Ed Barton’s head hurt and his chest pounded. Or did his head pound and chest hurt? His problems were sucking him up like a dizzying vortex. “It’s money”, he thought bitterly; “lack thereof, more precisely”. His wife and kids called him “loser”. Knowing that more caffeine would make the pounding worse, he defiantly held the Starbucks latte grande in hand as the Bluetooth unlocked his Beemer; his lone remnant of the “old, happy Ed”. Grey all day, it began to teem as he opened the car door. Sliding in, intent not to spill the coffee, his slick loafers slipped. Down Ed went. Soaked, he lay there watching his coffee run; a muddy river carrying away his hopes. He though of his lost job, unpaid bills, the putrid turn life had taken. He decided to not get up. A crowd gawked. “Call 911!” a woman shrieked. Ed decided to will himself to die; end his miserable existence. A familiar voice intruded; “Barton, is that you?” “Hell” Ed muttered; “my nosy neighbor”. The interlude over he rose to face the world again; wait for the repo man to come.