The Premise
Three days later Dan was on the west coast.
There had been moments throughout the weekend when Dan realized what he had done, and at those moments he found it useful to drink more.
Whenever he stopped to think about the abrupt and risky manner in which he was changing careers, his nerves frayed, his stomach acid bubbled up and threatened to torment his ulcer.
His ulcer was further tormented by another cross-country flight that cost him the remainder of his nestegg.
The funny thing about the weather in L.A., much like the cabs or homeless in New York, was the way it makes newcomers fell good about themselves.
They’ve overcome the odds, started anew, if they can make it there, they can yada yada yada.
They don’t notice the smog at first. Or the traffic. Or the perpetual bullshit. Or the sandstorm of crushed dreams encompassing them.
That takes time.
It seems Dan Randolph was not immune to the sunshine as he stepped out of the airport into the afternoon sun with a light breeze. He rented a car and got a cheap motel room on his credit card.
Once he was settled, Dan made a bee-line for the beach. He rolled his pant legs up, waded into the shallow water and dug his toes into the sand. There, looking at a sun setting over water he didn’t realize was toxic, Dan decided he had made the right call. Better to do this quickly- like ripping off a bandage.
Like a child coveting a Red Rider BB gun on Christmas Eve, Dan didn’t sleep a wink that night.