The Tuesday from Hell

The drip of the basement sink was a metronome counting down to Toby’s inevitable ruin.

* Drip.* He had thirty-four dollars in his checking account.
* Drip.* His 2004 Honda Civic was currently emitting a sound like a dying pterodactyl, parked illegally on the street above.
* Drip.* He had just been fired.

Toby stared at the illuminated screen of his cracked phone, reading the text message from his shift manager at the coffee shop for the fifth time. *Sorry Toby, we’re cutting hours. Today was your last shift. Check will be mailed.* "Well, that’s just fantastic," Toby muttered to the empty, cramped room. He tossed the phone onto his unmade mattress, which lay directly on the concrete floor because bed frames were an unnecessary luxury. He dragged a hand down his face, suppressing the familiar, suffocating wave of panic that threatened to crush his chest.

He didn't have time to panic. Panic didn't pay the rent.

A sharp knock on his door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Before he could answer, a piece of neon-pink paper fluttered from beneath the door frame, coming to rest on the frayed welcome mat.

Toby didn't need to pick it up to know what it was. His landlord, a miserable man named Glickman who smelled perpetually of stale cigars and malice, had been threatening it for weeks. An eviction notice. Thirty days to vacate.

Toby let out a hollow, breathy laugh that held absolutely no humor. "A trifecta," he whispered to the leaking sink. "Fired, broken down, and homeless. I should buy a lottery ticket. Clearly, the universe is paying attention to me today."

He walked over to the cracked mirror hanging above the sink. The face looking back at him was pale, the dark circles under his eyes prominent. He looked exactly like what he was: a twenty-four-year-old drowning in a sea of debt, entirely alone in the world.

But tonight was Tuesday. Tuesday meant Arthur.

Arthur was the one shimmering, impossible anomaly in Toby's miserable existence. A silver-fox CEO with a bank account larger than the GDP of a small island nation, Arthur paid for Toby's time, his company, and his body. It was an arrangement. A strict, legally bound contract with terms, conditions, and a monthly allowance that Toby usually used to keep the wolves from the door. But this month, the Honda’s transmission had eaten the allowance, leaving Toby exposed.

Toby splashed cold water on his face. He could not let Arthur see him like this. Arthur paid for the fantasy: the witty, laughing, carefree young man who brought chaos and sunshine into his sterile, high-stress life. Arthur didn't pay for a charity case. If Arthur saw how pathetic Toby truly was, how desperate and broken, he would terminate the contract. Wealthy men didn't want messy problems; they wanted pretty distractions.

"Showtime, Tobias," he told his reflection.

He applied a thin layer of concealer to hide the exhaustion. He pulled on the expensive, silk button-down shirt Arthur had bought him for his birthday—the only item of clothing he owned that didn't smell like basement mildew. He plastered a brilliant, sharp smile onto his face, practicing it in the mirror until it looked almost real. He would go to the penthouse, he would be the funniest, most charming version of himself, and he would figure out the rest of his imploding life tomorrow.