“No,” he answered truthfully, realizing his mistake even as he said it. He scrambled quickly for damage control. “I mean, I liked the work, but I didn’t like… a few of the people I worked with.”

“Is that why you quit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We like team players here at Cutting Edge.”

“No problem there,” Daniel lied. “I’m a team player. That was just a fluke.”

The president smiled. “Yes.” He stood. “Well, thank you for coming.”

Daniel stood as well, offering his hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“We’ll call you,” W.L. (Bud) Williams said as he shook Daniel’s hand.

But they wouldn’t, Daniel knew. He’d put his foot in his mouth and flunked the test, and he left the building dejected and resentful, ticked off even more when he took the elevator down to the garage and realized that he’d wasted five dollars on parking.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. He was in the city and had already wasted five bucks, what were a few dollars more? He drove to McDonald’s and bought himself a value meal, consoling himself with junk food, taking the sting off his disappointment.

He was back home by noon, just in time to catch an old John Ford western on AMC. He sat in his recliner in front of the television, but he couldn’t concentrate on the film and instead brooded about his dismal efforts to secure employment. On the screen, John Wayne rode through the desert sand in front of majestic red peaks that rose dramatically out of the earth behind him, and Daniel wondered what it would be like to live in Arizona. The West was supposed to have a booming job market these days, and once again he found himself thinking that it might be better to just pull up stakes and follow the sun rather than sit here in this crummy row house and wait for something to turn up.

At least he wasn’t such a macho jerk that he resented Margot for bringing home a paycheck. He was grateful that she had a job, and he had no hangups about having to be the primary breadwinner of the household. He and Margot weren’t in competition, they were a team, one for all and all for one, and he was proud of her success. Still, for his own sake, he wanted to work. He wasn’t creative, was not an artist or a writer or a musician, and he had nothing productive to do with his free time. More than the money, it was the desire to dispel this feeling of uselessness that he wanted.

The phone rang. Margot. He’d forgotten that he was supposed to call her, and he quickly apologized before giving her a thumbnail sketch of his morning.

She sighed sympathetically. “Doesn’t look good, huh?”

“I’m not holding my breath.”