Toby by Todd Babiak

BMW, taxes and utilities and clothes and restaurants and shoes and organic food, he had lived paycheque to paycheque with either a small surplus or a small deficit each month, based on travel. His severance package from the station had not been generous. Once he paid off his credit cards, there would be very little remaining in his account.
    He drove north to his dealership, where an open parking stall lay enticingly before him. It was one of his favourite places on the island, this showroom, and he knew it would be good to him today. Storm clouds were moving in, deep grey and purple, and a rare flash of October thunder shook the car. Toby rubbed a few crumbs from the passenger seat and picked one of Alicia’s hairs from the headrest. He put the long, wavy black hair in his mouth, tasted it, then removed it.
    The floor of the dealership gleamed with promise. A titanium silver 7-series with tinted windows and tires so shiny Toby wanted to bite into the rubber murmured to him fromthe centre of a faux-marble floor. He leaned inside an open window, inhaled the off-gassing of success, and stored it in a special corner of his right lung.
    A salesman in his late twenties put his hand on Toby’s upper back. “I am such a fan of your work!”
    A Mozart concerto emanated from hidden speakers. Toby adjusted his posture and took a step back to tread on the outer layer of the salesman’s cologne field. Behind him, modest signs on the wall advertised monthly interest rates and payment plans beyond the budget of nearly every working household in recession North America. Which was the point, really. “Thank you.”
    “I heard you were a customer here and I flipped.” The salesman had braces and shoulder-length blond hair. There was a faint orange to his tan that blended unsuccessfully with his beige suit. “My hard drive tapes your show for me. I have a collection.”
    “Really, thank you so much. I’m Toby Ménard.”
    “I know!”
    “Good.”
    “Oh, what crap etiquette of me. Gary Dunlop, sales associate.” He extended his hand for a shake and left his business card in Toby’s hand like a gangster dropping a Benjamin. He pulled back his left cuff to reveal a round watch with a faded leather band. “Recognize this?”
    “I do.”
    “You wore this bad-boy on your show about the classics. I had one of those stupid save-the-day watches, and after I watched the show I pitched it into the river. I actually did!”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Dunlop. But may I speak with the sales manager?”
    In the span of three seconds, Gary Dunlop appeared to go through a series of emotional and psychological changes. He was trained for this moment—to capture his commission despite all impediments. “I can help you, Mr. Ménard. I can. I know I look young and whatever, but I’m empowered to help you.”
    “Well.”
    “You must be here to upgrade.”
    Mozart crashed deeper and louder toward an ancient climax of orchestral doom. There was no point waiting for the sales manager if Gary Dunlop was sympathetic. Outside, another gust slapped a layer of dirt from the roadside flower beds into the window. Toby did not know if he could say it out loud. “It turns out I’ve lost my job, Mr. Dunlop.”
    “You?”
    “Very soon my lease payments will be prohibitive.”
    “Pro—”
    “I can’t afford the car, for now. What I’m hoping for is a reprieve, Mr. Dunlop, a break from my payments. Just while I find a new, and better, position.” He adjusted his posture, strained for belief. “It shouldn’t take longer than a month or two.”
    The salesman slouched, ever so slightly. He took a couple of steps to his right and leaned on the 7-series. Moment by moment, as Gary Dunlop adjusted to this knowledge, Toby felt his social superiority float up into the artfully exposed ventilation system and away.
    “How long you had ‘er?” Gary Dunlop said.
    Toby supplied the relevant data, and Gary Dunlop frowned. He informed Toby that interest payments