Second Chance

It took twenty minutes to clean out his cubicle. Now the contents of his life were lumped together in a cardboard box: a weekly planner with numbers running down the side, a stained coffee mug with the words "I Believe," a framed photograph taken in Guatemala some twenty years ago. Rain drizzled onto a collection of chewed up pens. Michael shoved the box into the trunk of his AMC Pacer and hunkered into the driver's seat.

Yesterday he'd been Michael Jobeson, telemarketer. Today he was Michael Jobeson, unemployed. And if he didn't find a way to pay off his debts, soon he'd be Michael Jobeson, homeless. He rubbed his face with his hands. How had it come to this?

Back in college, he'd believed, rather arrogantly, that he could change the world. And so he'd changed his major from pre-law to community planning and spent three years in the Peace Corps. For one glorious moment, life was as bright and beautiful as a flowering orchid. Then reality set in. A recession. Unmarketable skills. The shelter he'd volunteered at shut down. Gambling addictions took over his life.

Twenty years of sacrifice and what did he have to show for it? Nothing.

A tap on the window. Michael rolled it down.

"This is an illegal parking spot," the policeman said. "You'll have to move your vehicle."

Michael turned on the ignition, but nothing happened. He stepped into the rain and saw oil leaking from the rear end of his car.

"Great," he muttered.

While the policeman went to radio a tow truck, Michael kicked the tires. What else could go wrong? He turned to get back inside the car. That was when he noticed the stranger. The man wore shiny shoes and a red tie and carried a black umbrella over his head. He smiled sympathetically at Michael.

"Having a rough day?"

"The worst," Michael replied.

"How about I buy you a cup of coffee? There's a donut shop across the street."

Michael shrugged. "Why not? What have I got to lose?"

* * *

Florescent lights flickered in the donut shop, and the floor was sticky. Michael munched on a bear claw and moaned about his life, while the stranger listened. Every now and then, the stranger's eyes would shift to the shop owner, the only other soul in the room. When the owner left for the back room, the stranger finally spoke.

"I hear a lot of hard luck stories, and it's always the same. People talk about their regrets, what they would have done differently. But give them a second chance and they fall into the same old patterns." The stranger sipped his coffee. "People find some small nugget of happiness in their misery and cling to it like it's a life preserver."

"Don't I know it," Michael said.

"So why should they get a second chance? They're never going to change."

"That's not true. I've seen people turn their lives around. Maybe not on the first try, maybe not even on the second. But with help and support, change is possible." He ran a hand through his hair. "I could change, if given the chance."

"Could you?" the stranger said. "Because I happen to deal in second chances. But only if you're committed."

"I'm committed." Michael leaned forward. "You won't find anyone more dedicated than me. But what exactly are we talking about here? You have a job in mind?"

"Better than a job."

The table rattled under Michael's hands. The florescent lights dropped to the ground in a shower of sparks. Michael tried to spring from his seat, but found his legs glued to the chair, his arms pinned flat. His throat was clamped so tight that not even a scream could slip from it. In front of him, the stranger glowed, white light bursting from his skin.

"I'm going to give you the last twenty-five years of your life back," the stranger said. "You have the chance to correct every wrong decision you've ever made. Can you really change?" The stranger's black eyes bore into him. "We will see."

The roof ripped off, and Michael saw stars.

* * *

The policeman rapped on the window of a black Lexus. "This is an illegal parking spot. You'll have to move your vehicle."

"I'll only be a minute." Michael stepped out of his car. "Write me a ticket, if you have to."

He stood in the grey mist as droplets drizzled down his jacket. This was the place. The shabby building of the telecommunications office, the donut shop across the street. The drip-drop in puddles echoed the pitter-patter of his heart. Part of Michael felt foolish, waiting for a man he was half-convinced he'd made up. Another part of him—wiser, perhaps—was frightened. If he had once been Michael Jobeson, loser, then what would he have to pay for this new life? It couldn't very well be free, could it?

"You look lost, Michael."

The stranger stood on the corner under his black umbrella.

Michael's Adam's apple jumped into his throat. "You know who I am."

"Michael Jobeson, corporate attorney and philanthropist. I attended one of your benefits last month. Your wife was quite charming." The stranger stepped forward. "But that's not why you're here. You're here because of what happened in your past life."

Michael swallowed. "So it was real?"

"Yes. And I must say, I'm proud of you. Sticking to your commitment, making something of yourself. You'd be surprised how many people end up exactly where they started from."

"What's this new life going to cost me?" Michael asked.

"No cost to you." The man smiled. "I'm a philanthropist, like yourself. I believe everyone needs a second chance. But tell me, are you happy in your new life? Would you rather have your old one back?"

Michael looked at his shoes. He had a nice house, a wonderful family, and money enough to give to charity, even if he had little time to volunteer. He should be happy. He was happy.

And yet sometimes late at night, memories of his old life would bubble to the surface of his mind: faces of people he'd once met, lives he'd once touched. In this life, he never knew them. Sometimes a little flutter in his chest ached for the old ways. But how could he go back to failure, when he had worked so hard and gained so much?

"No," Michael said quietly. "I'm happy enough."

* * *

The policeman shook his head as he watched the Lexus roll away. "How cheaply these mortals sell their souls."

"Indeed," the stranger said. "It's all in the timing. Buy low, buy when people are desperate. The great tragedy of mortals is that they never see what they will become."

Michael Jobeson, advocate, whose experience living as a homeless man would start a grass-roots movement that would cut the poverty rate in half—that man was gone, never to exist.

The stranger turned to the policeman and smiled. "Let's see who else needs a second chance."

THE END