Trying to make it far enough, to the next time zone

Jim shows up at the bus station about twenty minutes ahead of time, with his briefcase, ostensibly so he can get some work done while he's waiting for Emory, but actually because his apartment was driving him crazy in his anticipation. It's actually relatively large, spacious and loft-like and not too far from the downtown, so that the carousel museum is only a short walk, but it's been like a jail cell for the last two days.

So when the Greyhound pulls in, three and a half minutes late, his hands are shaking over the paperwork, although it isn't noticeable over his usual tremors. He's wearing the nicest thing he can short of a suit, one of the silk shirts Laurie Jean made him buy back when they were married, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the top few buttons undone (he seriously considered a tie, but managed to talk himself out of it), and extremely expensive jeans that he usually only wears to casual events with clients (the kind of events where everybody pretends to be doing something hands-on and dresses ruggedly, and usually then go out of their way to stay clean and crisp and photo-op perfect).

He looks up, trying to keep the eagerness out of his body. Tone it down, don't scare him off. Oh, Jesus, he's so excited.

The company Jim works for usually conducts most of its business in Tennessee and Georgia, rarely venturing outside its immediate geographical target area, but you never know when you're going to land a surprise business opportunity from an ex-Southerner living on the East Coast. The guy wants to market the company's services in the Manhattan area, and he's offering to make himself a considerable investor. Frankly, Jim doesn't much care, doesn't even really pay much attention to what goes on. He just organises the PR events and makes sure all the food gets ordered.

Anyway, the company goes in on the deal, and his next memo is all about the need to put together a really nice event to lure in more potential investors, and then the next four months are a wild montage of planning. Eventually the event gets scheduled in the lobby of an extremely upscale hotel, and Jim, who is divorced, has no excuse not to go and oversee it.

It doesn't really go against his expectations. A lot of very wealthy people come and listen to a few presentations and then get very drunk and very friendly, and God knows there'll probably be quite a few new investors by next week. He still doesn't care.

Around midnight he heads outside, standing on the sidewalk with his shaking hands in the pockets of his suit and looking up at the sky. You can't see stars in New York. Maybe that's not so bad. Maybe it's terrible. He doesn't really know.

Maybe the only thing that's terrible is the privilege inside that building, the people so rich they'd make his skin crawl if he could still bring himself to care, and the fact that he hasn't drunk more of the free champagne. Jim lets out his breath, but doesn't go back in immediately.