He was making small talk about the perennial disappointment that was the Toronto Maple Leafs in the little boardroom of the 9th floor across a polished wood table with his boss, the invisible man who was supposedly publisher of the magazine he edited for a broadcasting conglomerate. A man he had met only once. He had a hundred dollar haircut and a tight dress shirt that enhanced his wellfed belly. His previous boss had been fired a couple of years ago. It was a late morning meeting so that the veep could beat the traffic back to Toronto. Evan knew what was coming.

When the appropriate amount of politesse had run its course, the veep slipped a termination notice across the desk. Evan was extinguished immediately. No severance pay. He had been there 18 years but the company was cutting back. They were moving his job to Toronto. The corporation had record revenue of $400 million that fiscal year, but the shareholders needed more.

He came home and Annie appeared at the top of the stairs.

“I’ve been fired,” he said.

“It’ll be okay,” she said, then went back to work. Her computer screen would keep her anxiety in check and as for his anxiety, well, it was every man for himself.

His first call was to a lawyer who took the case and fired off a letter threatening suit.

Later, he wrote or called everyone he knew in the business, sent queries to all the magazine publishers in the city, all universities and colleges and shot craps. Nobody replied. The newspaper and magazine offices were killing fields. Nobody was hiring; they were laying waste. His inbox was deluged with notes from people who had written for him expressing shock and dismay and sympathy.

He indulged himself in a period of mourning by stocking up on Sopranos DVDs and watching them non-stop for a couple of weeks. He had to hand it to Tony. He was a psychopath but his enemies were dispatched and rough justice was meted out. A working-class slob who took no shit.

He sat down and did what he always did when life was getting to him. He wrote about it. Life without the job he had had for almost two decades was a blow; his inbox was not engulfed everyday, the phone rang hardly at all, he didn’t have to think of story ideas 24 hours a day and he no longer had the dozens of people he spoke to regularly to get the magazine out. He had too much time to think, developed a junk food jones and started to worry a lot. He had RRSPs he could dip into and a credit line and credit cards.

“We’ll have to stop going to restaurants,” Annie said.

He wrote a story about floundering in the unemployed quagmire of over 50 and sent it to the Citizen in Ottawa and they bought it within the hour and thanked him for it. He started writing for them regularly. Then he started writing for the Toronto Star and then a bit for the Gazette. On the weekend his play was closing they had to add more seats to accommodate the overflow; he had stories in three papers and his new CD was being mixed. Evan thought life was pretty good but Annie’s moods grew darker. She dismissed the play, it was poorly cast, poorly lit, had too many sets, badly directed, and as for it being popular, well, what did audiences know about theatre?

He started baking, cooking more, found a pair of second hand skates and took to the rink at 8 a.m. when the kids were off to school and, with a top-of-the-line stick that Annie bought him for his birthday, started chasing a puck like a dog after a ball. It was a macho point of pride that he go regardless of how cold it was. After he went to the gym and did weights. He had to keep moving and doing or, he feared, he might turn to stone. He began rehearsals for a new play and worked on finding a distributor for the book on Spain Annie and he were planning. He was writing outlines and trying to find financing. Research for the project fell to him, she had “too much work to do.” Financing fell to him, contracts fell to him — it was Evan’s job. Corporate paper and lawyers and accountants fell to him. Post office and photocopies and clerical tasks were his. She was too busy. To balk was to invite tantrums. Then abuse. Then threats. It was easier just to do. Often from the country.

Annie was supportive for a time. But the creaky foundation she had built her security upon was starting to crumble. Evan was not bringing in a paycheque. And Evan was to blame.

“You’re not looking hard enough,” she’d say.

“You’re not worried enough.”

“Who have you applied to today?”

“You want me to give you a daily report?”

“Yes, I want to know.” She was serious.

The requisite panic was setting in. This was not a problem that was going to be handled together. This was his misfortune to deal with and, as far as she was concerned, he wasn’t dealing with it to her satisfaction.

She started screaming at him that she couldn’t live like this, though he couldn’t figure out what “like this” meant.

“I’m paying my share of the expenses, we’re running the car and we’re eating,” Evan said. “What is the problem?”

“We never have any money and you’re just sitting around. Why can’t you get a job at Telefilm or SODEC?” She was shouting.

He went to her and reached out to put her arms around her, her prescription to calm the skid. But as soon as he touched her she began to punch at him with her little fists.

“Leave me alone, don’t touch me,” she screamed as she pummelled his chest.

“Annie, calm down!” He might as well have been talking to a hurricane.

“Leave me alone,” she yelled, tromping up the stairs. “You better get a job or this is over.”

Evan was always on the treadmill, getting nowhere, writing, rewriting, writing scripts on spec, writing songs in between bouts on the computer, writing newspaper stories, sending pitches for stories, book proposals, trying to find teaching gigs, rehearsing for shows. He was at the computer at 7 a.m. He was cashing in RRSPs and the bills were being paid and he was holding up his half of the tent but it wasn’t enough. She was consumed with worry and pissed that he wasn’t similarly consumed. As far as she was concerned, he was having too good a time.

“I’m performing, rehearsing, selling newspaper stories and having plays done,” he said one night. “I’m enjoying my life.”

“How can you say that?” she raged. “You’re not making any money. How we going to live?” This time instead of punching him, she stormed out of the room. Enjoying life was a hanging offence. He thought maybe it was time to hit the motel room, shove a hundred dollars up his nose. But he demurred. Self destruction no longer seemed an appropriate response to Annie’s attacks. He had a show coming up. Instead he phoned Stan.

“You got a spare room for a couple of days? I need a break.”

“Come on up, dinner’s at seven. You can have the big room downstairs with the French doors as long as you like.” He packed a bag and left, didn’t say goodbye.