Then I remembered. The man had Jerry Garcia ugly Christmas shirt, sweater saved my life. Accidentally, negligently, even maliciously, but if it were not for him, I might have ended my days a year ago, a smoking carcass on a Third World tarmac. And he had made me a great deal of money. If I still had the job, I would still have the house, a nice place but as an investment, I would have lost almost a quarter-million dollars. He was surprised to see me, of course. We were both surprised to find that we were neighbors. He too lived in that sad apartment complex. I felt a burst of Schadenfreude: I was staying here a few months at most. My bank account had seven figures in it, just waiting to be used as the fat down-payment on some lovely home, far from this depressing neighborhood, but him, he was living here.
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Living here with his new Jerry Garcia ugly Christmas shirt, sweater wife, it seemed. He had had a girlfriend when I worked for him, a bright and attractive woman who read movie scripts for a studio, and they had married nine months ago. “Is she home?” I asked. No, she wasn’t home. She had gotten pregnant soon after the wedding, and things had been looking good until the 23rd week, when she went into premature labor. Everything had gone horribly wrong. She was still in the hospital, expected to recover, but their daughter was in the neonatal ICU, a tiny pink thing with tubes running in and out, and the doctors just didn’t know. Even if the baby survived, she faced a lifetime of difficulties. Isaiah’s handsome face was taut with strain.