Free Cash Out by Greg Bardsley Page A

to worry about is yourself. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve given up, it’s been for Kate and the boys. Even now, it’s for the family.”
    â€œYou mean, for the money.” He glares at me again. “You realize how fucked-up that is? One screwup, and Kate and the boys are in serious danger.” He thinks about it. “Must be a lot of coin.”
    There’s no way I’ll tell him how much.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do, Rod? You think telling those cops would accomplish anything more than getting me fired, maybe even killed, depending on who’s behind this thing?” I take a sip. “You think those IT guys in the van aren’t ready to destroy my life if I don’t play along?” I wait a second. “You understand the pressure I’m under to provide for my family? Mortgage? Medical? Schools? Food? Safe neighborhoods? You understand how much I’ve given up to get here, to be just days away from our cash-out?”
    He grumbles and looks away.
    â€œTwo more days. Then I change my life.”
    He looks disgusted. “Well, then, until this shit blows over, I want Kate and the boys up at my place.” Rod lives twenty-five miles away in an oversized flat in San Francisco, in the gritty, industrial-bohemian neighborhood south of Market. “There’s no way they’re staying here.”
    I nod, and I feel better already.
    â€œBut first . . . it’s dawn.”
    Oh, fuck. That’s right. It’s dawn, and I’m with Rod.
    Rod gets up, pours the rest of his beer into the sink, opens the door to our backyard, glances at me, still frowning. “Come on, bub. It’s dawn.”
    â€œYeah, I heard you.”
    â€œYou know the routine.”
    I do.
    I t started the summer before our junior year in high school. Rod was already fully obsessed with martial arts, and I just couldn’t say no to my best friend. So every Friday at dawn, Rod would run to my house, crawl through my window, pull me out of bed, and drag me out to the football field a few blocks away, where he’d slap me around till I’d start yelling to “fucking stop it.” Even as I was protesting, though, I knew what it meant to him—hell, Rod was out there solo the other six days of the week. And once I got my blood rushing, I loved it. The fresh air, the surrounding silence, the reminder that we were doing something special.
    Every Friday at dawn, until I left for college.
    Rod never stopped, but over the years the routine has evolved with him. Physically, it’s become more intense; he continues to push his body and self-discipline to new heights. But it’s also come to reflect his own evolution. Where the Rod I knew back in school couldn’t care less about the harmonic balance of nature and its creatures, Rod the adult integrates his newfound love for all things natural into his routine. He’s also developed an interest in spirituality, with an emphasis on Zen Buddhism. He insists that “the complex duality of the universe” allows him to pursue both spirituality and cage fighting.
    My best friend, the Zen Buddhist cage fighter.
    Between the beer and the Vicodin, I’ve almost forgotten my vasectomy. “Go easy on me.” I widen my legs and square myself. “I’m not exactly sure this is a good idea.”
    Rod squints. “I’ll be gentle.”
    â€œI really don’t think—”
    He explodes toward me, flips me over, and sprawls across my body, his armpit covering my face, his upper body weighing me down. The impact knocks the wind out of me.
    Rod chuckles. “Trying to stay clear of you down there.”
    Finally I get a lungful of air. I struggle to get out from under him, but it’s hopeless. He swings around, his knee brushing against my nose, my eyes suddenly watering. I struggle to my knees, at which point he slides me into a Peruvian Necktie, my neck trapped in a