disease, and you, Tommy, will be at the center of it."

"The vampire is going to bite me?"

Greg paused for dramatic effect, and also to think up his next line of BS.

"No, Tommy, the vampire will not bite you; I see that clearly."

"Really?"

"Yes, Tommy, and not because he's a sissy–he is indeed not a sissy–but because you are a hero."

"I'm a hero?"

"You are a bona fide, certified, classified hero, and the vampire will be afraid of you. Gruptach the Wagner will be downright, out-a-sight afraid of you."

"Then . . . how will there be a bulldozer accident in my future?"

"The bulldozer, Tommy, is not afraid of you. The vampire, though too frightened to bite you, will have no regret sending his devious devices your way, stopping at nothing to bowl you over–to flatten you, making you easily devoured by his bloodsucking fangs. But I see you acting swiftly, Tommy. The hero won't allow that bulldozer to touch you.

"The accident, Tommy, will be the bulldozer falling into a ravine, into which it will attempt to knock you over. In your swift action you will dodge the ten-mile-an-hour bulldozer, just as it plummets over the edge. And in your triumph, Tommy, you will see the explosion wipe away all obstacles that threaten your dream–your destiny of crossing paths with the beautiful woman."

"Wow, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Tommy! I am a Psychic Friend. I know the future of your path to the future. You cannot begin to underestimate my ability to convince you of these ironclad predictions. What I've told you today, I stand by in the vicinity of one hundred percent, with a hundred percent probability of definitive possibility."

Tommy lapsed in temporary silence, then quickly piped up with an anxious breath.

"So what must I do to prepare for this vampire attack?"

"You must eat three cloves of garlic a day, then attempt to kiss a beautiful stranger. This, Tommy, will also be the gateway into ushering your dream into reality–the dream to discover and stand close to the beautiful woman I have predicted. When you lean in to kiss her, that is the moment she will notice you."

"Wow, okay, Psychic Friend. I can do this."

"Of course you can, Tommy, as I have already seen it. Now go, you have a beautiful maiden to lay eyes upon."

"Thank you, Psychic Friend."

"No, thank you, Tommy. Thank you for being a hero. Now will you be paying with Visa, MasterCard, or American Express?"

A few days later, the supervisor summoned him to his office to discuss a call involving a vampire and a bulldozer. Although Greg had steered the phone conversation in an absurd direction to make things interesting–and why wouldn't he? His customers were idiots–the supervisor (and lead psychic) didn't find it so amusing when the caller named Tommy complained about a severe injury he had incurred while crossing a demolished sidewalk.

"He said you told him he wouldn't get hurt by a bulldozer," the supervisor said. He had a twitch in his eyes and a frown on his face. "And yet somehow he did anyway. Care to explain?"

Greg was dumbfounded. Never in a moment had he thought there would be a bulldozer in Tommy's future.

"I was just . . ."

"Mr. Agnew wants to sue us for fraud. He stated, with conviction, that his psychic advisor informed him, with absolution, that he would dodge an oncoming bulldozer. I'm sure you can imagine his surprise when he, in fact, did not dodge the oncoming bulldozer."

At first Greg wanted to laugh at the man's ridiculous misfortune, but instead felt angry over this odd coincidence.

"It was just a joke, Mr. Freedman. Who really takes this stuff seriously?"

"Well, evidently, Mr. Agnew takes this stuff seriously. And also, _evidently_ , so do I."

And the rest of the story segued into a speech about ethics, emotional abuse, and the fact that the Psychic Friends had no room for practical jokers, so Greg had once again found himself trudging through the unemployment line.

### Part 4

________

### Like Most Kids

In a normal world, Greg wouldn't have minded that the job market was infertile. He grew up in a simple home with three kids and two parents sharing the limited commodities that included two bedrooms, one bath, a small living room with a single sofa and beanbag chair, and a kitchen the size of a closet. And, though he had endured cramped living conditions in his youth, he didn't let it bother him. Displaying riches was a dream he didn't realize he was supposed to have.

But then came public school and with it the conversations of other lives beyond his manufactured, as his father had once called it, front door. He listened to his blond-haired, blue-eyed classmates brag about having their own rooms–big rooms with lots of toys–and TV rooms attached to living rooms, with living rooms attached to dining rooms. But he had never seen these fabled establishments in person, so he didn't know how to become jealous of his friends, an emotion that, as he had learned in the third grade, was a requirement for growing up. Even though he tried to imagine a life with spacious luxury, he just couldn't grasp the concept. Everything seemed okay as it was: two siblings snoring away at bedtime, people yelling through closed bathroom doors that it was their turn to shower or pee, shared family meals around the tiny living room, and watching an old wood frame television that sat on the floor and had tuning knobs for channel adjustment. That was the life Greg understood in his early years and, to his assumption, the life he thought he would always accept.

The problem, however, was that, as he got older, educators made a bigger deal about college, and Greg realized halfway through high school that he would have to conquer the university realm and, more importantly, the realm of finance if he were to survive the future. School further taught him that if he were to remain happy in life, he needed to provide an environment he and his future family could use to make friends and enemies jealous. That meant bigger pursuits for bigger paychecks, and bigger homes for bigger egos. Whatever his parents did to scrape a living, it was obsolete.

Ultimately, this new way of thinking had brought him before the gates of college, ready to break the competition in half. But he didn't know what to compare himself to. He figured his first step was to make more money than his parents ever had because they'd never made enough to fill a penny jar. But he wasn't sure how much more to pursue. Plucking through his memories, he realized he needed to make at least as much as his classmates' parents. But to win the competition against them, it was important to surpass their income. That left him with the question of how.

The third and final problem to his fortune-seeking dilemma was that, as he grew up, he heard that girls only liked guys with money. Sure, there was a time when this information had no meaning to him. But life had a way of throwing curveballs into his comfortable realm of interests. During his years in middle school, he'd made the startling discovery that, despite his ironclad beliefs that spoke to the contrary, he actually liked girls. It was a strange realization to awake to one morning, considering he'd just gotten through defending his point about how yucky they were a few weeks earlier. But there it was, haunting him–laughing at him. And, as his hormones grew and the years to follow whispered advice in his ears, he came to realize that to win the heart of any great beauty, he had to strike it rich because the pretty ones wanted only rich guys, according to what the seventeen-year-old experts had told him.

So, with these problems compounding during the start of eleventh grade, he realized he needed to do something quickly to enter college. From there, he also had to think of a plan to rake in the cash so he could live happily within the will of society, not miserably, like he was sure his parents had lived.

After he'd chosen a campus to attend, he plowed into his first and greatest obstacle–to figure out how to pay for it. He didn't have enough money to get him through the first four years, so he scoured the Internet for options. There were some scholarships he applied for but fell short of winning because other people in his class outsmarted him. He also considered grants and loans, deciding later that the road to riches would've looked bad if he'd gotten there through pity, not to mention loans would've made his education more expensive. Neither outcome was ideal, so after much deliberation and worry over how much free time he'd lose, he decided he would work for it.

But there was also the problem that his jobs never lasted, so he scraped barely enough money for his entrance fees. How he'd manage to stay enrolled, he didn't know, but he was determined to strike it rich, so he endured economic trials as much as he needed to get to his place of financial peace.

Of course, he had hoped that burning desire and the drive to win was sufficient to get him there. Many nights he'd linger in bed, telling himself he was doing enough. But, even as he repeated mantras of success in his head, he knew what he really needed to become rich and pay for all of his classes without batting an eye was a lot more money. If he had that, he wouldn't need to keep lying to himself about all of those other wishful things.

He just didn't know how to rake it in or keep it for long. None of his rich blond, blue-eyed classmates from third grade could tell him their parents' secret to prosperity. It was for that reason, well into his young adulthood, that he had trouble sleeping at night. He needed to learn how to make lots of money so he could earn his degree. The only method he thought of, though, was to work a low-level job beyond its dead end, and he'd already figured out, thanks to his father, that that was a plan without blossoming fruit.

Each night he went to bed and stared at the ceiling, he counted himself lucky for having never bought a piggy bank. Thanks to his lack of guidance, he would've taken a hammer or a torch to it by now. That would've made saving money even harder. Even though he couldn't sleep, he at least took comfort in knowing he wouldn't be killing any ceramic pigs any time soon.

### Part 5

________

### Traffic Ticket

When his position at the Psychic Friends Hotline came to an end, Greg decided he would change gears and head for something less unconventional and more competitive. His first inclination was to apply at a local fast-food joint, but he reasoned that fighting for cashier or line cook status wasn't glamorous or profitable. So he resolved to go to the city football stadium where he'd apply to become a janitor.

At first, he thought it was a smart decision–for a total of two minutes. Then he remembered that his father had made a living doing exactly the same thing. So he U-turned in the middle of the street in protest of his momentary lapse of reason. It was a risky move for his clunky 1986 station wagon, but his wheels held on to their axles, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he straightened out and realized he was still alive and upright. However, his illegal maneuver went noticed by law enforcement, and the blue and red lights flashed in the rearview mirror just a few seconds later.

If Greg were running any sort of lucky streak, this sure wasn't that time. As the squad car pulled him over, he searched his mind for ways to get out of receiving a ticket but wasn't sure how thick his charm ran. He knew of people that had eluded tickets before, so he tried to recall their countless advice. Unfortunately, as the nerves in his stomach rose, and as the damage a ticket would've caused him took root in his thoughts, all his plans for a smooth exchange went blank. And, as the smug officer with a handlebar mustache strutted to his window, Greg lost all sense of prediction about how the conversation would go, which, incidentally, started off badly:

$$$

The officer stood at the smudged window, gesturing him to lower it. A moment passed before Greg realized what the cranking of the man's hand meant. He fidgeted for the rusty handle and lowered it halfway before the officer spoke.

"Good afternoon," said the slick looking police officer with toothpick dangling from his lip. "May I see your license and registration?"

Greg nodded but said nothing. He was too preoccupied with the number of times sweat dripped from his forehead to realize he was poking around the wrong pocket. When he realized how empty it felt, he scrambled for his other pocket, which he found by the slight weight on his leg. The cop noticed his sudden shift in behavior and sported a twitchy smile.

"Whoa, no need to be nervous. Just need to see the cards. It's a simple request."

"I'm not nervous," Greg spat. "I just don't want a ticket."

Greg shoved his hand in the weighty pocket and found his wallet buried deep.

"Well, no, I didn't think you did. Don't know of many people who ever really want a ticket."

Greg removed his wallet and fidgeted around the top before opening it. Once the interior opened its maw, he jabbed his thumb against his license and fumbled it from the center pocket. As it slid away from his credit cards, the license slipped out and tumbled to the floor.

The license landed close to his feet but was too far to reach. He deliberated a moment whether to remove his seatbelt while an officer of the law stood just inches away. But he resolved that there was no way he'd recover his information if he kept the harness intact. As Greg clicked at the safety release button, letting the belt escape into a stationary position, the police officer tapped his ticket pad with his pen.

"Sir, are you fit to drive?" The officer's head rolled on his neck.

"I'm fine, officer," Greg said, as he pawed around the footwell. "My license fell on the floor. That's all."

"Well, you seem exceptionally nervous. You sure you're not trying to hide anything from me?"

Greg shot him a furtive look.

"Of course not. I just dropped my license."

"Sir, you don't need to develop an attitude with me. A simple 'yes' or 'no' will do."

"I'm not . . . I'm not developing an attitude. Sorry."

Greg finally made contact with his license and shot upward, displaying it in hand. The officer lurched back at Greg's sudden movement.

"Here it–"

But Greg's grip failed as he returned to an upright position, and once again the license escaped his hand, this time flying out the window, nearly hitting the officer in the eye. The officer watched stone-faced as it flew past his neck and landed on the shoulder of the highway.

"Okay, now see if you can show me your registration without trying to take my head off." The officer's patience was wearing thin.

As the officer bent over to confiscate Greg's flighty license from the street, Greg reached in his glove compartment to search for his registration card. It had been a while since he last saw it, and he could only assume it was at the bottom of the large stack of receipts and envelopes taking up most of the room. He stuffed his hands inside the papered mess, searching hastily through each section of trash, forgotten CD jackets, and even a copy of a _Braveheart_ word search magazine, until he found his target. Only, every sheet of paper he rummaged through seemed stuck to the next, which made locating the registration card a painful task.

After a minute or so of twiddling his thumbs, the officer cleared his throat. Greg felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck as the officer's hot breath blew through the window. In his increasing nervousness, Greg pulled out every piece of trash from the glove compartment and scattered it like a fan across his passenger seat–every article that wasn't stuck to something else.

"I'm waiting," said the officer.

"I'm looking," Greg said, almost at a shout. "I haven't had a chance to sort through this stuff yet."

"Would you like me to help?"

At this point Greg was tempted to just drive off–to escape this police officer's annoying reliance on sarcasm–but he remembered that doing so would've risked him more than a ticket, so he stomached the man's yawn of a voice for just a little longer.

"I'll find it," he said. "It's in here somewhere."

And, after another minute of searching, Greg finally found it stuck to an old faded drugstore receipt that he had collected three years earlier.

"Here it is."

Careful not to fling it at the cop, Greg clutched the card between his thumb and forefinger, passing it over to the now impatient officer. The officer took it and smiled.

"Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Before Greg could respond, or even think to respond, the officer strutted back to the patrol car with his driver information in hand. He noticed in the rearview mirror the officer speaking into the transmitter from over his shoulder. Unwilling to watch the man's actions or expressions, Greg shoved everything back in the glove compartment and slammed it closed. Then he refastened his seatbelt and waited. When the cop came back, he wore a smile on his face.

"Sir, it appears your registration expired two months ago. Do you have anything more recent in that . . . hellhole you call a glove compartment?"

Greg's heart sank at this news. He knew there was something important he had forgotten to do around his birthday.

"No, officer. That's what I have."

The officer nodded and began scribbling stuff on his notepad as he spoke.

"Then I suggest you go and update your registration as soon as possible."

A moment later the officer ceased writing and calmly tore a sheet of yellow paper off his notepad. He flung it at Greg.

"Now then," he continued. "I'm citing you for the illegal U-turn I initially pulled you over for. That's a dangerous place to be changing direction, so I can't in fair conscience let you off with a warning. Secondly, I'm citing you for your expired registration because two months is way too long to be lazy about taking responsibility. Thirdly, I'm citing you for your uncouth attitude toward me. You have to understand that an officer of the law deserves respect, not rudeness. I hope that if you should ever face another of us again, you'll have a better attitude. Fourthly, I'm not citing you for this, but in the future I'd suggest you calm down because I'm this close to searching your car for contraband. Frankly, I think both of us have better things to do than to wait for me to pick your junky car apart, so be calm next time. And with that, drive safe. If you can."

Greg sat dumbfounded as he looked over his citations. The cost would undoubtedly sink him into the negative financial zone. As he sat there and marveled over his bad luck, the advice that a friend had told him long ago finally entered his mind. Her advice: always remain calm, polite, and have everything ready before the officer reaches the driver side door.

### Part 6

________

### eBay, or Desperate Measures

Greg stood before court to deal with his traffic citation the same day his rent was due. It was doubly painful because he still hadn't found a job to replace his last one. He had searched high and low for someone to break him out of his financial funk, but none were looking for a guy with his qualifications. Some gave reasons. Most didn't. Of the ones who responded, the managers remained polite, the same way a doctor would remain polite when telling his patient that his cancer has spread throughout his body. They didn't necessarily think he was useless; they just couldn't afford to train him. Something about saving face while the economy was still tolerable. A few had also considered testing him, but they were willing to offer him only minimum wage doing things that degraded him as a human being, like sign spinning. Even then they humored him. They really weren't interested in paying him to do anything. In the end, he was unskilled in most applications, according to his job history, and no one had believed he was competent to prevent setting fire to their businesses. So Greg was forced to sweat his moment of financial fleeting as the judge banged the gavel and ordered him to pay the cashier. Of course, he asked for a job on the way out, but the judge offered him an odd glance instead.

After signing and dating both checks, Greg sat in his famished-looking bedroom, staring at his seven-year-old computer that a friend had sold him for less than a hundred dollars. He had a few basic programs installed and a cheap Internet service running off banners and pop-ups, but no drive to use it. He had tried to get established once by setting up an e-mail account with some company promising him free storage but realized a month too late that free storage meant no more than ten e-mails at a time–including junk mail. After the tenth message, the provider charged him ten cents for each additional message and twenty cents for anything that came with an attachment. The friend who had sold him the computer warned him about the scammer e-mailing company the following month after many complaints had stacked against them, but by then it was too late and he owed them an additional fifty dollars. After that incident, Greg vowed to never use e-mail again, but his friend signed him with another, more reputable company called AOL, and his problems seemed to have lessened a bit.

As he contemplated his future and the moves required for him to reach it, he thought of an option that sounded foolproof. People at school had discussed repeatedly an online trading company called eBay, talking about how a member could buy and sell nearly anything for any price. Some students made a living selling crap on eBay, stuff like model ships, unopened packs of Garbage Pail Kids, and old baseball gloves. One guy had even paid for his entire semester by selling his dad's mint-condition set of encyclopedias. It made Greg curious about eBay's mechanics and how he could make the system work to his advantage.

When he stared at his blank monitor, he envisioned before him a huge marketing empire that could rescue him from his financial nightmare. As his eyelids grew heavy and his cheeks tightened, he concentrated hard on the screen, focusing on the random shapes in his mind. He knew his eyes were playing tricks on him, but he didn't care. He could actually see the buildings of success rising toward him. The image looked like that computer game he had seen his neighbor playing a few nights earlier when he went to borrow a bath towel, _SimCity 4_. Through eBay, his future rise from poverty would become like that computerized city. And he would become its mayor. What he learned from his classmates would set him free. Looking to capitalize on this information, he resolved to turn on his computer, find this eBay place, and transform his hard-earned assets into pure gold. The plan was foolproof.

His first inclination was to call up a search engine and type in the word _ebay_ , but he figured the company had named its Web site after itself, so he typed it in the address bar and followed it with the famed dot com. After a minute of page loading, the site appeared miraculously in his monitor, and Greg's hopes for financial liberation finally came true. He saw before him a homepage filled with membership requests and info about how best to navigate the sales world.

As he stared at the site specific navigational bar, Greg became tempted to scour the place for additional toys for his apartment but stopped himself, making a gentle note that he was there only to sell. Of course, as he pondered the thought, he realized that selling anything meant owning fewer things than he already had. That he'd even arrived at this page was an act of desperation.

He scanned his room for anything he wouldn't miss. As he took inventory, he noted that he'd need his bed in the coming months. He also noted there was no way he would abandon his television or floor lamp. Perhaps, he thought, there was something attached to the bed or the lamp he could dismiss, or maybe an additional trinket sitting on top of the television. But there wasn't. Not the best start for a man looking to grow his online empire.

Next, he figured he would find something in his closet, but on careful observation, he realized he needed his clothes and shoes. When that failed, he searched the rest of his apartment for that token to financial salvation.

At the end of his search, he found a few items worth discarding, though he wasn't sure how much he could get for them: his dish detergent was among the list (he could rinse his plates clean), as was his toothbrush (he could brush his teeth with his finger), his Taco Bell cups (he had about twenty of them), his Subway cups (he owned twice as many as those), his plunger (it was already in the bathroom when he'd moved in), his hairbrush (he kept a plastic comb in his closet, somewhere), his oven mitts (he never cooked), his ten-year-old pair of tennis shoes (they were so beaten they no longer stuck to his feet), and a couple pairs of underwear (he could always reverse whatever he had leftover). In the end, he thought if someone was needy enough, he could earn enough to cover part of his utility bills.

Visions of economic waterfalls danced in his head as he imagined the masses pouring over the entries. Images filled his mind of short people, tall people, skinny people, fat people, each fighting over the rights to own the masterpieces that made up his stuff. In his folding chair, he leaned back and placed his hands behind his neck, exhaling with relief that his financial problems were finally over.

He took a few minutes to register with the site and make entries for his items. He didn't have the means to show pictures, but he wrote intriguing descriptions for each one–his favorite being that they had been used only once. When he finished setting the parameters for each object, he sat back and waited for the auction to begin. He set the bids to close after seven days; he figured that would allow ample time for his prices to skyrocket without having to miss the deadlines for his bills.

But after seven days of frequent checking, with minimal food or bathroom breaks in between, Greg discovered, to his horror, that nobody in the world really wanted his stuff. It seemed the only thing that stood even a remote chance was the oven mitts because the pair was in relatively good condition–okay, perfect condition–but the only bid it got was for a dollar.

He was crushed. As he poked around the corners of his apartment, faced with the same items he tried pawning off to worldwide traders, he felt tears trickling from his eyes. He wanted so badly to become economically free, but that dream seemed distant now. He couldn't get a job, no one wanted his stuff, and he still had debt up to his eyeballs from rent, traffic tickets, and college tuition. For the first time in his life, he thought it was time to return home.

But then he wouldn't know what to do. His parents were in no position to take care of him. His dad mopped a football stadium for a living–there was no support in that. And getting back? His car was a clunker, running off its last inch of rusty axle. There was no way he could run from his failure because there was nowhere to run to. As it turned out, regardless of his post-high school ambitions, he had set out on an adventure that would swallow him whole. All because no one wanted to buy his underwear on eBay.

Greg melted in bed and stared at his ceiling for three days straight. The depression over his merchandising failure pushed him to paralysis. Emotionally, his wits escaped him, and physically, his health toppled into sickness. After a while, he felt the underside of his skin crawl from the stress that ate away inside. He knew that if he didn't move soon, he would disintegrate into his mattress, failing to set foot on the floor again.

And that was what he wanted now.

On the fourth day, his ten-dollar phone rang from a distant corner of his room. At first he didn't want to move, but he figured it was rude of him to ignore the caller entirely, so he oozed his way over the edge of his bed, dropped to his belly in a soft plop, and slid across the floor by swaying his knees. When he finally reached the phone and knocked it off its base with his chin, the guy on the other end spoke in a virtual shout. It was one of Greg's friends from class.

"Greg, where've you been?" Jeff asked. "The cat detailing assignment was due today."

"The what?" Greg didn't really care.

"The cat detailing assignment . . . for sociology. Remember?"

"I don't care."

"That was half our grade."

"Then I guess I fail. Goodbye."

"Dude, are you all right? This doesn't sound like you."

"I have to go."

"You didn't blow up your cat, did you?"

"I don't have a cat."

"Well, then why are you acting so weird?"

"I'm just depressed right now."

"Depressed? What? Come on, you don't get depressed."

"I'm depressed _now_. Leave me alone."

"If you're depressed, then why don't you hang with us tonight? We're going to a club."

"I can't afford to leave my house."

"Why, because of unemployment? Whatever. I'll spot you the cover. Get dressed. I'm coming to pick you up. And I'm bringing a cat so you can draw it and finish your detailing assignment."

### Part 7

________

### To Love a Gold-digger

Somehow, around ten o'clock, Greg ended up standing at the front door of the Fiddlesticks Nightclub down the clogged neon-lit arteries of the city's downtown area. He assumed he could weasel out of it had he slipped a dummy in the passenger seat of a taxicab, but he couldn't find one amid his sparse inventory, nor could he find a cab willing to cart one to the club for free. So he threw on his best buttoned shirt, gargled some toothpaste with some tap water, and hopped in his piece of junk station wagon. And that's how he ended up at the front door of the nightclub. His wallet was empty, of course, but his friend Jeff made good on his promise. He stood there waiting for Greg with a five-dollar bill in hand.

"There's a girl inside I want you to meet," he said, as he slipped the bill into his hand.

Greg still felt darkly depressed over his eBay disaster and didn't want to meet a girl for fear it would intensify the pain. He didn't have much female experience to begin with, but he knew they didn't gravitate toward guys on the verge of homelessness, so the last thing he wanted was to discuss not only his empty treasury but his life without a job or shred of survival ambition.

"Tonight's not a good night."

"Why, because you're broke? Nonsense. There's no reason you have to enlighten her on that secret."

"But what if it comes up?"

"One word: _misdirection_."

As depressed as he felt, a sense of laughter echoed from Greg's lungs at the sound of Jeff's response. After a moment's thought, he figured it was worth a shot.

"Fine, we'll see what happens."

And that's what he did; he saw what happened:

$$$

"Greg," Jeff said, with a smile as fake as that of a Hollywood actor's. "This is Mandy. She's a masseuse over at the day spa."

"Great."

Greg extended his hand to the blond beauty standing at the bar. She took it. Some flowery-scented perfume emanated from her neck while some beer-scented breath emanated from her mouth. She wore an eager smile.

"Nice to meet you," she shouted over the dance music. "Jeff told me a lot about you."

"Really? Like what?"

"He says you're studying to be the next Dr. Phil. I think that's awesome. So many people in the world have so many problems these days that we need someone with expert advice to solve our issues with three minutes of counseling because who really has the time to sit down for more than three minutes?"

"Not I, certainly. Jeff, what about–"

Greg looked over to discover that Jeff had slipped away. He scanned the crowded room, but couldn't locate him anywhere.

"Hmm," he continued, "I guess he's gone."

"Better for us to get to know each other, right?" Mandy held her smile.

"Yeah. So you're a masseuse, are you?"

"Yep, just got my license a couple of months ago. You'd be surprised what people will pay for a backrub."

"A lot?"

"More than is probably necessary. It's actually amusing because the same people come back every week to have a procedure done, knowing full well they'll be out of whack within a few hours, but they're willing to shell out sixty, ninety, or even a hundred dollars a session just to feel a small spurt of comfort. I mean, a good friend could give the same quality back massage I give for free, but because I'm a 'professional,' they think they're getting a bargain. All they're really doing is wasting their money. Sure, they're lining my pockets, which is great for me, but if they knew there were better therapists out there, they wouldn't be so quick to come to me. Not that anyone needs to know that, of course."

"Of course."

"So what classes have you taken to earn your Dr. Phil status?"

"Well, I'm taking sociology right now. That's about it. Don't yet know how to contact Oprah."

Her smile weakened, but the upward hooks in the corners of her mouth lingered.

"That's one of the basic courses, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, I'm still trying to finish my prerequisites. It takes a little time to build up the reputation I'm working for."

"Well, as long as you get there eventually, right?"

"Exactly."

"So what do you do in the meantime?"

"What do you mean?"

"For money. What do you do for income while you're still in school?"

And this, of course, was the question he had hoped she wouldn't ask but knew in his heart she would ask, anyway. The first thing he thought about was misdirection.

"What did you do for cash while you were in school?" he deflected.

"I worked at a pharmacy for four years, realized I wasn't making enough to really be happy, so I quit and went to work at the day spa. That was six months ago. Now I'm a certified masseuse who makes lots and lots of money."

"And you like money, don't you?"

"It buys the things I want."

"I see."

And somehow this revelation made him even more depressed–if that were possible. Since childhood people had told him how important economic success was, but it wasn't until now that he understood why. As he looked in this girl's eyes, he realized it wasn't having riches that would make him happy, but that having riches would make the woman happy. So the problem he faced wasn't the lack of stuff he owned to fill his apartment, but the lack of stuff he had to impress this girl with. If he were rich, he would be problem-free. But, because he was poor, he was problem-consumed. If this girl found out the truth, he wouldn't get past this initial conversation. And, even though that wouldn't have been a problem five minutes ago, he didn't want to blow his chances at having a future with her now that he was getting to know her. So he decided he would puff up his chest, make another attempt at landing a suitable job, and do whatever he could to get rich quickly. He decided the best road to take after tonight was to become a masseuse.

$$$

And that's precisely what Greg set out to do. The next day, he borrowed a phonebook from a neighborhood restaurant and scoured the yellow pages for a massage therapy school. On finding what he thought was the cheapest place–he called schools with only basic listings–he requested information about tuition, duration, and job placement. The school of his choice said it would offer classes in a month.

Greg had to make a firm decision: one month in his world meant the difference between sleeping in a room and sleeping in a gutter. Holding out that long would've been like testing the duration one could handle a dog biting him on the ankle. A prize might have been waiting at the end of the test, but the road getting there could've gotten him killed. Of course, he had no choice; he had to stick it out. That meant working anywhere, doing anything, and doing it for many, many hours a week. In the end, it meant having to withdraw from the university.

He resolved not to stay out forever, though, because eventually he would need his psychology degree, which he had switched to from philanthropy because he thought there was more money in it, and because he didn't really know what a philanthropist did. But there was clearly no room for his college education in the meantime, so he elected to drop it.

When Monday came, his friend Jeff called to ask where he'd been hiding, but Greg never gave him a straight answer. He just claimed that he would return to class whenever he knew the time was right. The ambiguous statement didn't leave Jeff all too satisfied, but Greg dodged his unrelenting questions by asking about the girl from the club, and whether he knew how to reach her. He hadn't gotten the information from her personally because, just before he was about to ask, she was distracted by another girl's shiny bracelet and proceeded to ask a million questions about it, which Greg found rather dull, so he left. Fortunately, Jeff had run into her a few nights earlier and got her phone number. He graciously passed it to Greg, who in turn stored it in a safe place.

The girl, Mandy, turned out to be easily reached. Every time he called, which he kept to a cool three times a week, she answered on the fourth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in. They typically spent twenty to thirty minutes talking about life, ambitions, and the money that came with serving both, and ended each call with an "I miss you," or "wish you were here," or something cheesy along those lines. On several occasions, Mandy tried to talk Greg into going out with her, most notably to fancy restaurants and comedy clubs, but Greg _misdirected_ her seductions by insisting he was too tired that night and would try to go out later in the week. The only times he elected to be "alert" and "ready to go" were the times they agreed to meet at a park, or any place allowing free parking, free entertainment, or didn't involve him coming to pick her up, or meeting her in the parking lot where she might see his car. Those times, of course, were the best times of his life.

But, as his entrance to massage therapy school drew closer and his wallet became increasingly weakened–which wasn't saying much anymore–his ability to dodge the financial truth got tougher. There had been several occasions when Mandy insisted on coming over to see his place, but he insisted harder that his apartment was too messy from his mountains of possessions to stay comfortable, and that they would find more room hanging out at a hotel lobby wherever continental dinners were served and a complimentary viewing of the local news was offered. She always responded that she could help him sort things out, but he consistently retorted that there would be no fun in that, and that it would be more fun to take a walk somewhere, anywhere, instead. It gave him a slight thrill to know he was taking charge.

During this season of tactical evasion, he landed a job sweeping floors for a burger place. He did it for sixty hours a week and made close to two hundred dollars a paycheck. By every Sunday, he was exhausted, but he slowed the decent of his wealth, which was a milestone in his life. Whenever his battle to stop Mandy from coming over to his "messy" apartment failed, he relied on the pseudo truth that he was too busy making money to entertain her company. It kept him out of trouble.

Then, when massage therapy school started and he had successfully dodged Mandy's every attempt to uncover his poverty, he breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that in a few short weeks he would be well on his way to financial freedom. All he needed to do was to keep working, keep her out of his apartment, and stay awake for each class. He also had to pass the final exam. The plan was foolproof.

Relief reached an additional height when he passed his class a blink of an eye later. Between working at the fast-food place and taking lessons, Greg had no time to do anything else. But it was worth it. When he received his certificate that stated that he could administer backrubs for money, he set out to land his first job. This time, no one could accuse him of setting fire to the business without giving him a fair chance. With the proper qualifications under his belt, they couldn't turn him down. He ended up working at a downtown massage parlor for three days a week and returned to the University of State to fill in his remaining vacant days.

After three paychecks, Greg had enough to furnish his apartment with tables and chairs and anything else necessary to make the place seem livable. After his fourth paycheck, he decided he was making enough money to quit his sweeping job, which was great considering he hadn't slept much in the last month. After his eighth paycheck, he concluded that he was able to fill his apartment with enough nice things to start inviting Mandy over. After his ninth paycheck, he realized he was in too far over his head with these crazy ambitions to really know what the heck he was doing with his life anymore. It was Mandy's first visit to his apartment that he had this revelation:

### Part 8

________

### The Nice Guy

Greg situated the potted bonsai tree next to his new microfiber couch–the replacement to his old sofa–when he heard the knock on the door. There was no time to make it perfect, so he quickly adjusted the thinner side of the plant so it faced the back wall, and primped the leaves so they looked fuller than they were. It took him a few seconds longer than he had anticipated, but Mandy, a real trooper, was kind enough to remind him that she was still waiting when she knocked a few more times. Satisfied with the scene, he crossed his living room to answer the door. As he set his hand to the doorknob, he made one final check of his surroundings: couch, bonsai tree, 25-inch television, stereo system with two speakers–he would upgrade to surround sound after his next paycheck–and a brand new black leather coffee table. Everything seemed to be in order, so he opened the door.

"Greg, hey," said the beautiful blonde, Mandy, as she reached in for a hug. "So we finally get to meet at the pad?"

"Finally? How many times have I invited you over?"

"None."

"Several," he corrected her. "It's just that things always kept coming up. But now . . . welcome to my home."

Mandy stepped over the threshold into the living room. She nodded as she surveyed the area. Something about her eyes disturbed Greg. He couldn't figure out what, but he noticed her eyebrows dipping into the bridge of her nose. It was something he hadn't seen her do before.

"It's nice," she said. "Though . . ."

Greg stood nervously by the door, feeling his heart skip as he waited for her to finish her thought.

"Though what?" he blurted out.

She clutched her chin as she worked her way toward the couch. In times past, her walk would've been silky, with hips swaying beneath her skirt. Now she shuffled across his floor, hardly trying to contain her boredom.

"Though it seems a bit sparse . . ."

"Sparse?"

"I guess I was expecting more–I don't know, like maybe a statue next to the television or something."

"A statue?"

Mandy reached the couch and plopped down. She spread one arm across the back against the wall. Then there was a pause. She crossed her knee to conceal the gap in her skirt, but she was so preoccupied with the state of Greg's living room that she took a few seconds to remember her femininity.

"It's nice, though," she said, nodding slowly. "Yeah . . ."

Greg remained suspicious from that point on. He thought for certain his apartment was ready for her eyes to see, but now he wasn't sure.

"Would you rather I had a statue?"

Mandy continued to scrutinize the room but didn't say much more. She just kept nodding away, holding her lips pursed and eyebrows narrowed.

A few minutes later, when he showed her the furnished bedroom, she commented about how it was missing a fountain.

"It's just that I met this guy a few days ago who had a statue in his living room, and a fountain in his bedroom, and . . ."

"And?"

"And I don't know . . . he just seemed really cool. And he had a Porsche in his garage, and he lived in a mansion, and . . ."

"And?"

"And I guess I just thought you would have a palace of your own, too."

"Even though you know I'm a college student?"

Mandy didn't respond to this question. Instead, she stared out the window.

Greg fixed his attention on her with exasperation. He fought hard for eight weeks, or rather, for two years to get this apartment up to livable standards, and here Mandy was slamming him because he didn't have a fountain. For the first time since he'd met her, he thought she was wrong. Even crazier was that for the first time since meeting her, he was actually proud of the state of his apartment. In just two short months, he had surpassed the wealth of his immediate family, and that, for heaven's sakes, made him feel accomplished, if economy, in fact, even mattered.

"Well, this is my palace," he said, "like it or not."

Her eyes remained fixated on the window. He noticed her lip curling under her teeth as her cheeks took on a slight purplish tint. It seemed she wanted to say something but didn't know what, so she kept silent.

"Mandy?" Greg said, to break the silence.

She lurched out of her trance.

"Yeah?"

"Are you ready to go out or shall we continue staring out the window?"

She held her breath for another moment until the weight was ready to leap from her chest. At that point she faced him head on.

"Greg, I've been doing a lot of thinking these last few minutes, and I don't think it's gonna work between us."

Greg froze. He felt his feet touching the floor but wasn't sure how to move them. His heart also continued beating, sort of, with the occasional independent dive every few seconds. His arms lost most feeling.

"What's not gonna work?"

"Us . . . this . . . everything."

"Why, because I don't have a fountain in my bedroom?"

Mandy once again turned her attention toward the window.

"Please. It's not because you don't have a fountain in your bedroom."

"Then why?"

"It's just . . . well, you don't have a Porsche in your garage . . . or a statue in your living room . . . or–"

"Or a fountain in my bedroom?"

"Right . . ."

She stood there a moment, clearly trying to think of ways to escape. Greg, meanwhile, continued to hang frozen as he waited for her next move, wondering why in the world he bothered to put on his nicest shirt this evening. After at least another half minute of silence, she made that move when she turned to face him.

"I'm sorry, Greg." Her eyes were sagging. "You're a nice guy, and I like you, but I'm not looking for a nice guy or someone I like. I'm . . ."

"Looking for a guy who can afford you?"

She nodded sheepishly.

Greg finally recovered the energy to move his legs. The spark wakening his knees led him to step aside from the bedroom door. He also found enough life in his arms to lift one up to show Mandy the way out. The extra burst of strength in his forefinger pointed at the doorknob.

"Then I guess your dream guy is somewhere outside this door. Good luck finding him."

Mandy lowered her eyes as she stepped toward the door. On passing Greg, she patted him on the arm.

"I was gonna kiss you tonight," she said, bittersweetly. "But that was when I thought you were rich. I'm sorry I was wrong about you."

"And I'm sorry I was right about you. But take care. You'll make a beautiful gold-digger to some senile old man one day."

Suddenly, her awkward slouch in her back straightened, and a smile brighter than the froth in her imaginary fountain crossed her lips.

"Aww, that's so sweet." Her voice elevated into nearly a screech. "Maybe when you're rich, you could be that old man to me."

With that, she continued by, walked what remained of the short path through the living room, and stepped out of Greg's life.

Greg, meanwhile, trudged toward his bedside. There he shot his feet out from under his knees and collapsed on his soft mattress. As his face hit the pillow, he heard his living room door click shut. A moment later, he closed his eyes and wondered whether he even cared.

$$$

A month later, Greg sold most of the stuff he had bought with his massage therapy income to pay off part of his credit card debt. To his delight, eBay worked out better this time, but he still fell short when it came time to write his checks. His rent was due, which rose in price because of increasing costs of living, and his electric climbed more significantly since he had more toys to plug into the wall. All of his expenses, including credit card bills, car insurance, and cable, ultimately added up to a small fortune that even his massage therapy job couldn't keep under control. But, despite giving waves of green to the money siphon, he didn't let it destroy his hopes for a future this time. After all he had come through, and after all the years of having nothing to his name, somehow he still reached this point, and it didn't really seem so bad.

The following months weren't much easier on him. He stood strong and did his best to enjoy what he had, and sometimes that was tough. But certain successes came with matching difficulties. Throughout his journey he improved his grades, found a quiet neighborhood for taking therapeutic walks in, and bought a new 19-inch television to replace the 25-inch he had sold months earlier. He didn't visit the club anymore, and he didn't want to meet any new girls since the Mandy catastrophe, but after that painful experience, he thought it was for the best, anyway. For the most part, he was happy. That was when Rachel, a lower-maintenance girl, stepped into his life and showed him that some women didn't care about wealth.

$$$

After sealing his rent check in the fattened envelope, Greg pushed it aside and took a deep breath. Like every person he knew, he didn't want to say goodbye to his hard-earned cash, but he reasoned it was the fair price for living on one's own. So he accepted the shelling out of income with grace. After all, he had worked hard for this place in life, this responsibility, and he had no reason to grumble over it. The walls were bare, and the couch had seen better days, but at least he had something to call home.

As he thought about his good fortune, he idly shifted his attention toward his telephone. It had been quite a while since he'd last spoken to his parents, so he called them and thanked his dad for hanging in there for all those years. His father said thanks, and then told him he got promoted to custodial manager, which meant receiving a slight pay increase. Greg said he was happy for him. Then he went over to Jeff's house to hang out with the guys and their dates and Rachel, the best girl he'd ever known, to watch _The Bourne Ultimatum_ on DVD.

~~~~~

And now for a quick message from the author:

Wait, don't go! The story may be over, but there's more to discover! Beyond this point, you'll find important resources that can enhance your reading experience, including a series of reader's group discussion questions you can answer with your friends to prove your smarts, an author's note that talks about the story's "behind the scenes" information in case you're wondering "why this story," and information about other books I wrote (important if you liked this one), as well as contact links in case you want to point out any errors you found or if you want to become a beta reader for future books.

In the meantime, if this story entertained you, or made you mad, and you would like to tell me so (the author), feel free to leave a review at your preferred retailer (if you're not sure how to write a constructive review, read on to find out). I'd greatly appreciate it (reviews are very, _very_ important to books and their authors), and I look forward to reading your opinion.

Thanks! Okay, as promised, here comes the Reader's Group Discussion Questions. Get your coffee, turn on your jazz, and tell your friends it's time to discuss what you've read. Have fun.

### Readers' Group Discussion Questions

Thank you for choosing _Shell Out_ as the subject for your reading discussion. The following questions mean to guide readers through the conversation but should in no way limit its direction or focus during its exploration of ideas. If your group has a topic other reading groups should discuss, please e-mail me at zippywings[at]hotmail[dot]com, and I may add them to a future edition of the book. Thanks.

Note that the following questions may contain spoilers. Think of them as the test questions you look through ahead of time to validate the answers to questions you've already attempted (read: bonus test-taking tips!).

There are two series of questions. Choose the series that better fits your group's style.

Reader Question Series #1:

Why does Greg want money so badly? Why does he struggle to keep it? Is the problem with him or with society?

Which force drives Greg's desire for financial success the most? Himself? His family? The woman? Society? Some other reason? Explain.

Why does Greg give up on his dream for success? Or does he not give it up? Discuss.

Is Greg's story outrageous or familiar? Has he missed the "American Dream," or has he discovered a new American Dream?

If his story were not set in college, would Greg's financial circumstances change? How? Why or why not?

Which of Greg's jobs is the best? The worst? Which situation made you laugh? Cringe? Why?

How does Greg's financial situation affect his relationships? Is this for the better or the worse? How would his life be different if money wasn't an issue? Explain.

If you could talk to Greg about any of his choices before he makes them, what would you say?

Reader Question Series #2:

Greg's story represents a hyperreal look at the common teenager's journey into young adulthood. How does exaggerating this journey help refine his character growth?

What role does the father-son relationship play in Greg's journey into adulthood? How would his journey change if his father were rich?

In _Shell Out_ , do Greg's job choices really matter? Why or why not? What about his father's job choices?

What role does Jeff (Greg's best friend) play in Greg's journey? What about Mandy? Whose role is more important to Greg? Why?

Why do Greg's methods for earning money ultimately fail? What should he have done instead? How do his choices define him as a character?

What's the real lesson Greg learns by the end of the story? Could he have reached this conclusion a different way? Discuss alternative avenues he could have taken to learn this lesson.

What else about _Shell Out_ spoke to you and warrants discussion?

### Other Books

Did you enjoy reading _Shell Out_? Then check out these other titles by Jeremy Bursey, available as an e-book at your favorite retailer.*

Short Stories and Novelettes

Shell Out

 Eleven Miles from Home**

Amusement

 When Cellphones Go Crazy***

 The Celebration of Johnny's Yellow Rubber Ducky

The Fallen Footwear

Novellas

Lightstorm

Cards in the Cloak

Gutter Child

When Cellphones Make Us Crazy**

Novels

The Computer Nerd (also in paperback)

Collections

The Fountain of Truth

 Zippywings 2015: A Short Story Collection (also in paperback)

 Waterfall Junction and The Narrow Bridge

A Modern-day Fantasy Annual Edition

 Cannonball City: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year One

 Superheroes Anonymous: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year Two

Check back often at Jeremy's author page (click on his name while you're visiting your favorite e-book retailer) or his blog, Drinking Café Latte at 1pm, to discover newly released titles or those that are on the horizon. More are on the way. You can also follow him on Twitter for news and other fun stuff.

Or, better yet, sign up for new release alerts at Books2Read and get instant notifications sent right to your e-mail! Yep, that would be quickest and easiest.

*Release dates subject to change. Consult Jeremy's blog at Drinking Café Latte at 1pm for details and updates, or join his email list for real-time news, offers, and free stuff (email him at zippywings[at]hotmail[dot]com with the subject line "Sign Me Up" and a brief message stating that you would like to join the mailing list).

** _Eleven Miles from Home_ also has a _Remastered Edition_ available.

*** _When Cellphones Make Us Crazy_ is the longer, reimagined version of _When Cellphones Go Crazy_.

### For Reviewers

Thank you for downloading _Shell Out_. I hope you enjoyed it. If you liked the story or got anything valuable out of it, please leave a review on your preferred retailer's website, on Goodreads, and wherever else you have a voice. And please tell others through word-of-mouth what you thought, and let me know what you liked (or didn't like) about it. I appreciate any feedback and support from readers. Books live and die by reviews, so any word you share is helpful. Thank you.

Remember, you can give me personal feedback at zippywings[at]hotmail[dot]com and/or public feedback in the form of a review on your favorite retailer's website.

If you would like to post a review, but you're not sure how to start, you could always begin with your star rating in mind and explain how you calculated that value. Inspiration may take over from there. But please don't feel obligated if you don't know what to say. The fact that you've read this far is awesome enough. A review simply helps others identify whether this book is worth reading and me about what I've done right (or horribly, horribly wrong). That said, we all have a voice, and I hope to hear yours soon. If you prefer to read in silence, that's fine; I often read in silence myself. But I will generally let others know if I've read something awesome. Hopefully, you thought this book is awesome, and I hope you'll let me know if you did.

### Join My Mailing List

Why should you join my mailing list? Simple. You'll get information and free stuff. Why wouldn't you want information and free stuff? Everybody wants information and free stuff!

Okay, you may be wondering what kind of information and free stuff. Well, I'm both a writer and a reader, so I write about writing and reading. This may include essays about how reading makes us smarter or commentaries about why Jack Reacher is the perfect hero. You may discover new characters or authors you might not have discovered otherwise. You may even find an excuse to put off your urgent deadlines for another hour or two! My intention is to provide a hub for knowledge and entertainment and maybe some in-the-dirt honesty about the writer's life and advice for aspiring writers should they pursue the same path. This may include a recommended reading list from books and authors who have helped me along the way.

Most likely, though, I'll just let you know what you should read next because you're a reader, and you'd probably rather find out if I've read something cool lately (or if I have something cool coming out soon) than what I think about writing structure and the pros and cons of developing a strong villain. So I'll keep it relevant.

Regarding free stuff, well, you may receive exclusive offers, including complete novels for free, but don't sign up just for the free stuff because it may take a while for that to come along. Yes, I'm saying "intend" and "may" because stuff happens and delays happen. What I don't intend is to spam your mailbox. That said, you'll be able to opt out any time, if you think you must. I don't expect to cater to every reader. However, I still hope to keep those who enjoy my work around for as long as possible. I hope you'll be one of those readers who sticks around.

Oh, and I love feedback, positive and negative. Please let me know about your reading experiences. I like to know if my work makes a difference in your life. I also want to know which characters you enjoy the most, and which ones you hope come back for seconds in case of sequel, and which ones you can't stand and hope they go away (and why).

Note: Fancy buttons and landing pages for mailing list signup will come eventually. For now, you can message me at zippywings[at]hotmail[dot]com with the subject line "Sign Me Up" and a brief note that you want to be on the mailing list for offers and news (and freebies and articles), and I'll put you on the list. I hope you'll join the reading party soon.

If you message me, it would help me if you clarify your genres of preference so I can send you the most relevant news. I write thrillers and coming-of-age stories (and I sometimes may combine the two) and the occasional adventure story, so let me know which stories from these genres you're most interested in, or say "any genre" if you just want to read anything and everything I produce. I also make computer games if you're interested in hearing more about those. I'm currently developing an '80s coming-of-age business adventure about a high school graduate who develops a coffee-selling empire to humiliate the jock who stole his girlfriend.

Thanks again for reading. Read on to find out what inspired this story and why certain narrative decisions were made.

### Author's Note

Thank you for reading this far. As a reward for sticking with the book, I'll give some background information on _Shell Out_ in case you're the type of person who enjoys the "Special Features" selection on Blu-rays and DVDs (or whatever you use to watch movies at the time of this reading).

**A Quick Note:** Even though "Shell Out" is a short work, I've gone back to it often over the years, trying to decide if this is really how I want it to begin, or if this sequence is strong enough to move the story forward, or if this ending works to resolve the story, and so on. The more I write and the more I study the techniques of storytelling, the more I want to apply what I've learned to stories I've already finished. And "Shell Out" is one of my test canvases for improvement.

However, now that I've done just about all I can do without oversaturating it with ideas or undercutting its theme, I'm officially pushing it out to the public. Doesn't mean I think it's ready for the public; I'm never ready to publish anything I've written. Like most authors, I keep wondering if there is anything, anything at all, that I could've done better. Chances are, a few months or years down the road, I'll learn yet another storytelling method that'll convince me I published this thing prematurely. But, like all artistic works, there comes a point when I just have to believe in it and move on to other things. So here you go. Hope you enjoyed it.

**A Brief History:** I first conceptualized "Shell Out" in 2002 while I was working at a hospital. I was at my desk, listening to an evening radio show, when the hosts challenged callers to talk about the stuff they had tried selling on eBay. One caller, whom the DJs must've thought was a troll–they hung up on him–said he had tried selling his underwear on eBay. Whether it was true or not, I thought it was funny. And it got me thinking about the lengths people might go to earn an extra buck, including selling crap no one wants on eBay. It was then that I had remembered that I'd wanted to write a joke involving the Psychic Friends Hotline (where the psychic predicts catastrophe on the caller, and it comes true, rather than the expected "you'll find love tomorrow" nonsense they used to advertise on TV) into something, anything, and I realized that a story about making a buck in ridiculous ways was the perfect source to bring that joke into play. And the timing was great because one of my coworkers had a girlfriend who worked for a psychic call center at one time, so he gave me insight about the telephone psychic business, like how smoky the environment could get in those offices and how they use psychology and listening skills to "predict" futures, among other things. With that and the eBay joke, I thought I had a winning combination for writing about the absurdity in alternative moneymaking.

As much as I wanted to see where this could go, however, I didn't finish drafting the story in one sitting. At the time, I was juggling a number of projects, including an attempt to adjust to emotional instability while patiently waiting for my proper financial window to make returning to college and actually finishing my degree possible (in that regard, Greg, the main character, and I had a lot in common). It took me until 2005, when I buckled down and finished several short stories to complete a self-published collection of works, to finish the first version of "Shell Out." By that point I was so proud of the story that I didn't think it needed extensive editing, so in November 2006, I published it in the print version of my third collection of works, called _Seven-Sided Dice: The Collection of Junk Volume3_ , and left it alone, thinking it was great, until years later when I discovered that I could have, in fact, made it better. In 2011, I took it through another edit, and in 2015, after reading an excellent book about openings called _Hooked_ by Les Edgerton, I took it through one more major edit, separated it into seven parts, and now I think it's done for good.

So that's some background on "Shell Out." I admit I had shallow reasons for starting it in 2002, but with real-life economy breaking down in the season since I'd first published it in my print volume, and with my own experiences of financial distress persisting throughout its development, it's become one of my most valuable works (no pun or sense of irony intended).

Is this the end of "Shell Out" then? Hard to say. Although I have no plans to update it further, I would like to someday include it in a new volume of short stories geared entirely around the theme of "economic survival." We'll see how that goes.

**Update April 2020:** This new edition comes up on the five-year anniversary of the original e-book release, and given the current coronavirus crisis gripping the world and endangering the global economy, now couldn't be a better time to reintroduce the story. And it comes with a new opening chapter to help readers orient to Greg's conflict better. As I said in the original author's note, I've always struggled with how this story opened. I still don't know if this is the right place to tell Greg's story, so I have another alternate in the waiting (about Greg getting in a car accident) if I ever decide to rewrite this story from scratch (a real possibility). But for this version of "Shell Out," I think it works.

Anyway, if you're reading this during the global quarantine, stay safe. If you're reading this long after COVID-19 has made the history books, then congratulations on living during a time of economic prosperity, assuming that's how life is at the time of your reading. It's certainly not that way at the time of this writing.

### E-book Version

This electronic version of _Shell Out_ is designed and formatted for distribution through Smashwords and its affiliates. It intends to introduce the author to a wealth of new readers and is for this reason free to download. If the option is available, sharing this version of _Shell Out_ is encouraged. _Shell Out_ 's e-book version was created May 2015.

"Readers' Group Discussion Questions" added August 2019.

### Revision History

The following is a list of milestones during _Shell Out_ 's development.

**September 2005:** Completed first edition of "Shell Out."

**November 2006:** Revised and included into my CafePress exclusive paperback anthology _Seven-Sided Dice: The Collection of Junk, Volume 3_.

**November 2011:** Made a few story changes and created a new manuscript version.

**May 2015:** Created a new scene to begin the story. Minor revisions to existing text. Story split into seven parts. New version converted to e-book format.

**December 2015:** Included in my electronic and paperback anthology _Zippywings 2015_.

**April 2016:** Minor revisions and updated back matter information.

**August 2019:** Added new back matter, including a "Readers' Group Discussion Questions" section. Improved interior formatting. Removed bonus materials to eliminate e-book bloat (most of the represented works are still unreleased, anyway).

**April 2020:** Added another new opening scene to establish conflict and character goal. Story is now told in eight parts. Changed the final chapter title from "Finale" to "The Nice Guy." ProWritingAid edit. Removed some adverbs, fixed some style issues, and strengthened story context where needed. Added fire to the cover image (maybe temporarily).

### About the Author

Jeremy Bursey is the author of many short stories, novels, and other things he no longer remembers writing, each covering topics and genres that differ from what he had written previously because why not? He holds a bachelor's degree in English from the University of Central Florida, which he's been paying for since the '90s, and currently works as a writing tutor, so he, like that organ grinder who severs his business relationship with his pet monkey, will pay for it indefinitely. He appreciates feedback for anything he posts, and he hopes you'll read it—any of it—now, preferably.

### Contact and Questions

Want news about my upcoming books or check if you're missing any? Visit any of these links for more information.

### Best Contact

**E-mail:** zippywings[at]hotmail[dot]com

This is the best way to connect with me for questions, comments, complaints, requests, and conversations. Please make sure the title refers to "author," "book," "fan," etc. so I know it's not junk mail.

**Note:** Official e-mail signup with fancy buttons and immediate downloads to freebies will come soon. Still working out the logistics and fees. I'll make sure you get something for free if you join, though. If you want to preempt going on the list, message me with "add me to list," or "sign me up," or something that I'll recognize as interest in receiving the bimonthly newsletter, and I'll send you a free story as soon as possible. I am also interested in finding beta readers for upcoming works, so if you'd like to get advanced reader copies and provide early feedback and/or reviews, let me know that, too. Use the heading "I'll be your beta reader" if you're interested.

### Alternative Contacts and Information

Smashwords Author Page

Drinking Café Latte at 1pm (Blog)

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

YouTube

At Goodreads, you can find out which books I've enjoyed (or rate and review this one). On YouTube, you may find reviews of other people's books, reviews or lessons on various writing software, or even audio versions of stories I've written. I also sometimes record playthroughs of indie games, including my own (they're stories, too).

**Additional Note:** My blog is called _Drinking Café Latte at 1pm_ , if you're looking for me via Google. I update the blog in spurts, so you may see a blitz of blogs followed by long periods of cricket sounds. Just because I last posted weeks or months ago doesn't mean the blog is dead. It just means I'm busy with other projects at the moment. Keep checking back or, better yet, subscribe to receive the latest blog articles right to your mailbox! Don't forget to comment when they do. Also, if you're looking for other storefronts where you can find my books (including paperbacks), _Drinking Café Latte at 1pm_ is the place you'll find them.

### Coming Soon

What's next? I'm actually going through a reconstruction of my existing works, looking for ways to make each one better. I do have new stories in production, but my current focus is to improve my brand. Before I finish my new material, I want to make sure my current backlist is building or can build an audience. That means some works are undergoing changes. Please note that my list of available titles may also change.

Be sure to check my blog or bookstore author page for updates often. Or sign up for my mailing list (once it's operational) for real-time updates (again, write me at zippywings[at]hotmail[dot]com to get on the early list). I've got more on the way.

Thanks again for your time.

###

