A PUPPET ON A STRING

CHAPTER 1

Above the bar the televisions are showing the game. Frank is not watching it, he is hardly focusing. Through the windows in the fading day. First Avenue is turning grey. Rain lashes the streets. To live in Seattle, you have to love the rain.And Frank loved Seattle.The inclement weather outside only rivaled  the inclement thoughts  through his mind. Mid-forties and forced among the ranks of the unemployed.Drifting towards the dole queue with each passing failed job application. Had the information age finally caught up with him? Or was it just another  . Perpetuated by another profit taking merchant bank on yet another punctured Ponzi scheme. Robbing the poor, to pay themselves. Displacing workers and families onto the streets. The redundancy payout would last a few months.

Assuming he did not piss it away first."Fuck 'em." Frank curses under his breath.Frank stared into this glass for an answer. As though he was searching for something. Something scared he'd lost. And that it could only be found. At the bottom of his glass. The large ice cube that embodied God had now melted to half its size and rattled freely against the sides of the known universe. The ever diluting cosmos of bourbon had become watery and had lost its dark matter.If nothing appeared on the horizon before then, he would have to join the welfare line. The thought depressed him. He had two choices. To sit rocking in a corner. Or suck it up get on with his life. If not for himself, then at least for his three kids.Finding sanctuary at a bar on First Avenue. Jefferson's. Tomo , the high priest and self-anointed druid Sharman, dispensed his own brand of medicine. InFrank's case. Bourbon. The crazy glue that held his life together. Numbing his senses and dubbing his mind to whatever he was trying to desperately cling onto. Or whatever he was desperately trying to forget. Deferring any dependency issues, until after the next drink. Surrounding himself with fellow journeymen.

Each with sad tales of despair and misfortune. Each more pitiful than his own.To look at Frank, you would have thought he was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress. A returned serviceman. Shell shocked. But it was far worse.He had an ex-wife from hell. Divorce had been a battle field. Few knew the emotional scars he bore. Unemployment only irritated the invisible wounds.Family courts turned a blind eye. Siting that if he had no a vagina, he had no rights. As lawyers burnt his money quicker than Salem Puritans burnt Mid-Wives.

Whatever was left, could be found at the bottom of his glass.In the end, Frank simply gave up and surrendered. Drawing a line in the sand. He stepped over it. And got on with his lie.Each day, hoping to find the strength to take one more breathe. Take one more step. To live. Hoping one day she would find closure. But that day had yet arrived.

"So what did you do to piss her off?" Asked Tomo hoping to avoid the same mistake.

"I cut some card I shouldn't have... And she hasn't forgiven me after all these years." Frank rattled off the lyrical reason. Confusing Tomo further.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she had some kind of depression after having Jack... And ever since then I've been responsible for everything that has ever gone wrong with her life... Before during, and after... That what it means."Tomo backed off to give Frank some space to think. It was going to be a dark day in the office. Old wounds were beginning to bleed. Annoying him.

Hoping the bourbon would cauterize them. Frank was never one to blame others for where sat today, but himself.Frank resumed his close up observation with God. Slowly melting. Slowly running away to hide in shame. Even He couldn't figure women out.He had thought about writing a book. After twenty years of being shat on why not some pay back. But who would believe it if he told them. The truth really was stranger than fiction. A story of despair and villains. A tragedy that would mess with most people's head. As it had messed with his. He would not wish that upon people. Anyway, Accountants don't write books. He was a numbers man. An analyst, not a wordsmith. He would leave the horror story to Stephen King. Frank grinned at the thought.'Good luck with that!' Turning to one side as though to inform him.Fearing even Stephen would cower at the thought and soon be drinking with him.'You deserve a purple heart man.' Consoled an angelic Stephen looking over to Frank.Taking a sip of the Tennessee bourbon. Frank sighed deeply.