The Background Extra

CHAPTER 1

I squinted through the window at the glistening lights of San Francisco with as much disdain as a man can have for a city. It looked so small from up here, with a dozen or so skyscrapers and Coit Tower sitting out on its own. Still so small, but of course I was in a 737 airplane descending from an altitude of 35,000 feet.

I realized that I had probably had about three too many whiskeys and should slow down. I glanced around the plane for other people’s reactions to the turbulence. No one else seemed to care that the aircraft was being battered about like a punching bag. The plane ride had been bumpy since we took off from Portland, and my fingernails gripped the armchair like a cat hanging from a curtain.

I had to admit I was nervous. I was about to land in Oakland, California, to start an adventure whose intricate planning took the last five years of my life. I was going back to where it all started, where all my hopes and dreams were molded before being banished to the forested wasteland called Oregon.

However, none of that mattered at this moment. Nothing would have made me happier than when I stepped off the plane and saw Damian again. It had been three years since he visited me in Portland, but I remember him like we'd been drinking together yesterday.

I wonder if he’d gotten fat. Probably.

The aircraft sliced through the clouds and suddenly the ground was visible. It suddenly occurred to me how different California appeared to Oregon. Back home it was trees everywhere you looked. The buildings looked like they’ve been constructed around the foliage. Back in the Bay Area, it was simply brown. Brown ground, brown hills, brown air. Brown everywhere. It sure didn’t look like the commercials.

I could see the airport and runways through the window to my left. The little bastard sitting next to me, the one who’d been playing his stupid little video game on his extra-big iPhone 6 since the plane hit the air, leaned casually over my lap like we were related. He may have just wanted to see the landscape, but this was a war of attrition and he needed some manners. I slid my elbow into his shoulder and nudged him back to his seat.

Thankfully we landed smoothly, and my breathing slowed down to normal. I never used to have problems flying. I never used to have problems doing anything. That all changed almost fifteen years ago, the last time I was in San Francisco. I never thought I’d come to this Godforsaken place again.

This trip had me thinking about how life was all about contradictions. One day you swear you’ll never smoke another cigarette, and the next day you’re lighting up. One day you’ll never cheat on your wife, and there you are in Vegas with a stripper at your buddy’s bachelor party. Not that I ever cheated on my wife. I would never have done that to Sara. Of course, I never did actually marry her.

As I exited the plane the pilots and stewardesses were there to nod me off, like actors in a play looking for recognition or applause at the end of a performance. The Captain and I locked eyes as I squirmed down the aisle. Why exactly do pilots stand there, I wondered as I gave a customary nod back. For criticism? For thanks? For what? When I made a big sale at work, I didn't stand up in my cube and bow to my fellow employees, looking for praise. I thought about what would happen if I slipped ten bucks in the Captain's pocket and said, Here's a little something extra for the effort.

It took about twenty minutes for me to get my bag and make it out front of the baggage claim. I found a bench and dropped my ass next to a guy smoking a cigarette under a sign that said, No Smoking.

You care? he asked, referring to his Marlboro.

Knock yourself out, I replied as I checked my phone for messages. Nothing from Sara, damn it, and that was all I cared about. She was really gone this time, and I knew it before I left Portland. I had that little hope, that flicker of light in the distance, that she would have sent me a note like I requested.

She hadn't. The only thing in my inbox was an Amazon email about running shoes and a LinkedIn request from some random woman I met at a conference last month.

I had a nice buzz and that cigarette smelled so good. I look up at the guy smoking the butt and reach out two fingers. Got a spare, buddy?

Five minutes later, Gary the Cigarette Man and I had bonded over tobacco and I had even shared a few swigs from my flask. Finally, I saw Damian approach in his Ford Ranger. He got out of the truck and made his way around the hood to greet me properly. He was a big guy, but not huge, with maybe three inches on me and a good twenty or thirty pounds. His hair was black and cropped short, just as it was in college. He hadn’t changed a bit, except he now, for some reason, had grown a bushy beard.

There are awkward moments between people who haven’t seen each other in years. Do you hug, shake hands, or act like you saw each other yesterday? As is the case, I took point and bear hugged the goon.

The drive to his house was standard for the Bay Area. We were fifteen miles from Berkeley and it took forty-five minutes to get there. We rolled up to a four-story Victorian on a quiet street in a picturesque neighborhood right out of Party of Five.

You live here? I wondered out loud.

Like it? Damian replied as he grabbed my bag out of the bed of his Ranger.

It's like out of a Hitchcock movie from the 1950s, I said as I followed him inside and up the stairs. He lived on the third floor in a spacious one-bedroom with a view of downtown from the bottom corner of his window. I’d been reading about how housing in the Bay Area had become out of control, and shithole apartments were going for $2000. Damian had flat-out defied those articles. Either that or his beat reporter job was paying much better than I had assumed.

How'd you get this place? You porking the landlord or something?

Sam, compared to that dungeon you live in any place is a step up.

Damian looked for a reaction but all I could muster was a shrug. He was right; my apartment was a dungeon. He pulled a couple beers out of the refrigerator and we sat down to catch up.

How’s life? I asked, the most obvious attempt to start a dialogue. My mother taught me the art of conversation, all right. I should have been a diplomat.

Damian played along. Not bad. Trying to finally get out of this half-ass town. Got a couple of my articles picked up by the Chronicle. We’ll see.

Why would you want to leave Berkeley? I asked. I was serious. He had a really nice place, and Berkeley was one of the only places in the Bay Area left relatively unscathed from the Silicon Valley gentrification.

Damian laughed. Some of us want to move up in the world, Sam. I can’t spend my whole life writing for a small paper like the Berkeley News, not when I can get a big city circulation across the Bay Bridge. I'd like to upgrade my car. I'd like to be able to snowboard in Tahoe with my friends. You know a day pass at Squaw Valley is over a hundred dollars now?

Damian, let me explain something to you. Living in San Francisco is like living somewhere where you're always looking up a ladder at who's above you. You'd hate it there. You drink Folgers. That's not even allowed in the city limits. I'm serious.

Damian ignored my jokes and cleared his throat. Doesn't matter anyway. We all know journalism is on death's door. I'm just trying to be one of the lucky few that somehow evolves with it. I got an interview with Yelp next week for a content marketing manager position.

What the hell is a content marketing manager?

I have no fucking clue, but the starting pay is $90,000.

We shared a laugh and a clink of beer bottles on that one. He was right. The idea of quality journalism had become almost a myth in America, especially in print form. Finding respectable work in that industry was like trying to find a Maytag Repairman. They might still exist, but nobody knew about it.

Damian stared at the label of his beer like he didn't recognize the brand he'd been drinking. He was obviously building up to something, so I waited him out. It took about thirty seconds.

I know it’s been a few years, so I’ll be polite and ask your permission. Can we be honest with each other?

I sipped my drink and attempt a belch. Permission granted.

He hesitated, like he was dancing around the words. Then he just blurted it out. Why are you here? You told me a hundred times you would never come back to these parts, yet today you're sitting in my living room. What's your angle?

I'm here for Abby’s engagement party. Didn’t you get an invitation?

I got one, he says, a smile forming on his face. But I highly doubt you were mailed one.

How is ‘ol Abby, anyway? I asked.

Sam, do you still hold a torch for that chick? It's been fifteen years.

No, I don't. And you should mind your own business. The only time you get a piece of ass is when your finger tears through the toilet paper.

I had decided to keep Damian away from the truth and keep him in the dark. After all, he was still friends with Abby and the rest of that crew. While he wasn’t a tattle tale I didn’t want to show my cards to anyone until it was on my terms. The truth was I was betrayed by Abigail Spencer, a betrayal that left a bitter taste in my mouth which would take more than a bottle of Miller Lite to wash away.

Damian could see I wasn’t going to budge. Don’t get me wrong, Sam, I’m glad to see you. You look healthy. You know, green.

Green? What, like, recyclable?

You look like you're from Portland, all right?

Ironically, I got the gist of what my friend was referring to, and I was well aware I was wearing a Patagonia jacket. I nodded it off and let Damian prattle on.

Just seeing you reminds me of that night at The Boardwalk in Santa Cruz. I don't think I'd ever been higher on acid. Remember we tried to hop out of the Log Ride?

Damian's cell phone blared from the kitchen, jarring us both from reminiscing about our misspent youths. Damian walked to the bedroom to take the call, and I could hear his murmuring through the wall. He was talking to his girl, his woman, his piece of ass. Finally, he walked back in and handed me a fresh beer from the kitchen.

Listen, I got to go out for a couple hours. That was my boss. Sounds like a guy broke into an antique store downtown and is being chased by the Berkeley P.D.

Liar. He was ditching me to get laid. Sounds like big news. Maybe you'll get in the Chronicle again.

Damian shrugged. My vacation doesn’t officially start for two days, and my editor has needlessly reminded me of that fact, so I’m off to chase the story down.

The beat calls, I muttered as I went to the window. Go get ‘em, Jimmy Olsen.

Damian grabbed his leather bag and ran out the door. Bedroom’s behind you if you want to crash. Downtown is two streets over if you want to take a walk. And Jimmy Olsen was a photographer, you dumb shit.

I’ll miss you, I joked as he shut the door behind him. I watched him peel the truck out of the driveway, then looked up at that Silicon Valley sky above me.

I was glad I didn’t explain to Damian why I came back, and I hoped he wouldn't have the chance to ask again. I wasn't the type of guy to dump my feelings on another person. Abby always said I had this wall that I use to block anyone from getting close to me.

Now wasn’t the time to crash that wall. Hell, I took unusual pride in it. But I’d give some hints to keep it interesting.

I was back in the San Francisco Bay Area because I was utterly lost five years ago. I was thirty-five years old, stuck in a dead-end job, completely adrift in a life I would never have imagined for myself. I was wallowing in self-destruction with no direction. I started stewing on how I came to be that way and realized I had bitter resentment to five people who pushed me down this well to self-loathing. I felt entitled to more. No, deserving of more. These people owed me more. I desired retribution.

It became a one hell of a motivator. I formulated a plan and left no detail untouched. I researched and trained and invested every cent I had, and over the next few days everything would come to fruition. The scheme was almost foolproof, and afterwards I’d be rich and fulfilled. However, I wasn’t going to talk more about it.

I'd save that for later.

CHAPTER 2

As I rose from Damian's couch I tried to remember where the hell I was. It honestly took a few seconds, which meant I was either getting senile or I had a few too many drinks last night. I looked at the space next to me to see if I had somehow procured a female along the way.

No luck. Drat.

Life could really be boring when I really thought hard about it. It wasn't like in the movies. It was all about a daily routine, which may or may not be interrupted by moments of excitement or random variance. I fought traffic every Monday through Friday, sat miserably at the same desk every Monday through Friday, ate the same damn breakfast cereal every Monday through Friday. The highlight of my week was when I indulged and went out to lunch instead of eating at the office. It was borderline pathetic when getting a burger at Applebee's was the best part of my work week.

Over the years, as I swilled unconsciously in the fraud my life had become, I found it was just easier to blame society for my woes like everyone else. I mean, someone had to be at fault for my blasé attitude towards job and lack of a sex life.

It didn't start out that way, mind you. I wasn't always so damn disjointed. I loved my youth – in fact I soaked it up like a sponge, especially when I was in college. I actually wore flannels around my waist and grew my hair out. I smoked pot and drank whiskey and got really pissed off at Republicans. I thought Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain were Gods, mostly because of the way they lived their lives than because of the music they created, which I would sing along to and not really comprehend the messages in the lyrics.

I was brought up in a middle-class family and wouldn't have had it any other way. No brothers or sisters, divorced parents, dog and cat that I always forgot to feed. And walk. The dog I mean, not the cat. That would be nuts. It wasn't a bad childhood. Nothing to blame there.

I always got annoyed at those sad saps who referenced their youth for all their problems. My mother abused me in public, my brother farted on my face all the time, my father was never there. Get over it. That shit happens all the time, and every single person on this planet lives in a glass house. The point I was trying to drive home was not everyone made apathy their excuse as to why they can’t do something productive with their lives. Look at me. I was still paying off my student loans and I didn't lose my virginity until prom night. All that anyone needed to know about my childhood was that I trudged through it.

I tended to drift towards these bitter thoughts of remorse and resentment every so often, and it was usually when I was at work. You would too if you sat at a particle desk inside a gray cubicle, your attention focused on a computer screen all day, making just enough money to keep coming to work but not enough to buy a house or travel around the world.

I was a marketing lead for an Internet software company in Portland, Oregon. It really didn’t matter which one. It was a dead-end job, not a career. I couldn’t stand it. I was planning on quitting. I've been planning for the last four years.

I didn't always have such a mundane existence. I graduated from Santa Clara University down the road from where I was currently sitting. It was a reputable college, especially in Silicon Valley, and I had dreams of what I could do with my English degree, which frankly wasn't much. My fraternity brothers who graduated with me were pulling some money together to start their own company and asked if I'd like to be hired as Director of Marketing. I thought it was incredibly cool to have such a fancy title considering I was twenty-three and had no clue what marketing really was, but I shrugged my shoulders and joined the team at TwoChannel.

What TwoChannel did was connect computers to each other, no matter where they were in the world, without downloading any sort of software. All that had to happen was each computer would go to a URL and click go and they would instantly have access to everything in each other's drives. It was like Napster with an open door to the entire hard drive. That's how I pitched it to people at parties, anyway.

It was revolutionary at the time, or so the big VC firms on Menlo Park's famous Sand Hill Road thought. More investment funding than a small country needed was given, and TwoChannel was set up with a swanky office in downtown Palo Alto with a shit ton of capital. My only request was Diet Coke in the fridge, which was fully stocked the very afternoon we moved in.

I was more than content with my little life. It was madness in the Valley during the boom. Everyone had money, and everything was free. Every damn weekend there was a party in San Francisco hosted by one startup or another, and it was always an open bar. There were IPOs every other week. Random people had instantly become millionaires, and we were all incredibly overpaid. All the guys were dressed in Banana Republic or Tommy. There were always girls in black cocktail dresses. Cocaine was flowing in the bathrooms; Ecstasy was handed out under the tables. I was a decent-looking individual with a full head of floppy hair and a wicked sense of humor. I got laid way more often than I should have.

I reminisced about the Dot-Com Boom like some people reminisced about Woodstock. It really was a magical time. Companies were created on business plans written on cocktail napkins, kids fresh out of Stanford were given CEO titles and millions of dollars to invest with as they pleased, and everyone seemed to be driving Porsche Boxsters. That's how I remembered it, anyway.

During the Boom I didn’t have a thing in the world to complain about. I was making close to six figures writing copy for Web sites and creating email newsletters for the TwoChannel contact database. After almost a year on the job, I was told the company was going public and I had 15,000 shares. I was suddenly going to be a millionaire. I just needed a few more days to vest.

I had 357 days at the company. At one year, I'd be vested, and a quarter of those 15,000 shares were going to be mine, with the rest accruing weekly.

Then I was fired.

To be more specific, I was fired by Abigail Clayden, the woman who was having her engagement party four days from today.

After being shown the proverbial door, I was shoved out to the Godforsaken state of Oregon where I had grown up, my tail shoved high between my legs. And now, seventeen years later, I had returned.

I opened my backpack and pulled out my Mead notebook, which was filled from front to back with notes, thoughts, and plans. Five years’ worth. I needed to remember a quote I had written down. I found it on page 132.

I reckon you'd need to find the lowest possible scenario that you never would believe you would find yourself in. That's where you find out if you're man enough, or just a coward.

I read it twice, then thrice for good measure. I put the notebook back in my backpack and smiled. I had focus again.

I just couldn't help but think how this town didn't have a clue what was about to hit it.

My morning wasn't as riveting as the last sentence above. I watched Mean Girls on Hulu while eating some stale Cheerios, waiting for my temporary roommate to show up. I had to turn the stupid movie off about halfway through. I was pushing forty years old and was watching a then sixteen-year old Lindsay Lohan being way too sexy and way too young.

If I ogled a teenager in real life like I was on TV just then, I would either get my ass beat, or get thrown in jail. The whole thing was creeping me the fuck out. Shame on you, Tina Fey, I thought as I flicked off the TV.

With no TV and little else to do, I did the normal thing and started snooping around Damian's apartment. I found his stash and took a couple hits of pot, blowing the smoke out the bathroom window. I found some printouts of articles he had written over the last couple years. I suppose he wanted hard copies for nostalgia. I read them all and they were quite good. I was a bit jealous. Damian was a much better writer than I was, or a better journalist anyway. Then I found the Shangri La of my morning ‒ a pair of binoculars in Damian's spare drawer.

I spent the next hour playing Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. It was quite remarkable what you could see with the right vantage point. I was on a bit of a hill on the third floor of a Victorian building. I had procured two corner windows with views of the surrounding neighborhood. I took another puff off Damian's pipe, grabbed a can of Diet Coke I found in the fridge, and set up my sniper fort at the corner of his apartment. The daily fog and mist from the bay only added an element to the whole thing. It was all coming together to make this morning an enchilada of intrigue.

Damian entered the apartment and saw me sitting in his office chair, wearing his robe, my legs up on the windowsill and binoculars in hand. I gave him no mind as my attention was locked in on some suspicious activity down the street. A shifty looking couple was looking in a thrift store window.

Making yourself at home, I see, he said as he dropped his bag on the counter.

You were supposed to have come back last night, I replied, my eyes locked on the very suspicious man and woman. I wondered if they would do something dastardly, like go in and purchase something. I've been here alone all morning. You don't even have cable.

Nobody in the Bay Area has cable anymore, Sam.

You're kidding. No Maury? No Conan?

Damian walked up to the corner where I had made my temporary nest. I had a plate with the crumbs of a Hot Pocket I found in his fridge next to me, my trusty Diet Coke on the sill, and my cell sitting dark next to it. I'd been subconsciously waiting for a call or a text or an email from Sara that I knew deep down wasn't coming.

Cable-free is the thing here in the Valley. I got Netflix and Hulu and it's like twenty bucks a month. Fuck Comcast. Damian snatched the binoculars from my hand. See any titties out there? he asked as he peered through the lenses.

Trust me, there's nothing to see. I've been at this spot for a while now and the most excitement on your block is your neighbor double-parking his Lexus to get his dry cleaning.

I stood up and let Damian have a go from my fort, picking up my cell and going into the kitchen. I thought about giving up and just calling Sara, but instead did the manly thing and shoved the phone in my jeans pocket. That'll show the bitch.

I looked into the white bag Damian brought back with him. He had bought us both bagels. What a champ. I tossed them into the refrigerator.

C'mon, let's go. I'm taking us out to breakfast. I looked at my watch. Check that, I'm taking us out to brunch. Go change your clothes and let's roll.

Damian put the binoculars down. You buying?

I nodded.

Let me get some fresh underwear and a spray of Axe on my crotch and we're out of here.

That Damian, always a class act.

Fifteen minutes later we had walked down the street to the Midtown Cafe, one of those cute places you stop for coffee and a scone to talk about your relationships and what you saw on TV last night. There was one of those too-hip couches next to the counter, some of the goofiest paintings I had ever seen from some local artists on display, and the two baristas each stared back at me with those odd-looking ear holes that stretched the lobes to the size of half-dollars. There was an empty table near the window and we took a seat.

My attention was still focused on the half-dollar sized gap in the waitress's ear as she came to take our order. I tried to order an omelet but was sure I somehow failed to understand from the name of the thing whether it came with mushrooms. I was just transfixed with the lobe and how this woman managed to jam a piece of wood into it, yet I desperately wanted to put my finger through it.

Damian kicked my chair. I found my faculties and handed her my menu. Damian ordered the omelet. It sounded good, so I ordered the same. The server didn't seem to give a second thought about my stare and walked off with a smile. There's something to be said for not giving a fuck what anyone thinks of you, I realized. I was going to give this broad a decent tip for sure.

Damian's phone chimed, and he checked the message before dropping it back on the table. He smiled at what he had read and sat back in his chair.

Christ, you're glowing like Hugh Hefner after a Playboy party, I said.

It's the Axe spray on my junk, he said. Man, these divorcees, Sam. You ever have one? I mean, they’re suddenly single and haven't been with another man in ages and just want to bang the hell out of someone. Doug set me up with his cousin and I've spent the last three weeks walking funny in the morning. I've found Tinder, and it's the most incredible piece of technology in the history of man. Great time to be a single man.

As riveting as I could see this conversation getting, I reached into the backpack I’d dragged with me and pulled out my notebook. I opened it and slid it in front of Damian. Here. Look at this.

Damian frowned as he read what was on the paper. These are all the original founders of TwoChannel and their contact information, he said.

Keep reading, I said as I crossed my legs and enjoyed my stupid hazelnut frappe-whatever-the-fuck.

Damian flipped through the pages and started to thoroughly absorb my plan. He looked up at me once and I nodded in agreement like I knew where on the page he was reading. Then he read on.

You're one sick, twisted son of a bitch. I had no idea you held this type of grudge, he said as he closed the Mead notebook.

You were there. You got vested. You got your 15,000 shares. You got to backpack through fucking Southeast Asia for two years and get high as a loon, then come back and try to find yourself in Berkeley for the better part of a decade. While you've been doing that, I've been trying to plan out how to get what's mine.

And what's yours, Sam? Damian asked, handing me the notebook.

Fifteen thousand shares, man, I replied as I snatched the book from his grasp. Every one of the people in that book had their name on my firing sheet. Abby Clayden, Doug Wagner, Rahul Patel, Bill Wilson, and Mark Mother-Fucking Monroe.

Damian offered me a reluctant yet questioning look like he didn’t know what I was talking about. I boiled over. Jesus, Damian, you were as useless as I was on the company roster. Another frat brother Dougie was brought on to fill a spot so he could show a headcount to the board. What was your role? Write the response emails in customer service? And you got to cash out. Why didn't they fire you before you vested like me?

Damian shrugged. I never gave it a second thought. I just thought you pissed Mark or Abby off. We've gone over this, though. You got a lawyer. You didn't have enough of a case and they found that thing on your hard drive. And after the company was purchased they had plenty of cash to fight back.

The waitress brought our breakfasts and I asked for an orange juice. The first thing I noticed was the eggs were dry. How hard is it to make a decent omelet?

I moved on because I was hot on this debate. That thing on my hard drive was planted evidence. And I did have a case, but no one would take it.

Damian dipped into his eggs. Well, what does that tell you?

Just because I couldn't get a case doesn't mean I don't deserve justice, I said as I buttered a piece of toast.

You sounded like Batman just then.

Well, I am the night.

Well, Damian said between bites, I can't wait to watch this from the sidelines. Should be a hell of a game.

"I didn't think my case could become a metaphor. I don't know how I