Out of Options

“We’ll be in touch.”

John let out a dry breath. They wouldn’t. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and sat there to collect his thoughts. His mind replayed the interview in fragments. The dread forced smile, the way the interviewer’s eyes drifted past him, the subtle shift in tone when he talked about being laid off because his factory shut down. It was not his fault. Almost every factory shut down, and all the jobs went to South American countries. Factory work didn’t translate well in rooms like that. Neither did desperation. He had tried to explain that he had worked there for 20 years, that he had shown up every day on time, with no complaints. It didn’t matter.

Fuck it, he thought. He turned on his car and headed to the next scary part of his day: the bank. It used to be not scary. He remembered going there as a kid, standing next to his father at the counter while his father made deposits in a passbook. The tellers knew his name. They’d slip him a piece of candy, ask about school, joke with his dad like they’d known each other forever. As a teenager, this was his first account, and where he deposited his first paycheck. Mortgage papers were signed at one of those desks. Wife, next to him, nervous but smiling, talking about paint colors, schools, and where the kids would play. He swallowed hard. He could still see her there, clear as anything. The memory hit fast and left just as quickly, replaced by the hollow weight it now carried.

He parked his car in the parking lot. He felt like he teleported there as he couldn’t remember the thirty-minute drive to the bank. It looked the same. Same brick and same windows that reflected the street back at him as if nothing had changed. But it wasn’t the same. Not since Citibank bought the little community bank he grew up with. Through the glass, he could see the inside. Some familiar faces, yet a different layout and colors. Even the lighting felt colder somehow. He got out of the car and walked slowly towards the bank. He dreaded this conversation. A few people stood in line. Someone sat filling out a form. Jocelyn, the same woman who used to help him, was sitting at her desk. For a second, something like relief flickered across his face. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe she could fix this.

A minute later, he sat across from Jocelyn with the mortgage letters in his hand as she typed away on her computer. Jocelyn has been his banker for 10 years now, and they even attended school together for a year before he graduated. She tried to ask him about his day and the kids, but he kept it short. He was way too anxious for a chit-chat. This was his last option, and he couldn’t walk out of here empty-handed.

Jocelyn looked at her computer screen, then back to him.

“John. . .” she said softly.

For a moment, neither of them said anything else. She offered a small smile, trying to ease into it.

“Okay,” she said, her tone shifting still gentle but more focused now. “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got.”

John looked at her. There was something in his eyes. It was not desperation, yet it felt close.

“I just need some time,” he said. “That’s it. A few months. I’ve been applying everywhere.”

She scanned her computer screen, her brow furrowing slightly as she read. “I know you have,” she said. “You’ve always stayed on top of things. This…” she tapped her desk lightly, “this isn’t like you. I am sorry you are going through this, John. ”

The words landed, but they didn’t settle him.

“So what can we do?” he asked. “There’s got to be something, Jocelyn. A payment plan, a hardship deferment…something.”

Jocelyn looked at him and hesitated. It was small. Just a second too long for him not to notice it. Her fingers pressed lightly against the edge of a file on her desk as she exhaled. “Things are… different now,” she said carefully. “Since the transition.” She paused. “When the bank was acquired, a lot of the decision-making changed. We don’t have the same flexibility we used to.”

John leaned forward as he started biting his fingernails nervously, shaking his head. “But you’re still here. You’ve seen my account. You know me.”

“I do,” she said quickly. “And I’m on your side, John. I am….but that foreclosure notice is already in motion. You don’t have much time.” The words hung between them.

“My kids are in that house,” he said quietly. “It’s all we have….I…” He paused. “I’m running out of options,” he added.

She placed her hand lightly on the edge of the desk, not quite touching his, but close. “Let me try to talk to my manager first,” she said. “Okay? Don’t assume the worst yet.”

She got up and walked toward the manager’s office that sat in the corner of the bank. John had only seen him a handful of times. Mostly behind the desk in the back office, door half-closed, like he preferred it that way. Like this place wasn’t something you belonged to but something you managed from a distance.

Sitting there, with the word “foreclosure” written across Jocelyn’s computer and the clock quietly ticking in the background, he chewed at his thumbnail until the edge went soft. One nail gone, then another. The motion was automatic: bite, bite, pause…until Jocelyn stood next to him with a look that attempted to be comforting but failed to do so.

“The manager would like to see you.” She said gently.

Seconds later, John sat across from the manager, who was staring at his computer screen without acknowledging John’s existence. For a few seconds, the manager said nothing. As the silence stretched, the moment hung there, refusing to break. Finally, the manager took his eye off the screen and leaned back in his chair.

“First, I want to say thank you for being a loyal bank customer. I have reviewed your full payment history and see that you have been consistent for years prior to this. So, thank you for that as well. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change your current status. Time is not something we can extend indefinitely.”

“I’m not asking indefinitely,” John said, leaning forward now. “Just a few months. That’s it. I can catch up.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

John blinked, like maybe he hadn’t heard it right. “What do you mean, not an option?”

The manager barely blinked. “I mean. The decision is final.”

A rush of thoughts and images collided in John’s head, too fast to hold onto. His kids sitting at the kitchen table. Backpacks on the floor. The way the front door sounds when it closes at night. His wife sleeping in a hospice bed in the middle of the living room in her final days. Bills stacked on the counter with red stamps. The interview that went nowhere. Kids asking him what’s for dinner and him not having a response. John clenched his jaw and his hands tightened in his lap, fingers pressing into the raw edges of his nails. He couldn’t let this happen. He slammed his hand on the desk. “You don’t get it,” he snapped. “That house is all we have.”

The bank went still. A few people nearby glanced over. Jocelyng looked stricken, caught between sympathy and fear for her job. The manager straightened. “Sir, please calm down.”

John could not calm down as he started yelling: “THIS IS MY HOUSE. I PAID FOR IT. I HAVE BEEN PAYING FOR IT. YOU CANNOT TAKE IT AWAY FROM ME.” He slammed the desk so hard with each word that it rattled the pens in their holder. A security officer, who had been lingering near the entrance, immediately started walking over, one hand slightly raised in a calming gesture.

The manager sighed, shaking his head as if John were just another inconvenience. “This is exactly the problem,” he muttered. “People make bad decisions, then expect sympathy and someone else to fix them.” The words landed like a spark in gasoline. Even the security officer shook his head disapprovingly upon hearing the manager's words.

“Bad decisions?” John shouted, his voice cracking. “You think losing everything is a choice?”

The officer grabbed John’s arm, firm but not aggressive. “Hey, hey, that’s enough, sir. Step back, please.”

John’s hand jerked upward, but instead of lashing out, he shoved the security officer’s grip away and staggered back a step, breathing as if he’d just run a mile. The security officer took a step back to avoid making the situation more volatile.

“I’ve seen enough,” the manager said, dismissively, waving a hand like he was brushing something off his desk. His voice was getting louder with every word; every person in that bank was now watching. “You did not meet your financial obligations, and the consequences are clear-cut. When you signed those mortgage documents, you agreed to it. Your circumstances are not this institution’s responsibility. I am going to ask you to step away from my desk. Actually, we are done here… Gary, please escort him out.”

Officer Gary had no choice this time and grabbed John’s arm again. “Come on, man. Let’s step outside.”

The shame of being led out in front of everyone sent a jolt of panic through John’s chest.

“No…..wait….” John said, pulling back slightly. “I’m not… I’m not done…”

“Sir, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Gary empathized with the man as he held his arm, but he also had a job to do, so he pulled John’s arm firmly this time.

“I’m not trying to! ” John’s voice shook. “I’m not trying to cause trouble, just give me a minute ….” His arm twisted as he tried to turn back toward the desk, and in that messy and desperate movement, his hand collided with something solid at the officer’s side. It was a holster. John felt it before he fully understood what it was. His fingers closed around it by instinct, not intention. The officer reacted immediately, but it was a second too late as John pulled the gun out. His eyes dropped immediately to what was in his hand, like he was seeing it for the first time.

“I …I didn’t.” The word barely made it out.

John’s hands trembled violently. He took a step back without meaning to, creating space, the movement making a woman nearby gasp and pull someone closer to her. Another customer slowly lowered themselves into a chair, like sudden movements might set something off.

“I didn’t mean to—” John said again, louder this time, panic rising fast.

But the room didn’t hear that. All they saw was the gun. John’s chest tightened, breath coming too fast now, the edges of his vision blurring.

“Then let’s put it down,” the officer said. “Slowly. You can just set it on the desk. That’s it. No one’s trying to hurt you.”

But then the manager spoke. “I am calling the police.”

The word landed hard. The image flashed before he could stop it: handcuffs, his kids waiting at home, a door that doesn’t open when they expect it to.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, shaking his head, backing up again without meaning to. “This isn’t …”

“John.” A familiar voice came through. Jocelyn stood just outside the office now, her face pale but steady, eyes locked on his. “Look at me… You are okay. Just put it down. That’s all you have to do.”

A distant but unmistakable sound broke the deafening silence. Faint sirens that were getting closer. Everyone heard them. John’s hand trembled harder. The weight of the gun felt heavier now, like it’s pulling his arm down with it.

How did I get here ?

“JOHN! Put it down now… please!”

Jocelyn yelled.

He looked around wildly, as if the room might offer an answer. He looked back toward the glass door and saw a distorted reflection of a pale, wide-eyed and guilty looking man whether he was or not.

“John, we will say you didn’t do anything.. that this just a .. big miscommunication .. just please put the gun down.”

Footsteps echoed faintly outside. There was faint shouting that was getting closer. John looked outside and saw a mother hiding her daughter behind her. He looked back at the chair where his wife sat smiling at him as they signed the mortgage papers. A tear came down his face as he slowly put the gun down on the desk. Officer Gary grabbed the gun almost immediately and holstered it.

Almost immediately the manager’s phone rang. The sound was sharp and sudden. The phone tiny screen lit up.

POLICE DEPARTMENT.