DUPREE’S REBIRTH
(An Adam Dupree Novel #1)
MICHEAL MAXWELL
2020 Edition
Copyright © 2020 Micheal Maxwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Micheal Maxwell.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Please Consider This
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Excerpt from Dupree’s Reward
About the Author
Also by Micheal Maxwell
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CHAPTER 1
Dupree wished he were dead. Not literally, figuratively, no, literally. He hated the fact the sun came up on another day. He hated the fact that downstairs, maybe, were three people he despised. There were probably only two. His worthless son, Eric, usually slept until noon. Or so Dupree was told.
Today was a bit different than other days. Dupree reached over and turned the alarm off at four-forty-five, pulled the covers up tight around his neck and said, “Screw it.” There are some reading this that will, using their best Dr. Phil armchair psychiatry, say Dupree was clinically depressed. Not so.
He was angry, resentful, frustrated, overworked, overpaid, under-sexed, under-appreciated, disgusted, and to sum it all up, he “had had enough.” Granted, two hads in the same sentence might not be correct, but that is exactly how Dupree saw his life.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, he watched the digital numbers magically turn to nine-o-eight. He was three hours and eight minutes late for work. He didn’t punch the clock or anything like that, but for twenty-five years he arrived promptly at six o’clock, one hour and thirty minutes before the first secretary. Two of the other men at the firm arrived at about the same time as Dupree. It wasn’t written that they arrive at six, but it was followed as if it were chiseled in stone.
On the nightstand was a cell phone setting squarely on his iPad. He reached for the cell and using his index finger typed the words, “Not coming in. Sick.” He hit send and laid it back down.
The bones in Dupree’s knees popped, and the vertebrae in his lower back crackled as he stood. He groaned deeply and made his way to the bathroom. The dark yellow stream of urine struck him as odd. The last time it had been that color was when he stupidly agreed to a survival bonding weekend in Death Valley. Dehydration, they said. Stupid waste of time, Dupree thought.
The reflection in the mirror showed a face he almost didn’t recognize. The dark circles under his eyes, combined with his sallow complexion, looked like the dying character in one of those Ebola movies his wife loved so much. He pulled off his pajama top and saw the thick growth of hair in the center of his chest that was nearly all white. The once toned gym-rat physique looked like the ten dollars per pound bacon his wife bought at Whole Foods. Soft, white, and totally lacking in tone, that was him. He shook his head.
Dupree sighed deeply and decided he would not shave today. He got in the shower and let the four, wall-mounted, massage jets and twelve-inch rain forest showerhead scald him. The water was burning his skin. It felt good. It hurt, but he was feeling something. He turned the thermostat down a few degrees. No sense getting blisters, he thought.
The water was like a healing balm. He closed his eyes as tight as he could. At first, he saw bursts of color, then those worm-like things his doctor called floaters, then black. Dupree let himself slip to the floor of the shower. The massage jets made a comforting rhythm on the shower’s slate walls. The giant showerhead above him rained down as he lay perfectly still.
As he lay motionless, steam fogging the glass of the shower, he thought how much different his life turned out than what he planned. He was going to be an advocate for the poor and downtrodden. His law degree would be a license to fight the injustices of society, right the wrongs of racism, and be an instrument for good.
That lasted exactly ten months; his new wife got pregnant, his student loans were in arrears, and he was three months behind on his office rent. A fraternity brother was hired right out of school by a prestigious law firm downtown. He put in a word with the same alum that hired him. Dupree was in.
His friend was fired after the ravages of his cocaine habit proved too much for their heavy drinking boss. The alum died of a massive heart attack at his desk five years after Dupree was hired. Dupree was now a full partner and there was no one left from when he started, except a fossil of a secretary no one had the heart to fire.
The water was getting colder by the moment. Dupree stood to find the massage jets freezing cold. He shut off the shower. He looked at the squeegee his wife insisted be used at the end of every shower and raised his middle finger to it. He was not going to do it. Not today, not tomorrow, never again.
The guilt he felt for not going to the office was weighing heavy on Dupree. His mini-revolution crumpled as he pulled open his underwear drawer. He dressed in his most comfortable Brooks Brother’s suit and tassel loafers. He didn’t button the top button on his shirt or put on a tie. He would do it in the firm’s parking lot. No one would know.
For a brief moment, Dupree stood at the top of the stairs. From below him, in the kitchen, he could hear the screaming of his daughter’s high-pitched nasal voice. When she paused for breath her mother took over. Their words were indecipherable, but the fight would break down to one of three categories; her lack of anything to wear, her curfew, or how unfair it was that all her friends were going to Cabo for spring break and she was not allowed to go.
As he entered the kitchen neither female looked his direction. His favorite cup was sitting next to the toaster. He poured his first cup of coffee of the day and walked to the sliding glass door overlooking the backyard. Alejandro the gardener was trimming the bushes against the back fence. Now, there’s the life, Dupree thought.
“Would you please tell your daughter to watch her tone with me?” his wife demanded.
“Deanna, could you ease up a tad bit?” Dupree asked grudgingly.
“Arrgghhh! I hate that name. Why did you stick me with that stupid Disney princess duck around my neck! Call me Rene! I’ve told you a thousand times!” The girl did not ease up, she screamed louder.
Dupree glanced at the sliding glass door to see if it was going to shatter.
“See what she’s like? I don’t know how much more of this child I can take! What high school girl is allowed to stay out until two o’clock in the morning?”
“Ashley, Jen, and Heather, that’s who! Would you please tell her she is stunting my social networking to the point I won’t have any friends in a month!” Dupree’s daughter commanded.
“Look, you two have got to stop arguing. Let’s have a nice quiet discussion,” Dupree said firmly but diplomatically.
“I’m not arguing!” his wife screamed. “There you go again, taking her side!”
“I’m not taking anybody’s side. I simply would like a little civility.”
“As usual you bend to the whip of the slave master!” Deanna threw her jellied toast across the room and ran out of the kitchen.
“Now see what you’ve don
e? Why can’t you just once be a father and take control of your child?” Dupree’s wife folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.
“Me? All I did was ask for a civil conversation. I can’t communicate with someone who is screaming at the top of their lungs.”
“You are gutless!”
Dupree turned back to the slider and under his breath said, “God, I hate that woman.”
“Whaz up?”
The sound of Eric’s voice shocked Dupree. He turned to see his twenty-three-year-old, standing shirtless, and in a pair of pajama bottoms barely being held up by his hip bones.
“Good morning sweetheart.”
“What’s to eat? I’m starved.”
“You look it,” Dupree mumbled.
“Whatever you want, angel.” The boy’s mother said with a syrupy smile.
“Hey Pops, you got any money?”
Dupree turned and faced the boy. He noticed a new tattoo adorning his son’s boney ribcage. He was determined not to start a row.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. What happened to the forty bucks I gave you three days ago?”
“Oh, you know,” the boy said.
“No, Eric, I don’t think I do. Explain.”
“Whatever,” Eric grunted, opening the refrigerator.
Quickly scanning the shelves, Eric took the cap off a half-gallon milk jug and took three large glugs, and put it back in the fridge. Without a word he turned and left the room.
Dupree couldn’t have counted to ten when the shrill cries of Deanna came from the top of the stairs. “Mom! Eric has been in my room again! He stole twenty dollars out of my purse!”
“Diane I am late for work. I can’t deal with her right now.”
“She’s a lyin’ ass bitch!” Eric roared.
“You can’t just leave now! Why do I have to be the one?” Diane demanded.
“Because you chose to be a ‘stay at home mom.’ And you’ve done a fine job,” Dupree sarcastically replied. Diane was still yelling and cursing him as the garage door slammed shut behind him.
The thought of running his car without opening the garage door passed through Dupree’s mind. He hated the smell of exhaust. Diane would take Deanna to school soon; they would surely interrupt his attempt to suck up carbon monoxide. He started the car and sat for a long moment staring at the garage door opener clipped to his sun visor. Dupree sighed deeply and reached up to press the button.
The law offices of Atherton, Miller, and Chase were an eighteen-minute drive from Willow Creek, the gated community where Dupree lived. It was a fairly direct route. There was a left-hand turn when he left the gate, and a right onto Charles Street where his office was. Today, Dupree intentionally missed the green light onto Charles. The traffic was light and there was no one behind him. He sat through the light a second time. Then without signaling, Dupree slammed down the accelerator and made a hard, fast, left turn.
“Whoa!” Dupree’s exclamation was a strange mix of glee and unsettling terror.
What had he done? He willfully turned the opposite direction of work. He felt an exhilaration that was at the same time liberating and totally foreign to him. Dupree laughed aloud.
“Whew!” It was as if Dupree was just saved from being hit by a bus. “OK, OK, now what?” His voice quaked a bit and held back tears. “I did it, I did it.”
The dull murmurings of the talk news radio station that was the only thing ever played in his car was exchanged for the first FM station he came to that played Classic Rock. Some might say that Dupree was born again. That’s not the case; he was simply freed of the shackles and chains that he dragged behind him like Marley’s Ghost.
He chose not to kill himself. He chose to live a life free of despair and dread. The first chain broken was his job. He called in sick. Only three times in twenty-five years had he been sick enough to not report to work. What was he to do now?
The car rolled through the business district, never hitting a single red light. Dupree noticed small shops and little bistros he never knew existed. He saw a flower shop and a Chocolatier. Multi-colored flowers lined the street in hanging baskets. How beautiful, he thought.
When he finally hit a red light, he made a right-hand turn and another at the next street and drove the length of that street. He saw the names of law offices he dealt with on a weekly basis but never stopped to think about where they were. He saw an ice cream parlor and pulled over.
“I want an ice cream cone,” he said to no one. Sadly for Dupree, the sign in the window read Open at Eleven. It was ten-fifteen.
“Oh well,” he said, genuinely meaning it. He pulled away from the curb. It was okay. He wasn’t angry. It didn’t matter. He drove on.
He found himself humming along with the radio. As he drove, he realized he was smiling. Smiling from his heart. He meant it. There was no one to see but the stretching of his cheeks felt odd but nice.
“It’s time for Beatle Lunch Pail, your daily lunchtime dose of the Fab Four,” the radio announcer said cheerfully. Dupree looked at his watch. It was twelve o’clock.
Ahead he saw a sign that boasted The Best Burgers in Town. He looked for the drive-thru. There was none. He pulled in any way.
“Welcome to Billy’s! Can I take your order?” A cute teenage girl smiled at Dupree as he approached the counter.
“Best burger in town, huh?” Dupree said with a broad smile. “I want one.”
“Yes, sir. What would you like on it?”
“Whatever makes it the best.”
“That would be everything,” the girl said with a giggle.
“Then that’s what I’ll have. And French fries. I like French fries.” Dupree felt like a little kid ordering for himself for the first time. It struck him he couldn’t remember the last time he was in a burger joint. “And a coke. A big one.”
“One Billy Buster, an order of fries, and a large Coke. Anything else?”
“Do you make chocolate shakes?”
“Best in town! I make them myself,” the girl said proudly.
Dupree looked down at the girl’s name tag. “Mindy. I bet you do. I’ll have a chocolate shake instead of the Coke.”
Mindy rang up his order, Dupree paid and she handed him a number. “It’s kind of silly to give you a number. I’ll bring it out to you.”
“Great.”
The small dining room was empty. Dupree picked a booth by the window. Before long, cars began to pull into the parking lot. Singles, couples, guys in work trucks, and four kids in a lowered Honda Civic all streamed in the door. Suddenly the little dining room was filled with laughter and conversation.
After a few minutes, Mindy brought a tray and set it in front of Dupree.
“There you go. I hope you like it. I made the shake extra thick.”
This kid is actually happy to be at work, Dupree thought. She likes what she is doing. She’s proud of it! The idea was so long dead in Dupree he chuckled. The first fry from the red, paper-lined, plastic basket burned his mouth, but the salt and crispy potato more than made up for it. The burger was gigantic. He tried to pick it up and realized he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. He looked around sheepishly hoping nobody was watching. He chuckled at how out of practice he was.
For a second Dupree felt uneasy. He looked up and Mindy was watching him. He picked up the shake and took a sip. Without thinking about it, Dupree set the cup down, gave the girl two thumbs up and shouted, “Great!” across the room. Several of the patrons laughed good-naturedly.
The meal was a soothing balm to Dupree. He forgot just how good burgers and fries were. Diane was on a kale and arugula kick, and he recently claimed to have eaten at the office rather than face one of her Rotor Rooter salads.
As he tipped up the cup to get the very last drops of chocolate shake, he heard one of the guys at the table near him say, “OK, back to work we go!”
To Dupree’s amazement, one of the others at the table said, “I can’t wait to see how this job turns out.”
As he stood, Dupree took another look around the room. These people are happy; he let the thought sink in. He reached in his pocket and took a twenty-dollar bill from his money clip. Mindy approached the table.
“All done?”
“Yes, it was delicious.”
“Best burger in town?” Mindy grinned.
“Best burger and shake. Fries were pretty darn good, too.” Dupree returned her smile and slipped the twenty under the French fry basket. “That’s for you.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Mindy’s eyes welled up with tears.
“How about, ‘Have a Nice Day!’” Dupree winked at her and headed for the door.
Back in his car, he realized he just spent forty minutes completely at ease. His stomach was glowing with the warmth of an old-fashioned lunch. There wasn’t the typical knot he felt as he gobbled down whatever it was the secretaries ordered for the day. Some days he finished and didn’t even remember what he ate. But this, this was comforting. Is that what they mean by comfort food? He smiled at the realization.
As Dupree started his car he came to a decision. Things must change. He must change. He would change. Pulling out of the Billy’s Burgers lot he drove for the first time with purpose and a destination.
The guard smiled broadly as he opened the door to Citizens Commerce Bank.
“Good Morning sir,” the guard said.
“Yes, it is.” Dupree returned the guard’s smile.
There were no customers at the teller windows. Dupree picked a pretty Hispanic woman in the center of the row of bored-looking tellers.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I would like to make a withdrawal. Five thousand dollars from my account. 242-55-3820-01.”
For more than fifteen years Dupree kept an account at this small locally owned bank. No one on earth knew of its existence. This was the first time since he opened the account he actually was making a transaction in person. Most of the time deposits were made by clients that he did little favors for, off the books, usually in cash and done by an associate or secretary, under the guise of ‘loan repayment’.
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