Philip Montgomery Roberts was a failure. He would never admit it to anyone else, of course. His reputation as a shrewd salesman, even if it were only in his own mind, simply wouldn't allow it. But on nights like this, watching the flames in the fireplace lick the air while his wife read some sort of magazine, it didn't take a great deal of soul-searching or introspection to plot out the moments in his life where he took the wrong road. He was nothing if not honest with himself.
He realized, decades ago, that it all came down to self-discipline, or more accurately, his utter lack of it. Any time his school teachers or his first employers said that tasks could be done properly or they could be done quickly, he had always been the first to finish. It was a rare moment indeed that saw the man go the extra mile for anything. He had made it this far in life not by hard work and dedication but by taking the path of least resistance.
It was a character flaw that troubled him deeply, but doing something about it when he was young and energetic had been a failure, primarily because he hadn't put in anywhere near the effort needed to succeed. Now that he was older, the whole enterprise just seemed too much like hard work.
None of this was to say he hadn't done pretty well for himself. He always wanted to be a fighter pilot; he could never explain why, but soaring through the sky just felt like the absolute definition of freedom. When he found out how much education was required before you could even
begin
training, plus the peak physical condition pilots were expected to maintain, he gave up on the idea before he even started. Instead, he found himself in the illustrious field of used car sales. His opposition to gyms, healthy eating, and educational institutions aside, he found that he actually had a natural way with people. He could spot potential serious customers a mile away, easily able to distinguish the window shoppers from the ones he could convince to buy. No matter what kind of shopper they were, Phil knew how to take them for everything they were worth.
His monthly salary was respectable enough. It would never raise eyebrows, but it was enough to get by. His commission payments, on the other hand, were enormous. He was consistently ranked as the top salesman in whichever dealership he worked at. His employers overlooked his abrasive personality, general disinterest in paperwork, and fleeting relationship with personal hygiene for one simple fact...he made them money. The last dealer he worked for fired him for an infraction of some company policy or another. He had shrugged, walked down the road to his largest competitor, and had a new job by that afternoon. His old boss watched his sales numbers drop by more than twenty percent, while his new boss sat back and watched his sales numbers soar. His pay packet swelled, but Phil just couldn't muster up the effort required to care.
Work was a means to an end. Some people enjoy working, not for the money, but because they like what they do, they find it rewarding, or simply because they enjoy the challenge. Phil worked because he had to. That was it. If he could find a way to live as well as he did without getting off his ass again for the rest of his life, he would jump at the chance.
Well, maybe not
jump,
but he would walk with a slightly more brisk pace than normal to get it.
He cast a look at his wife. Her nose was buried in a magazine about the latest Paris fashions they both knew he wasn't going to buy for her. Where he didn't really give much of a shit how he looked when not at work, she was still wearing a face full of make-up, even at this late hour. Her hair was still immaculately pinned in place, and her long, manicured fingers scraped along the pages as she turned them.
Thirty-one years. That's how long he had been married to Debbie. She had been gorgeous when they met. Introduced at a bar one night, he assumed that she wouldn't be interested in him, so like everything else in his life, he hadn't bothered paying much attention to her, much less pursue her. As a woman used to being fawned over by every heterosexual male in the room, his lack of interest in her had been intriguing. Phil unwittingly became the first conversation she had been in for years that didn't involve flirting. The intrigue turned to attraction; attraction turned to obsession, until one day, she had dropped to her knees in the alleyway behind their local bar, right behind the trash cans, and milked his balls into her mouth for no other reason than to let him know she was interested.
Daddy issues and a constant yearning for the approval of aloof men had their uses.
He didn't know if he had given her a happy life, and he wasn't even sure if he cared. She had never had to work a day in her life; that seemed to be enough for her to stick around. Over the years, they fell into that stagnant pattern. He worked to make the money that allowed her to have all the pretty clothes she wanted - if they were reasonably priced - and all the make-up she needed to hold onto her fading youthful looks. In return, she fucked him. It was hardly the thing that romance novels were made of, but it was easy.
There had only been that one hiccup, the one event that almost broke him. It was, to him, the perfect demonstration of how effort was wasted on something as unpredictable as life. He had allowed himself to get caught up in the moment; he had felt the elation of success;
real, meaningful
success. For the briefest of moments, he had been part of something bigger than himself.
He'd known genuine happiness for the first time in his life.
And then, it collapsed around him in ruins.
There was nothing in the world that could wipe away the pain. There were still those occasional moments when simply looking at her brought it all back. He shook his head clear and clamped down hard on that feeling. He didn't allow himself to think of it anymore and, instead, went back to frowning at the fireplace.
As bad as things were at that point in his life, he made them worse by knocking Debbie up before they had recovered from...
it
. It wasn't planned; it certainly wasn't wanted. He was too lazy to buy condoms, so pumped her womb full instead. That choice left him encumbered with a son he didn't want in a society that expected every parent to be a doting model of affection. For the most part, he never told people he had a kid. That seemed to be the easiest way to avoid talking about him. For people closer to the 'family' - a word that made his eyes roll almost hard enough to hear them - it was unavoidable that they would be introduced to Pete, so Pete was expected to play along.
Except Pete
never
played along. It wasn't enough to have a roof over his head, clothes on his back, and money spent on those stupid fucking video games. Not to mention wasting time forcing Phil to pretend to be interested in parent-teacher conferences. No, it had been one embarrassing disappointment after another. Debbie, being the social butterfly she was - or at least the one she
wanted
to be - insisted they have a social life. Phil didn't care, so let her carry on. That led to them joining the rotary club to look more
respectable.
Phil didn't care about that either, but sure, anything for a quiet life. That led them to attend god knows how many teeth-grinding social events, galas, dinners, and whatever else those fucking clowns insisted on doing. Phil hated every moment of it, but he did it because Debbie would complain if he didn't. That, and she usually rewarded him with a blowjob afterward. Pete, on the other hand, seemed to treat every one of those as an opportunity to act up. He would embarrass Debbie, Debbie would yell at Phil, Phil would be forced to discipline Pete, and Phil wouldn't get his dick sucked.
In every fight Phil was forced to endure with his incandescent wife, she brought up what he lost over and over again, and Pete was the cause of most of them.
Phil had only ever been able to see Pete as a walking, talking reminder of pain.
It was hardly what a father was supposed to think about his son, but like he always said; he was nothing if not honest with himself.
Besides, it was all in the past, and doing anything about it, even if Phil wanted to, required energy that he just couldn't be bothered to expend. It was easier to think of something else.
A doctor once told him that he could be suffering from some form of undiagnosed long-term depression. Phil had rejected the idea out of hand. He wasn't unhappy; he just didn't care. The doctor said something about that not being how depression worked, that it came in many forms, with one being an inability to feel enthusiasm for anything and nothing ever feeling important. That sounded more accurate, but Phil didn't bother going to the follow-up appointments that were made.
