Chương 3: The Black Crayon Ledger (07/07/1979)

DATE: Saturday, July 7, 1979 LOCATION: Fallbrook, California LOCAL TIME: 09: 00 AM | Doug Tillman's 30th Birthday Memory is usually a fog that thickens with age. But here, the fog had lifted. My mind wasn't a machine; it was a vault, wide open and dangerously full. I sat at the small "craft table" in the living room. In the kitchen, my mother aggressively mixed batter. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the wooden spoon against the bowl sounded like a march. The smell of vanilla and raw flour hung heavy in the air.

I turned back to my blank construction paper. I needed to visualize the enemy. I picked up a black crayon. My fine motor skills were garbage, forcing me to grip it in a clumsy, white-knuckled fist. The wax felt brittle, ready to snap under the weight of my frustration. I began to draw the Defendants—not as a list, but as a crime scene. I drew the Shelter: a house with a slashed 'X.' I drew the Addiction Engine: a jagged, erupting screen. I drew the Poison: a stalk of corn next to a pill bottle.

Finally, I drew the Inflation Engine: a melting dollar sign. It looked like a child's nightmare, but it was a Hit List. I shoved the black paper aside and grabbed a fresh sheet. I switched to Blue. The Blueprint. I drew the Cleanup Crew: tiny, hungry worms. I drew the ancient concrete. I drew the Network: glass tubes holding light. I drew the Transport: a single line from San Diego to Brownsville. But I needed clean millions to fund this. I looked at my father on the couch. He was turning thirty today.

DOB: July 7, 1949. DOD: March 12, 2010. He had thirty years and eight months left. In the original timeline, those years were a war of attrition. He would survive Phil Jauregui, but he would fall into the trap of John Patterson—a lawyer who would grind Doug's soul down for another decade. It would take him fifteen years to finally become what he was meant to be: a teacher and a coach. I looked at the file on the coffee table: COASTAL EQUITIES. I picked up a black crayon. My grip tightened.

I needed to delete the Patterson era. I needed to fast-forward my father to the finish line. I drew the Gold first. A yellow wall blocking a black ocean. A simple toddler drawing to the naked eye; a hedging strategy to the trained one. That was the math. Now I needed the art. I slid off my chair, clutching my paper and crayons, and waddled to the couch. I had to be careful. I couldn't pitch; I had to play.

"Daddy?" Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Doug blinked, looking up from his misery. His eyes were red-rimmed. He rubbed his face, trying to hide the stress.

"Hey, Tiger. What did you draw?" I climbed onto the cushions and shoved the paper onto his finance notes. I had drawn a stick figure with a frown. A very big frown.

"Sad man," I said, pointing a chubby finger. Doug looked at the stick figure. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"Yeah. He sure looks sad. Is that me?"

"No," I lied.

"Uncle Bruce." Doug flinched. The wound was fresh. His brother Bruce was currently spiraling after Aunt Penny had dumped him. Bruce was drinking too much, convinced he was unlovable.

"Right," Doug sighed, his voice heavy.

"Uncle Bruce is having a hard time. Hearts break sometimes, bud."

"This man go water," I said, grabbing a blue crayon. I drew a jagged line of waves next to the sad man.

"Go... splash."

"He goes to the beach?" Doug asked, staring at the blue line.

"To feel better?"

"He fall in," I said, shaking my head violently to sell the drama.

"Can't swim. Too sad." Doug studied the blue lines.

"He drowns? Chad, that's a pretty dark story."

"No," I said firmly. I drew another figure. A girl. I gave her long yellow hair.

"She save him. Kiss him."

"A lifeguard?" Doug asked, tilting his head.

"No legs," I said. I drew a long, green triangle where her legs should be.

"Fish." Doug stared at the crude drawing.

"A fish? Like... a mermaid?" I nodded vigorously.

"Fish girl. She love him. Don't care he sad. Don't care he can't swim." Doug paused. The metaphor hit him perfectly, sliding right past his defenses. A man who thinks he's broken—like Bruce, or maybe like himself—getting saved by something magical. Unconditional love. Escape.

"A mermaid saves a guy who gave up," Doug murmured. He leaned back, closing his eyes.

"Imagine that. Just... falling into the ocean and finding a new life."

"But bad men come," I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. I grabbed the black crayon again. I drew stick figures with boxes—cages.

"Want to cut her up. Put in zoo." Doug opened his eyes. The fantasy was being threatened, and his protective instincts flared.

"Who wants to take her? The government?"

"Bad men," I repeated.

"Take her away."

"So what does the man do?" Doug asked. He wasn't humoring me anymore. He was invested. He needed the fictional man to win.

"Does he let them take her?" I looked Doug dead in the eye.

"He have to choose, Daddy. Stay sad city..." I pointed to the 'Sad Man' drawing.

"... or go water."

"He goes with her?" Doug whispered.

"Bye bye city," I said, waving my hand.

"Swim away. Be free." Doug stared at the paper. He wasn't seeing crayon scratches anymore. He was seeing the ending. The ultimate fantasy for a man trapped in a cheap suit: walking away from the job, the debt, the expectations, and just diving into the unknown.

"He leaves it all behind," Doug said to himself.

"He just... lets go." He looked at the finance notes—the prison of numbers Phil Jauregui had built for him. Then he looked at my drawing. He grabbed his pen. Not the red one he used for correcting ledgers, but the blue one.

"You write story?" I asked, pushing the crayon into his hand.

"For Uncle Bruce?"

"Yeah," Doug whispered.

"For Bruce." He flipped his notepad over. He started writing, the pen scratching frantically against the paper. Concept: The Mermaid. A man who thinks he's drowning finds a reason to breathe.

"Splash," I said, pointing at the blue waves. Doug stopped writing. He looked at the word.

"Splash," he repeated. A slow smile spread across his face—the first real smile I'd seen in 1979.

"I like that. Short. Punchy." From the kitchen, the thwack of the spoon stopped. Sue appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"What are you two doing?" she asked.

"Doug, are you working on the projections?" Doug looked up. He covered the finance papers with my drawing.

"We're working on an exit strategy, Sue."

"A mermaid?" Sue asked, smiling as she walked over.

"It's about love, Sue," Doug said, looking at the drawing with genuine reverence.

"And about knowing when to quit the rat race." He looked at the Coastal Equities file one last time. It was still there, still dangerous. But now he had a map.

"We're going to fix the money, Sue," Doug said quietly.

"And then... I think I'm going to write this. Really write it."

"And teach?" I asked, tugging his shirt.

"Teach ball?" Doug laughed, kissing the top of my head.

"Yeah, Tiger. Write the movie, sell it, then teach ball. How's that sound?"

"Home run," I said. Doug picked up the drawing and tucked it carefully inside his briefcase, right on top of the ominous financial reports. A shield made of wax and paper.