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Winter had receded and the welcomed spring temperatures eased in. The vibrant afternoon sun energized the entire Manhattan.
That brightness, however, was barely able to penetrate the drab, rundown one bedroom apartment Marty Frankel inhibited. His tiny domicile was sparsely furnished and unkempt. The putrid smell of alcohol, spoiled takeout food, and stale air infested his living quarters. A far cry from the clean, lavish home and high-end lifestyle he once enjoyed.
A matty haired, scruffy bearded Marty had finally awakened. He trudged to the bathroom like a zombie to relieve himself. Hung over from the night before, his balance and aim was off.
Urine splattered all over the toilet and he didn’t care to clean his mess, or even give the toilet a flush, for that matter.
He made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. There was a single can of beer inside. He grabbed it. There were a few drops left. His need to consume alcohol intensified. He searched around the sink’s countertop, which was cluttered with old liquor and beer bottles for one that contained alcohol. They were all empty. He inspected the bottles that were strewn around the living room floor along with piles of Investment Business Daily and Wall Street Journal newspapers. Nothing.
With less than one hundred and seventy dollars, and uncertain of when or how he would receive any money, he threw on a ragged pair of blue sweat pants, his old Harvard college sweater, and a worn pair of New Balance sneakers. He then took ten dollars and walked to the liquor store.
Moving through the congested New York City streets, Marty paid little attention to anyone. While on his mission, his mind remained blank. That had become his method of dealing with life’s issues.
He had been abandoned by his wife, betrayed by the company he worked for, and outcast by his friends.
It was him against the world, but unfortunately he was losing the battle by a wide margin.
Not focusing on where he was going, Marty collided into a man who hurried out of a bistro, nearly causing him to drop his lunch, and spill the drinks he balanced in both hands.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” The young man checked his tailored suit to make sure no contents were spilled on it, glaring at the disheveled man who bumped into him. The weathered person looked extremely familiar. He took a deeper look. “Marty?...Marty Frankel? Is that you?”
There were plenty of rumors circulating about the condition of Marty. It brought surprising pain to see that there was truth to the stories which were told at the Goldman Building.
“Sorry about that, Vincent,” Marty mumbled. He proceeded to walk away until Vincent grabbed him by the arm stopping him.
“Hold on a second, Mr. Frankel. I just want you to know that your hard work at Goldman’s was not in vain. You’ve taught me things that no one else would have been able to. Hell, even if they had the knowledge, they wouldn’t have been willing to share it.”
For the first time, Marty raised his head high enough to look Vincent in the eyes. He continued, “Since you’ve been gone, my position was elevated. Now I work for the Capital Markets Group. In all honesty, it’s you that I have to thank for that. I modeled myself after you,” Vincent explained.
“Thank you, Vince.” Marty placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have always been a hardworking and intelligent kid.” Marty glanced over to the street where a pristine navy-blue Mercedes S550 Maybach Edition was parked. Jack, Marty’s former supervisor, and the cause of his current situation, sat in the back seat of the large and luxurious automobile in repose. He seemed oblivious to them as they conversed, with pedestrians walking around them. Feelings of anger and hurt that was deeply buried abruptly resurfaced. “Have you ever heard of a king snake, Vince?” Marty asked.
“Uh, I think so. Why?”
“A king snake can easily co-exist with it’s own species, but it will not hesitate to devour another one if the need arises. Be careful, son.”
“Mr. Frankel, you have too much knowledge in that brain of yours. Please don’t let it go to waste. If you leave the alcohol alone and get back on track, I’m certain there’s something I can do for you. Here’s my number.” Vincent pulled out a business card from his inside coat’s pocket and handed it to Marty. “If you ever need any help, give me a call.”
Marty accepted the card, thanked Vincent, and walked off.
Vincent got into the back seat of the Maybach with Jack. The parable that Marty had given him lingered in the back of his mind.
As Marty walked down the busy street, he mentally sank lower and lower. Disgusted by the ragged clothes he wore and his appearance, he knew that the time to change was upon him. He had come to the conclusion that the hardest part of life was living through failure. The very first time life had knocked him down he couldn’t muster the strength to get back up. He had quit. The old, ambitious Marty was still somewhere inside of him, he simply needed to be pulled to the forefront of his existence.
With an unprecedented surge of inner strength, Marty decided to walk past the liquor store. Instead, he walked a few blocks further to Starbucks...