Kerry Peterman had it all. A graduate of Queen’s University with a Bachelor's degree that focused on Canadian Securities had earned him a rewarding position of trust in the head office of a prestigious Toronto financial institution. His clean cut boyish good looks didn’t hurt either and in his position he catered to many affluent investors. While others failed, his gifted genius, intuition and prudence had kept his clients afloat during recent faltering markets. He was insured a bright future.

With Kerry’s success came a hefty paycheque and lofty bonuses. He enjoyed perks such as Gold Seats for the Leafs home games, paid rounds of golf on all the prestigious courses in the city and an expense account that was never questioned. He owned an up-scale downtown condo overlooking the waterfront, a sleek silver Corvette and had money to burn.

But he destroyed it all.

Week-end long no-holds barred parties on yachts and in the swanky homes of his new found too- rich too-fast friends attracted all kinds of hangers-on.

Tall blonde models and young starry-eyed show business types introduced him to a fast whirlwind lifestyle, one he embraced with zeal. It didn’t take long before Kerry’s seduction of that pretty white powder, crack cocaine, was complete. He was soon lost in a deep sea of drug and booze hangovers.

Sunday morning mass at St. Mark’s and family breakfast at his parents' home had been a ritual for Kerry and his two older sisters for many years. The family’s closeness was cemented with easy banter and they all enjoyed this special time to recharge and reconnect each week. It was an occasion they all enjoyed but he hadn’t been home for months. Kerry doubted they would enjoy his Sunday morning company now.

At first it had been easy to hide this part of his life but somehow the weekend now flowed endlessly into the days ahead. He knew his family would be shocked at his changed appearance and was too ashamed to face them. Hell, he hardly recognized his own reflection in the mirror anymore. His gaunt face, hollow, sharp cheekbones and haunted eyes reminded him of the aging, reformed rock stars who had abused themselves the same way in the ‘60s.

His well developed work habits began slipping away. Punctuality was a thing of the past. Late nights partying began to take their toll. On top of all this, his ever increasing hunger and dependence on the drug was quickly eroding his bank account.

His subsequent late arrivals each morning meant frequent long, lonely evenings in the office playing catch up. This quiet time after the rest of the staff had left gave Kerry plenty of opportunity to view his wealthy clients in a new light. During yet another grueling session of catch up, edginess permeating his every pore, he had suddenly hit upon an ingenious scheme.

In his position of trust, tens of thousands of dollars passed daily across his desk. His clients trusted his market advice and invested large amounts of cash with him. It was his responsibility to approve monthly statements detailing account transactions before mailing them to the client. This gave him as the broker, the opportunity to check the transactions and make corrections before the amended copy was posted.

Normally this was a humdrum chore and Kerry knew most of his clients never paid attention to individual trades. Most checked bottom lines and tossed them aside. After all, they were secure in the knowledge that Kerry was looking after them. Only now Kerry began to look after Kerry much better than he did his clients.

It was so easy! He simply fudged a few figures and made it all work out on the bottom line. His signature verified the statements and the documents were passed back to data processing to be mailed to his portfolio of unsuspecting clients. It was perfect and his first run last month had gone smoothly. Or so he thought.

Fate, that transposer of futures, stepped in one hot, humid summer day.

A day that suddenly, without warning, plunged all of Southern Ontario and parts of the United States into darkness. No one knew what caused this catastrophe at first and many days would pass before power was restored to some locations.

Downtown office towers were evacuated but in the black hell of his office, Kerry remained. Alone, without his trusted white powder friend, he battled his fright. For this was the day, his only chance to "fix" the statements before the bank’s fully automated internal procedure began the irrevocable process of mailings.

He struggled with the intense desire to escape into oblivion. His guts churned in a swirl of burning acid. He hiccuped and swallowed the bitter bile in his mouth. He sat, mesmerized by his terror and shook. His whole world teetered on certain disaster and disgrace as he contemplated his future. Each hour dragged agonizingly by with the possibility of exposure and certain jail time looming huge. And still he sat.

What would come first, lights on or lights out for Kerry? He laughed at his own sick humour and decided not to stick around and see.

Wearily he stood, grabbed his laptop and fumbled in the dark for his office keys.
Again, out loud and alone he mumbled. "Might as well face the music."

He found the keyhole after a few stabs, locked his office door and faced the unaccustomed void. Hesitantly he groped his way along the once familiar hallway, counting each office door as he passed, until finally he reached the glass door of the stairwell. Gingerly he maneuvered each step in the eeriness, like a tot learning to master stairs. Shaking all over, he finally stumbled clumsily down all five flights and stepped out, not even noticing the loveliness of an unpolluted star studded city night.

His shaking, sweaty palm had barely left the slippery well polished chrome door handle when the most amazing event occurred. Every street lamp simultaneously popped on. Illuminated against the building in the temporarily deserted part of the city, he felt like a trapped animal. I am a trapped animal.

At that moment a vision appeared - were his eyes playing tricks? No - a scurrying movement, something, someone, disappearing into the still dark alley caught his eye. He whirled around and glimpsed his future -Jake - one of the homeless he encountered daily. This could very soon be him. Is this my future? He was frozen with fright.

"Hey" to no one at all, "hey, I wonder- can I?...." Suddenly alert, his brain raced.

He lurched around, grabbed the door and rushed back in with no hesitation.

He scaled the stairs two at a time. He sprinted to his office and almost laughed as he passed the elevator that was probably in service with the power restored. With knees wobbling like jello, fingers stiffened in tenseness, he heaved himself in, slapped the light switch once and bathed the room in brilliance.

Kerry allowed himself a few seconds to gain control of his ragged breathing and racing heart before springing into action. He tossed his keys aside, sprinted to his desk, and pressed the power button on his computer. The little green lights twinkled and flickered teasingly, finally stabilizing.

With any luck he might just be able to catch those reports, still lost in the darkness of his screen.

"C'mon" he moaned out loud again, "hurry up, how long does it take for Christ’s sake, c’mon baby."

Kerry wasn’t sure how long the files were retrievable to him but he was sure as hell going to try to recapture the bloody things. He began to make deals with God and the devil. If they would help him just this one last time, he would make amends, whatever road he may have to travel.

Sure enough someone up there or down below heard him because all 50 or more of those beautiful reports lit up the black screen. Fingertips flying he frantically went to work "fixing" his clients’ statements for the last time, inputting correct figures, knowing the discrepancies would at once be discovered.

He didn’t know what the future held for him at this point. The agony of withdrawal owned him now. He was almost beyond control of himself when he grabbed the phone and punched the speed dial to his family’s home. Tomorrow would come with their help. He would call a lawyer, perhaps restitution could be made, he would promise anything to avoid the police and certain criminal charges. He didn’t care about himself at this point and only hoped it wasn’t too late to spare his Mom and Dad at least some shame.

"Hi Dad, how are you?"

Georgie is a long-time resident of Newmarket and resides here with her husband Bob, of 40 years. She is the proud mother of two beautiful daughters and doting grandmother of five. A fledgling writer, she has taken several courses in Creative Writing through the University of Toronto’s continuing education series and has also enjoyed some local classes as well.