Pat parked at the top of the driveway, Anne having disappeared in her silver Zephyr to go shopping. Pat peeled himself out of the sweltering Cougar and came into the house. Still no relief. Worried about the air-conditioning bill topping $100 for the month, Anne had adjusted the thermostat a few degrees up past comfort, relying more on weak oscillating fans that creaked back and forth. In the kitchen Pat put on the kettle. Finding the remnants of a bowl of corn flakes in the sink, he hobbled down the hallway and listened at Dan’s door. The muffled twanglings of the Beatles came through, and Pat turned to the hall closet and pulled out the electric typewriter, which he set up on a TV tray in the den. The kettle screamed, and he made his instant Folgers. He then sat in the dark den on one of the burnt-orange chairs they had brought down from the Bronx and tried to ignore the thrum of the Smith Corona. This coffee is not going to cut through. The plan was to redo his résumé for another round of job listings, and he rolled a blank page under the wheel and popped the carriage down. He typed his name and his address, skipped his date of birth for now, and moved down the line to his education, his career, his life.

I worked for American Airlines for twenty-seven years. What else was there to say, really? Less is more, let the service speak for itself. He adjusted the fan to oscillate more in his direction. Christ, this heat. Like a hammer to my temples and self-defeat its tongs. Where am I even going to send this? None of the airlines are hiring, everyone in the same holding pattern. Pat typed out the lines for his education. BS, MS, and JD from Fordham. I have no contacts or network in Dallas; none of these yahoos down here know or trust Notre Dame, let alone fucking Fordham.

A gust of wind rattled the patio door, and Pat groaned at his first typo: “maintaince” of the Sabre system. Twenty-seven years—and what expertise did he offer that they didn’t have with a computer or someone half his age and salary? Fuck Bob Crandall, fuck deregulation and the greedy unions, and fuck the fare wars and this fucked-up mediocre industry. Why move the whole goddamn operation to Dallas just to cut everyone loose? My loyalty and service are worth less than the piece of paper I’m typing on. The air-conditioning whirred on. Fleeing the burned-out, shithole Bronx was a mistake. He stretched out his left leg, which had fallen asleep. Pat put his head in his hands and stared down at the beige-brown carpet, which was pilled and stained and worn. Dallas, the Bronx—pick your season in hell.