Dead Pools and the Hats We Leave Behind

The corporate retreat at the desert resort had been his wife's idea—a desperate attempt to save their marriage through forced proximity and unlimited cocktails. Instead, Elena had spent three days by the pool, her red bikini and dark sunglasses drawing the attention of every salesman within a fifty-mile radius.

Now David sat at the Tiki bar at 2 AM, nursing a whiskey that cost more than his first car. The pool was empty, the water still and black beneath the moonlight, reflecting nothing like the dead thing it had become. He'd caught Elena with Marcus—the regional VP with the bull of a man physique and a corner office that screamed 'I slept my way here.'

The fox, David thought bitterly. That's what his grandfather would have called Marcus. A man with predatory instincts and no conscience. Marcus had probably spotted Elena's vulnerabilities the way real foxes spotted wounded rabbits. He'd offered her something David couldn't—excitement, danger, the thrill of being desired by a man who collected women the way he collected bonuses.

David adjusted his fedora, a ridiculous affectation he'd adopted during his midlife crisis attempt to become a jazz aficionado. Elena had hated it. 'You look like you're playing dress-up,' she'd said, her voice lacking its usual warmth. 'Why can't you just be yourself?'

But who was that? The man who'd optimized his way into middle management? The bull who'd charged through obstacles until he'd hit the glass ceiling and simply stopped moving? The corporate asset who'd pooled his resources, his dreams, his entire identity into a 401k that had lost half its value last quarter?

He watched a cockroach scuttle across the bar, antenna probing the darkness like it was searching for answers. At least the cockroach knew what it wanted. David didn't even know that much anymore.

His phone buzzed—Elena. 'Can we talk?'

David set the phone on the bar, screen down. He removed his hat and placed it beside his glass, a gesture of surrender he hadn't planned. The fedora looked smaller without his head inside it, like a discarded shell.

The bartender approached with a fresh whiskey. 'Rough night?'

David watched the pool's black surface, so still it might have been painted. 'Just thinking,' he said, 'about how some men collect hats, and others become them.'

The bartender nodded, like this was the sort of profundity he heard nightly. 'You want another or should I close your tab?'

David thought about his empty house, his half of the assets, the sudden freedom he'd spent three years secretly craving while publicly dreading. He thought about Elena's laugh when she'd first met him—genuine, then, before the bull market of expectations had inflated their lives beyond recognition.

'Close it,' David said. 'I think I'm finally ready to go home.'