Black Monday. Wall Street’s very bad day.
The old man fancied himself a shrewd stock picker, but he didn’t see this coming. Few did. Now over a half million dollars gone. Evaporated in less than a day. And his broker was demanding 200 grand more to cover the loans.
Vern sat alone, tightening his grip on the armrests of his chair. He’d cut the line to the furnace in this tiny motel room. It shouldn’t be long.
He just couldn’t bear to face his wife… his kids… his grandkids…
Funny, it wasn’t even about the money.
It was the shame.
The Weekday One Hundred 