Chapter 4: THE DEBT

Mac was in the foulest mood; so was Chez. They both sat beside each other with their arms crossed. Dressed in fitted black suits and silk ties, they could have been going to a party; but they weren't. They were going to a funeral.

Chez was a tightly wound bundle of nerves. He bounced his leg anxiously trying to release some of the tension.

"Why are we even going?" Chez grumbled. Mac rubbed his forehead fiercely, the typical roguish smile replaced with a rare scowl. "Father asked."

Through gritted teeth, he further explained that his father hadn't been the only one who asked them to come: Lonny's son, Shepard, had also asked. Chez leaned further into the seat; anxiety built with every passing mile.

By the time they arrived at the seaside estate, Chez was afraid he'd be sick. His stomach clenched and his skin felt clammy. Mac stepped out and waited to walk up the footpath together. After several deep breaths, Chez too stepped out. He clenched his hands to keep from trembling.

Mac studied him with growing concern. "Chez, if you need me to –"

"N-no," Chez tried to brush his concerns away. "I'm fine. Let's just go." Even over the sound of ocean waves, Chez could hear his own rapid heartbeat.

It had been years since the two of them had walked that same footpath together. The first time, they had been filled with hope. This time, Chez struggle to breathe. Hung on the front door was a large funeral wreath tied with a black ribbon. Suddenly, Chez felt like he was drowning; he couldn't breathe. He grabbed his chest and cried out in desperation.

"Chez!" Mac shouted, coming to his side.

Chez fell to his knees and sobbed, gripped by a sudden panic attack. He thought he was dying. But then Mac was beside him, Chez realized with relief. Mac held him and shouted for help. Chez gripped his forearm like a vice and buried his face into Mac's shoulder. Thank God Mac was there.

To understand Chez's reaction, it's important to understand his relationship with Lonny Redding: the man whose funeral they were attending. 

While Mac had gone off to start his own company, Chez had thrown himself back into his studies. What he'd said to Mac the night of his graduation was true: Chez didn't have family money or connections to fall back on, so he needed to work hard.

Chez was the only child of Alice LaFleur: a young single mother. She was a gentle hardworking woman who worked two jobs to keep the rent paid on their small two-bedroom apartment. Though modest, it was in a respectable neighborhood; and because of that, Chez was able to attend a good high school with a strong STEM program.

The neighborhood, mostly homemakers and the elderly, all seemed fond of the LaFleur family. Whenever Ms. LaFleur heard them praise her son, her eyes lit up. Such a "good boy" they would say to her, "you must be so proud." She was. He was the best part of her life, and she wanted to see him succeed and pursue his passions.

When the landlord suddenly announced he would raise the rent, Ms. LaFleur felt she had no other choice: she moved into Chez's room and rented out her own bedroom to afford the increased rent. Finding a less expensive apartment, she determined, would mean changing school districts.

Through every struggle, Ms. LaFleur demonstrated grace and unbroken willpower. Even when an ill-tempered middle-aged woman moved in and complained daily about everything, Ms. LaFleur would only smile and remark that everything wasn't as bad as she seemed to think.

Like many high school seniors, Chez was often late in the mornings and frequently missed the bus, forcing him to walk the mile and a half to school. On one such morning, it was raining terribly which troubled Ms. LaFleur. Before he left, she handed him her umbrella, and when he protested because she had a much longer walk home from her night job, Ms. LaFleur assured him the rain would stop by evening and if it didn't, she would get a ride home from her boss. However, that night it hadn't stopped raining, and Ms. LaFleur's boss had further decided to go home early, leaving her to watch the convenience store alone until her shift ended.

She got hypothermia walking home that night, and this later led to pneumonia. She was admitted to the hospital, but after only two days, their health insurance wouldn't cover her continued stay, which forced her to leave and attempt further recovery at home. Her condition worsened, and a few days later, she was taken by ambulance to the hospital again.

While in the hospital, Chez lamented that he wished she'd kept her umbrella that day. Despite her yellowed skin from liver failure and sudden weight loss, Ms. LaFleur smiled with the same grace as always. She replied, "Looking out for your child is just what mothers do." And even though his mother's voice was weak and raspy, there was a gravitas to it that Chez never forgot.

Ms. LaFleur died a few months before Chez's high school graduation. Although the insurance company paid him a small life insurance settlement, Chez blamed them for his mother's death and wanted to sue them for negligence. A lawyer explained that health insurance companies skimped on coverage all the time, and proving negligence rather than an unfortunate tragedy would be near impossible. He advised Chez to take the life insurance and either use it to give his mother a nicer funeral or put it towards university.

Chez chose the latter, and he graduated a year early with honors. After his acceptance speech, Chez was approached by two recruiters from a well-known company, GLM. They asked Chez how he was planning to celebrate that night and if they could take him out afterwards for a drink. Chez explaining in his typical monotone that he didn't have anyone to celebrate with. Therefore, there was no reason to wait until later.

Although Chez explained over drinks that he'd never applied to GLM, nor did he know anyone associated with it, the recruiters wasted no time in offering him a job. They assured him that someone had noticed his work, and his name had been brought up several times. The recruiters highlighted the many advantages of working for them. GLM was at the forefront of advancements in fields like green energy, equipment cooling systems, and lifesaving medical equipment.

After listening politely, Chez admitted he planned to continue his education, adding that he was only 20 and felt he had more to learn. Luckily, they explained, that was not a problem. GLM had a scholarship program which would pay the full cost of his graduate program, his living expenses, and all transportation costs. All he had to do was sign a four-year contract stating his intention to work for the company upon graduation. The two could guaranteed him a salary above the industry average. Furthermore, having guaranteed employment after graduation was a pretty good deal. Chez thought so as well, and although he had some initial reservations, after reading the conditions thoroughly and researching the company, he could find no reason not to sign.

Two years later, Chez began working for GLM. He was excited to learn which department he'd be in and was motivated to work hard. There were many projects Chez would have been excited to work on. GLM built medical equipment that was safer and more affordable for patients and hospitals. They designed water purification and collection technology for underdeveloped international communities. And their innovative battery design for electric vehicles were not toxic to the environment. For personal reasons, Chez hoped he'd be involved in developing medical equipment.

But Chez quickly discovered that GLM's efforts towards environmental and social responsibility might be them attempting White Knight Leverage. This was when a company, or person, leveraged their wholesome, philanthropic activities to distract from the morally dubious ventures which were more profitable. An example would be a loan shark who created indentured slaves out of the poor and desperate but was also the sole benefactor to an orphanage. Sure, society doesn't want loan sharks, but what would become of the orphans if you drove the loan shark out? Companies that use White Knight Leveraging essentially blackmail society to insure people think of them as necessary evils.

While GLM leveraged its advancements in medical equipment, green energy, and developments in disadvantaged communities, its real money was in defense contracting. And for the next four years, Advanced Weapons Development in Robotics and Autonomous Systems would be Chez's new department.

His boss was a short potato looking man, with a perpetual scowl, and a skeptical view of the world. "The world is a dangerous place," he told Chez. "Many enemies are waiting for the chance to attack us. The weapons GLM produces are used to protect our soldiers overseas as they defend our country: preserving democracy and freedom." He showed Chez around the department and asked him if Chez had ever felt helpless – unable to protect something or someone he loved. Chez fell silent.

His boss nodded knowingly and patted him on the back, saying, "We're helpless when we haven't the power to protect ourselves or our loved ones. This vulnerability puts what we love most at risk."

He spoke about his kids and said he hoped the weapons he made would keep the people he cared about safe. That's why he was proud to work for GLM. Not only did it allowed him to demonstrate his patriotism, but it also allowed him to protect the vulnerable. Chez did not completely share his boss's opinion and had reservations about making weapons designed to bring harm. But he set them aside and decided to do his best.

A year later, devastation was unleashed in another country by a brutal dictator attempting to suppress his people's freedoms. It was in all the papers and on every news channel. To Chez, the truth was undeniable. He saw his own weapons – that he designed – being used to kill innocent civilians. His weapons collapsed hospitals, melted cars, reduced neighborhoods to rubble, and cut off relief efforts. Thousands of civilians died, and many were the elderly, infirmed, disabled and children: they were the ones who couldn't escape in time.

Outraged, Chez demanded to know how such a thing had happened. He slammed the newspaper down on his boss's desk. Barely glancing at it, his boss simply shrugged and explained that sometimes their government sold weapons to other countries. And it was really neither GLM's nor Chez's concern who those countries were. He explained it like Chez was a simpleton for asking. Obviously GLM doesn't sell weapons to foreign countries directly, but the Pentagon could do as it pleased.

Chez felt the bile rise from his stomach. "Then how am I any better than some corrupt arms dealer!" he shouted, swiping the items from his boss's desk onto the floor. He swore he'd quit before making any more weapons for them.

His boss laughed. "Look at you," he chided, "standing breathless in your outrage, making threats and demands." The desk drawer scaped as it opened. He reached in and pulled out a document. With a vile sneer, he said Chez could quit just as soon as he paid back the debt of his education in full plus damages for breach of contract. On the desk was the four-year work contract Chez has signed; his signature clearly written at the bottom. Chez stared at in stunned silence. His boss smirked knowingly, slipped the file back in his desk, and told Chez to get back to work.

Chez's lawyer had bad news: there was no way out of the contract. If Chez refused to work or quit, he would have to pay the debt in full, plus damages. But Chez was undeterred. He attempted to obtain a loan from his bank, but was denied, and the local payday loan company said their max loan was $500 dollars. His own savings were nowhere near enough; even if he sold everything he owned, it would barely make a dent in the debt he owed.

Defeated, Chez returned the next morning to his lab and continued working on the very machines that might be used in the next extermination or mass genocide.

His mental declined began to collect its toll, affecting not only his sleep but his body. Though not particularly heavy before, he dropped twenty pounds over the course of a few weeks, which made his ribs and shoulder blades stick out noticeably and shrunk his face until it was gaunt and ashen. Many sleepless nights left him with dark bags under his eyes, and he started coming to work looking wearier and more unkempt than the day before.

Chez just couldn't separate himself from the tragedies his weapons made possible. He consumed every mention of the incident as reports of the death toll and tragedies kept rising. Seeking some measure of redemption, he joined a nonprofit known for its political advocacy surrounding issues of democracy, political freedom, and human rights. He became an advocate to stop the sale of weapons to dictators and to hold the Pentagon legally accountable when they did.

Amanda was the woman he worked with to put together petitions and design materials to raise awareness. She asked him to attend a fundraiser as a guest speaker. The event was to raise aid for the people of the recently afflicted zones. Before it was Chez's turn at the podium, Amanda introduced the mission for the night which brought them all there. In her resonating and passionate voice, she showed the graphic images of towns and people effected by the recent slaughter. She likened it to the 'killing fields' of Cambodia where 1.3 million people were killed and buried by the Kampuchea Communist Party. Like Cambodia, the recent atrocities were a mass state-sponsored genocide. 

Chez could stand it no longer. Covering his mouth, he stumbled quickly from the room, knocking into people in his hast, and ran for the exit. At the street outside the venue, he hunched over and vomited. The muscles of his stomach contracted painfully, and his face contorted as he gagged and retched up the vile acidic contents of his stomach onto the street. He rubbed his watering eyes and decided he couldn't go back in.

He hailed a passing cab. "Take me to St. Therese's Cemetery," he told the driver, breathing deeply and wiping his chin.

The cab pulled away and Chez never heard the familiar voice calling out behind him. Had he just taken a minute longer to get into the cab, he would have seen Mac Whitter racing out of the venue. But instead, he slumped in the back seat of the cab, his mind racing with the catastrophic images he hoped to soon forget, and with the face of the only person he ached to see: Ms. LaFleur, his mother.

St. Therese's Cemetery was on the poor side of town. Known for being the patron saint of florists, foreign missions, loss of parents, priests, and the sick (particularly those with tuberculosis) it was fitting the Alice LaFleur be buried there under Therese's watchful eye.

Chez walked to a little plot with red flowers and a simple tombstone. Despite the ground being damp and his suit getting wet, he knelt beside his mother's grave. With a choking sob, he confessed that he hadn't turned out they way she would have hoped. And he admitted that, were she still alive, she probably wouldn't think he was her "good boy"anymore. The thought of Ms. LaFleur's gentle features twisted into a look of disappointment brought tears to his eyes, and he covered them with his hand in shame. He swore to her that, even if it was in a pine box, he'd leave GLM by the end of the week.

Later that evening, after a brief stop at his apartment, Chez stood outside the office of a certain moneylender. While hesitating outside, someone walked past and their shoulders briefly collided.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," said a familiar voice. Chez turned to see the man who had bumped into him. "Oh, shit," Mac said, his charming face lit up in recognition. "Is that you, Chez?"

Chez was stunned. For a moment he forgot about everything and a familiar relief washed over him. Chez embraced his old friend and asked what Mac was doing slumming it on that side of town. Mac laughed and made some excuse about meeting some old university buddies for drinks at a bar. But somehow, wouldn't you know it, he'd gotten lost and now had no idea where he was.

"But never mind that," Mac beamed, "the two of us should get drinks." He draped his arm over Chez's shoulders and turned him towards the night district full of bars, clubs, and other night time entertainment. "Besides," he smiled in his easygoing Mac Whitter charm, "I always preferred your company anyway." Chez hesitated.

"Unless you still have something you need to do first," Mac cautiously proposed. Chez glanced briefly at the loan shark's door. "No," he replied, "there's nothing," and the two carried on towards a bar.

They drank heavily. And after the first few drinks, it was like those four years between them had vanished. Mac talked about his company and the exciting work they did. He complained about his stakeholders and the struggles of working within international space guidelines. He admitted sadly that traveling to the first international space station had been a bit lonely for him, because he didn't really have anyone to share the experience with.

"Honestly, Chez," Mac's head still rested on the bar counter from when the room had started to spin, "I kinda lost my mind when we stopped talking."

He closed his eyes, as if drifting off to sleep, but continued to speak. "All the things you said that night kept running through my head." Having already had quite a bit to drink, he mumbled something unintelligible and groaned. "I felt like you wanted to breakup with me." He laughed, a bland hollow sound, and said it felt worse than any breakup he'd ever had. "I thought you didn't want me anymore."

Mac's hair had fallen over his face. Chez reached out and stroked it back. It was an intimate gesture he'd never displayed to anyone, and it seemed to have surprised him as much as it had Mac who opened his eyes and froze. Feeling embarrassed, Chez cleared his throat, removed his hand, and stared into his pint of beer.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, knowing it was long over due. "Nothing was your fault. It was all mine." Drinking made some people honest. Chez was one of those people because, if not for the alcohol, he never would have admitted to any of the following.

"Meeting you opened my eyes to how lonely I'd been. At some point, I realized how much I relied on your presence. I was afraid that someday you'd leave, find a better friend, and I'd be alone again." His vision blurred, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"But not like before when I wanted to be alone," he continued, "but because you didn't want me; because my presence wasn't as important to you." He leaned his forehead on the bar also, too ashamed to lift it any higher.

"I think I wanted to leave you before you inevitably left me; to save myself the pain later on down the line. I was selfish and afraid, and I took both out on you." Chez whimpered, remembering Cindy's last words. "I really do deserve to be alone."

Chez felt a hand on his head, petting him gently. Mac was smiling, his eyes red and damp. Mac always acted so happy and carefree that Chez never realized the impact his actions had on him. The two men smiled and put everything behind them.

They switched topics and talked about what Chez had been up to for the last four years. Chez explained that he'd gotten his master's after university, but that he was now locked into a four-year contract with the company that had paid for it; and even though he really wanted to leave, he had to pay back the debt before he could.

Mac asked why he didn't setup a payment plan for the amount? After all, the company probably didn't pay a lump sum for the education either. Chez said it was in his contract that the whole amount would need to be paid if he broke it, plus damages, and when he'd threatened to quit a few months ago, they'd made it clear they expected to be paid back immediately and in full.

When Chez told Mac the name of the company, he laughed. "That's great," he said in relief. "I know the chairman and CEO. Lonny Redding went to business school with my father. I'll bet if we went down to Ronny's house and explained the situation, he'd cut you a break." And because the two of them had been drinking, neither of them found the idea to be insane.

They took a cab and arrived at Lonny Redding's seaside estate. The cold rain upon leaving the cab sobered them both up. They shared Mac's umbrella as they walked up the footpath to the gate. A cranky butler answered the bell.

"Who's making that noise at this ungodly hour, Michael?" a grumpy voice demanded in the background. Chez introduced himself and said he came to speak with Mr. Redding. The grumpy voice, presumably Lonny's, told the butler to turn them away.

"Lonny, it's me," Mac chimed in. "Mac Whitter," he added in case Lonny didn't recognize his voice.

"Whitter, hu?" There was a pause.

Lonny told the butler to buzz the boys in and to show them up to his study. Mac smiled and joked that wealth literally opened doors for people. For the first time in months, Chez was truly hopeful.

They entered Lonny's study and found him sitting behind a massive desk sipping a glass of expensive liquor in his pajamas. Chez introduced himself and explained his predicament while the older gentlemen sat and listened. When Chez had finished, to his surprise, Lonny laughed. Not like a small sinister chuckle, but a head-thrown-back belly laugh; the type that shook the walls.

When he finished, he got up and walked in front of the desk. "Mr. LaFleur, there is nothing I can do for you. You see, I've been on the university's school board for over a decade. You may not remember me, but I was at the award ceremony when you won the ASME engineers' competition in your sophomore year. I realized at that time that you had a clever mind and were able to see elegant solutions to challenging problems. Since then, I started keeping an eye on you, and I always planned on bringing you into GLM once you graduated. Originally, I struggled to imagine a way to ensure you'd join us; but that was until you revealed a desire to continue your education." Lonny smiled, greatly pleased with himself.

As he listened, Chez realized he'd been the target of a long-laid plan to force him to work for GLM.

"I saw my chance," Lonny continued, explaining how he'd laid his trap. "I offered you a way to fulfill your desire but at a "small" price. A four-year contract with a salary higher than the industry standard would be too good to pass up. Actually," he chuckled, "I was the one who made sure the contract guaranteed you'd have to pay back the debt in full should you try to back out later. Obviously, you can't afford to do that: no bank would ever loan you that amount and you have no savings to speak of." Lonny advised Chez to get accustomed to working where he was.

Chez grabbed his chest and started breathing heavily. He felt clammy and sick all over again. He rubbed his face, suddenly sweaty and dizzy, and felt as if a weight were being pressed down on him.

Grinning and amused, Lonny taunted him. "Maybe if you do a good job, after a few years I'll move you to a more philanthropic department."

He sipped his drink and smugly added, "Who knows, you may find you'll eventually like your job. It pays good, and after a few years, you might even afford the finer things in life."

Chez shook his head and brushed his hand against the rigid bulge in his pocket. "Honestly, Mr. Redding, I don't think I can hold out for a few years." Chez choked back tears. He'd been drinking and was unable to hold back. "I'm tormented with so much guilt. I can't close my eyes at night."

Lonny scoffed. "Then see a doctor. One can always find a "fix" for moral dilemmas," he said, implying Chez should numb his moral apprehensions with medication. The memory of the fundraiser was still fresh in his mind. His very spirit was being crushed under the turmoil.

Lonny gasped when he saw the gun Chez pulled from his pocket. Both Lonny and Mac jumped back and raised their hands as if trying to calm a wild animal.

"N-now listen here," Lonny stammered, "you won't be able to get away with this."

"Chez," Mac said, putting himself between the gun and Lonny. "Put the gun down. You're drunk and upset. Let's just think calmly."

Chez's tears ran freely down his chin as he smiled half mad. "The guns not for Mr. Redding," he said putting it to his own temple. Mac yelled for him to stop and tried to assure him they'd find another way; but Chez was beyond consoling.

"I can't live if it means continuing like this," he said thinking of his mother. "I close my eyes and see the mangled bodies of dead children who've been pulled from collapsed buildings. I see the anguish on the faces of women whose husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons have all been executed with the weapons I designed. I see grief and destruction everywhere, and all I can think about is how I've contributed to them." Chez's eyes swam with tears and his whole demeanor was that of a man untethered and hopeless.

Then something seemed to come over him. Chez's expression was suddenly calm. "I feel like I'm on a narrow bridge, walking down a path towards a person I don't want to become." 

He removed the gun's safety and Mac flinched. "Instead of being forced to walk that path anymore, I'd rather just step off it – and be nothing."

There was a moment's hesitation.

SMACK!

Mac spun around and punched Lonny right in the nose – hard – surprising both Lonny and Chez.

The older man stumbled over his desk, knocking things to the floor. But Mac wasn't finished. He berated Lonny mercilessly for using his power and money to manipulate someone in a vulnerable position. He accused him of abuse, and said it was what he hated most about elites.

Mac had also been drinking, but his violent reaction was less about Lonny directly more about his own deep-seated resentments and prejudices which he kept suppressed and buried beneath a smile. Tonight, he simply reached his breaking point. Mac was out of breath. He grabbed the older man by the shirt and got in his face.

"I'll pay back the debt," he shouted and angrily pushed Lonny away. He walked back to Chez, who stood frozen with the gun still pressed to his temple. Mac carefully removed it from his friend's trembling hand, and – still very angry – glared at him.

"I'll pay your debt," he repeated with red glossy eyes. "And you'll work for me."

Chez LaFleur's haggard and weary body trembled with the sudden flood of emotions. Mac grabbed the back of Chez's neck and pulled him close. He promised Chez that he'd never ask him to make another weapon or do anything he felt morally opposed to – ever. He leaned his forehead against Chez's and he too began to trembled.

"Fucking bastard," he scolded in a tight raspy voice. "Were you really planning to leave me like that?" Mac cried, thinking how close he'd come to being abandoned by Chez once again.