Probably, the seed of a schism had been there all along, however microscopic. But in time the gap widened, eventually taking me out of sight of who I was supposed to be. In terms of the solar system, if you will, I should by now have reached somewhere between Saturn and Uranus. A little bit farther and I ought to be seeing Pluto. And beyond that—let’s see—was there anything after that?

At the beginning of February, I quit my longtime job at the law firm. And for no particular reason. It wasn’t that I was fed up with the work. Granted, it wasn’t what you could call an especially thrilling job, but the pay wasn’t bad and the atmosphere around the office was friendly enough.

My role at the firm was, in a word, that of full-time office boy.

Although I still believe I did a good job of it, by my standards. Strange as it may sound coming from my own mouth, I find I’m really very capable when it comes to carrying out immediate tasks around the office like that. I catch on quickly, operate methodically, think practically, don’t complain. That’s why, when I told the senior partner I wanted to quit, the old man—the father half of this “——and Son, Attorneys at Law”—even offered to raise my salary if I’d just stay on.

But stay on I didn’t. I don’t exactly know why I up and quit. Didn’t even have any clear goals or prospects of what to do after quitting. The idea of holing up somewhere and cramming for one more shot at the bar exam was too intimidating. And besides, I didn’t even especially want to become a lawyer at that point.

When I came out and told my wife over dinner I was thinking of quitting my job, all she said was “Fair enough.” Just what that “Fair enough” was supposed to mean, I couldn’t tell. But that was the extent of it; she didn’t volunteer a word more.

When I then said nothing, she spoke up. “If you feel like quitting, why don’t you quit? It’s your life, you should do with it as you like.” She’d said her piece and was straightaway deboning the fish on her plate with her chopsticks.

My wife does office work at a design school and really doesn’t do badly, salarywise. Sometimes she gets illustration assignments from editor friends, and not for unreasonable pay, either. I, on my part, was eligible for six months’ unemployment compensation. So if I stayed home and did the housework regularly every day, we could even swing a few expenses like eating out and dry cleaning, and our life-style wouldn’t change all that much from when I was working and getting a salary.

So it was I quit my job.

AT TWELVE-THIRTY I go out shopping as usual, a large canvas carryall slung over my shoulder. First I stop by the bank to pay the gas and telephone bills, then I shop for dinner at the supermarket, then I have a cheeseburger and coffee at McDonald’s.