Pink Slip Prophet by George Donnelly

and swing in the silky, light blue hammock.
    I even learned to sleep in a hammock. I gave up a bed. I gave up windows.
    “Can I get you something?” Maria asked him.
    “A glass of water, please,” he replied.
    The robot gracefully walked out of his storage box and took the elevator up to his old apartment.
    “Let’s do something tomorrow, Jack,” Ian said. He felt exhausted and resigned but also relieved. The pressure was off. It was a failure. He was done. The sense of finality, of it being out of his control, was oddly reassuring. He could take a break from the race. He could get some sun and air.
    “We could go outside,” the boy said.
    “No, let’s make a day of it. A steak lunch, some shopping, maybe the zoo or Pennypack Park. How about it?”
    “But you didn’t sell Maria,” Jack said. He continued to play.
    Ian shrugged and thought about how to explain it to the boy. He didn’t want to seem cavalier much less happy or, God forbid, contented about his failure. Success was important. You don’t willfully throw away six billion dollars and than go out and celebrate! Teaching that to a kid is a recipe for… producing another Michael.
    Ian facepalmed. There I go again.
    “I can ask Mom for some money, I guess,” Jack said.
    “No, no, no. I have some left over from the, uh, kidney.”
    Jack sat up and looked at his father. “I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of spending your kidney on a fun day out, Dad.”
    Ian sat back and looked away. “You’re right, of course. If you ever have to sell a kidney - not you, never sell your kidney, but someone in general - then you should spend the money you get for it on an important investment that will generate new income. That’s the only possible good use. You’re totally right.”
    Jack smiled and went back to his game.
    “How did you get such a good head on your shoulders? Definitely not from Mom and you’re much wiser than me.” Failed inventor. Failed father. What will go wrong next? Failed man? Thank God I already got married — Well okay, I guess I did fail as a man given that my wife is living with another man. He felt the icky morass of self-loathing coming on and put all his mental energy into pushing it back.
    Hold the line , he said to the Spartan warriors in his head. Just hold the goddamned line already. More self-loathing will do nothing for me. It’s laziness and masturbation, that’s all.
    “Let’s do it anyway. I need this. It’s a deal, okay? A done deal.”
    Jack nodded. “What are you going to do now?”
    “I don’t know.” The thought of suicide crossed his mind. It would be a tidy end. No need to suffer in the streets, beg food from overloaded shelters, jockey for position in cockroach-infested boiler rooms and sewer grates. There’s just nowhere else for me to go from here. I put everything into this and I’m tired. One last hurrah, one last swing through a normal, decent life.
    And then nothing. A clean end, one that won’t bother or burden anyone. Should I even leave a note?
    ***
    Ian lay in the hammock, his son Jack snuggling below his left shoulder while watching a video on his mobile screen.
    “You can do anything boys and girls, anything at all, as long as you put your mind to it and never, ever, give up.” The speaker bounced around the screen as if he - or was it she - was in zero gravity. Balloons popped, reappeared, grew and the announcer grew as he ate them. One popped in his face and the man - or woman, it wasn’t clear - made a face of mock surprise.
    Jack giggled.
    You can do anything, my ass. Maybe you can do it. But someone can steal it from you. You won’t even see them coming. They’ll cozy right up and be your best buddy. Take your job, your accomplishments, your wife, your house! You can do anything. Ian guffawed.
    “Do you like it, too? Come on, watch with me,” Jack said.
    Ian smiled and watched.
    Jack snuggled up closer. “I love you, Dad.”
    I better give the kid some time - my