Recipe for Trouble

Prologue

Benjamin Blumenthal’s life isn’t empty. He tells himself so every morning.

Sure, he lives alone, with no one to keep him company but an ill-tempered cat; sure, most of his friends live out of town.

Sure, his family’s back in Michigan and don’t exactly lower Ben’s stress levels when they call—sure, he lives in one of the world’s most vibrant cities, but he doesn’t get out much.

Sure, he works a soulless job that doesn’t challenge him, that doesn’t even value him enough to make him an official part of the team.

So what? As far as Ben can tell, an empty life is a matter of perspective, and he’s determined not to fall victim to self-pity or despair.

He has his health. He has his apartment, his steady paycheck, his beloved if somewhat vicious cat, and great people in his life, however far away they might be.

Maybe it’s not much, but it’s his, and it’s enough.

It has to be enough, because it’s everything he’s got.

My life isn’t empty, Ben thinks each morning as he gets ready for work; as he walks the six blocks to the subway; as he waits an interminable age for the subway to (hopefully) arrive.

It runs through his mind on the bumpy ride to Formica Media’s midtown offices, as he rides the elevator twenty-seven floors up and settles in at his cubicle.

He clings to it as he sits through endless, mind-numbing meetings with coworkers he hardly knows and doesn’t like, and through endless, mind-numbing projects on topics he’s never cared about.

As he rides the subway home, makes a needlessly elaborate dinner and gets ready for bed—as he lives through day after unchanging day, each one slipping by the same as the last—he reminds himself over and over so he doesn’t forget it: My life’s not empty at all.