New York City, 1987.

Patrick stumbled up to a phone booth in the streets, people passing by, giving him small looks because of how distressed he looked.

He clung to the booth, swinging his briefcase on top as he tried wiping the sweat from his face. He grabbed the phone, dialing a number as he searched in his jacket’s pockets for some pills, downing some while he waited for the phone to be answered.

When you answered he struggled to talk, explaining that he wouldn’t be able to make it back to the office. When you pressed on about his wellbeing, he yelled into the phone,

“Stop sounding so fucking sad! Jesus!”