It was 1981.

A tall and overweight teenager with large, square glasses and a bowl cut, was sitting on the living room floor, watching TV. He was drinking a Pepsi from the can with one hand and scratching his face with the other. He had been trying to grow a beard, but had so far only managed a small mustache that could have easily been mistaken for a smudge of unwashed dirt. Paul didn't care, though. He wore it with pride. To him, it was a sign that he was no longer a boy, and that he deserved to be treated with at least some respect.

He was intently focused on the evening news. An agreement had been made with the Iranians to free the hostages. He remembered when the entire thing started. He was only 13, but he was certain he knew how to bring those people home. Living vicariously through the news was the only taste of the world he had outside of his sleepy little hometown of Mountain West, Montana.

It had been a good day, as far as he was concerned. He had officially made the debate team; taking what he saw as the first steps on the road to being a politician. The winner of the debate championship that year would be offered a summer position as a Page for the Governor in Helena. Then, he would be in the thick of it all, and his dreams would come true.

Despite this, he didn't feel happy. He had been looking forward to making the team for months, and told himself that once he made it, he could relax. Now that it was done, he saw it as just another step to Helena. Then he would be happy for sure, right? What else could he hope for?

As he thought about this, his father came shuffling into the living room from the kitchen. Frank Schimon was only in his mid-thirties, but was already nearly bald, with the hair that remained seemingly stapled to the sides of his head. He had a beer bottle in his hand, an almost permanent fixture on any given week night and every weekend. Years of this had led to a beer-belly that covered up much of his otherwise muscular frame; built over years of working in the mines.

He plopped down on the couch, placing his beer on the coffee table. He reached down and grabbed the remote out of his son's hands.

"You know the rules, Paul," He said, changing the channel. "When I get home, the TV is mine."

Paul scowled at him.

"You should care about this stuff, dad. It affects all of us."

His father scoffed. "Like I care what these assholes get up to. We shoulda just bombed the damn place before they had a chance to take those hostages in the first place. It's the only way to send a message."

Paul shook his head. Hearing his dad being somehow both dismissive and aggressive was nothing new.

"What do you know about it? You can't bomb everyone. You need to be smart, and be able to see through what's happening in front of you. Maybe that's something that you don't have. You'll see when I get into office."

His father laughed.

"When you get into office? I didn't know it was April Fools already. You and I both know that's never gonna happen. You might as well drop out of school now and come to work with me tomorrow. It's where you're gonna end up anyway."

Paul turned to him with venom in his eyes.

"I don't really give a shit what you think!"

He didn't yell. No, he wasn't that stupid. He did dare to slightly raise his voice, though. He was feeling brave that day. He didn't have time to revel in his bravery. Frank's hand was swift as he brought it down on the back of Paul's head.

"Watch your goddamn mouth when you're talking to me, boy!"

His voice deepened with each imposing word.

"I work the mines, your grandparents worked the mines, their parents worked them mines. What makes you think you're any better? You're a fat, lazy, simpleton, and that's all you'll ever be. Don't like it? That's too goddamn bad!"

Paul stood up and threw his Pepsi against the wall. He stormed off into his room, slamming the door behind him. He could hear his father in the living room yell.

"Stop acting like such a fucking fairy, Paulie. Jesus Christ, you gotta change your tampon or something?"

Paul blocked it all out as he plopped down on his bed. He reached for his small stereo and popped in one of the only 8-tracks he had; L.A. Woman by The Doors. He'd always admired Jim Morrison as a genius who was misunderstood in his time. He couldn't help but feel the same way.

He knew what he wanted to do and how to do it, or at least thought he did, which was more than he could say about his father or the rest of his family. He reached over to his bedside table and grabbed a book, The Big Book of Persuasion: How to Always Tip the Scales in Your Favor . He'd already read it twice, but he still had more to learn.

*****

It was November 10th, 2004.

The slightly overweight boy with a bowl cut and a dirty mustache was now a 38-year-old, decently fit man with an expensive business suit and tie. His large glasses were replaced with contacts, and his dirty mustache with a clean-shaven face.

Paul pulled his head up from his desk, turned off his computer and looked around his office. He took a brief, sweeping glance at the awards and photographs that hung over nearly every square inch of the room. They used to mean so much to him. Every time Daly Motors won something and his name was on the plaque, he would proudly display it for all to see. Now they were nothing but reminders of how many long and tedious hours he'd spent in that office over the last eleven years.

He had taken a small car dealership in the middle-of-nowhere, and helped transform it into one of the largest in the world. There were pictures of him with celebrities who had bought from him, and covers of newspapers and magazines with him and the owner, Kyle Daly. He had a hand in constructing a tiny empire, but what was it all worth?

He remembered what his father had told him all those years ago in their living room. He had been thinking about it a lot over the last few days. He looked down at his hands. The rings he wore were probably worth more than what his father made in three months.

He had been to the Super Bowl twice, Europe a few times, and across most of the US and Canada. He had a mansion on a mountain that was over 12,000 square feet, with six bedrooms and seven bathrooms. He had friends who looked up to him, and hundreds of people who worked under him. He even had a nice car. It was a Dodge Ram 1500 pick-up truck with an SRT-10 Viper engine inside of it; only 100 were ever made. Despite all the vitriol spewed at him in those early years, he had made something of himself. Why then, did he still not feel happy?

The question had been weighing more and more on his mind since he'd gotten the call. From that moment, his paranoia and depression went into overdrive. So much so that he'd started using again, after almost two years of sobriety. It was the only thing he could do to help him stay focused on the path ahead. There was a difficult decision to be made, and he couldn't afford to make it without serious consideration.

As he scanned his office, he had his answer, even if he wasn't ready to admit it to himself. He wished it hadn't all come to this. A small part of him wished his father was right, and he ended up being another miner with nothing to worry about and no future. Maybe that would have been better. But, there were some good times, right? He searched his mind, trying to remember them, as he got ready to begin his big day.

He remembered a time when all he wanted to do was get away from Mountain West. When you grow up in a small town and don't fit in very well with the rest of the people there, escape is a constant goal. People dream of a big, wonderful world, where everyone is like them. A place where they can be themselves, and people respect everyone for who they are. Of course, in the real world, things don't usually work out that way. People are just people, no matter the place, and they can't change themselves by changing their location. Paul found that out the hard way.