Tom felt he had nothing in common with his family.

Tom's father was an ex-Green Beret who had killed over a dozen men in hand-to-hand combat. He'd even slaughtered an enemy by biting through a vein in the bastard's neck. He was now the CEO of an oil company. He still ran three miles every morning, and he still had a very sharp smile.

Tom's sister was a graduate of Yale law school and had successfully defended Mon Devon, the evil head of the KODOX corporation. Mon had plundered the company, sold nerve gas to terrorists, and pushed his shriveled mother down a flight of stairs. But Tom's sister was a master at creating confusion about evidence. She had a legendary ability to corral coercible jurors. And how does one define "plunder," what exactly is a "terrorist," and wasn't Mon's mother a cranky old boozer?

Tom's brother was an investment banker in New York City. When he spoke about any topic, people listened—he had a house in Connecticut with a four-car garage.

Tom had a one-car garage. He worked in the graphic arts department of an advertising agency where he created freehand illustrations and digital art. He'd been involved in the selling of many products, such as a laser-guided hedge clipper and a cowboy hat made of cheese.

One typical Monday morning, Tom got out of bed at 5:00 AM and ran four miles through crusty snow. As he ran, he thought about his tomatoes and the tomato sauce he'd make from them. The sauce would sing with the flavor of fresh earth, swollen sunshine, and sugary summer rain—one day, it would be flawless. He returned to his two-bedroom house where he lived alone.

He did sets of pull-ups, push-ups, and sit-ups, and then took a shower. He ate strawberries, oatmeal, rye toast, all-natural peanut butter and a hard-boiled egg. Then he sprinted out to his garden.

During the winter, he grew tomatoes in an outdoor greenhouse. He had state-of-the-art sun lamps, of course, to ensure the proper amount of photosynthesis on a cloudy day. He recalled his father's words, "The average man who thinks he's busting his ass ain't even bruising it." His dad was full of advice about hard work and success. His dad was a treasure trove of sweaty cliches.

Tom went into his greenhouse, and brushed every leaf on each of his plants. Dust free leaves produce a heartier vine. He fed the plants a high nutrient mixture of natural enzymes designed to maximize growth. He adjusted the temperature, the humidity, and the exact level of photon saturation. Then he drove to work.

As always, the office was empty when he arrived. Eventually, other people started sauntering in. They made themselves coffee. They read the tabloids. Some of them spent fifteen minutes submerged in a grease-soaked breakfast before beginning their daily routine of procrastination.

Tom had his whole day planned. He was meticulous about every detail and rarely made a mistake, even as he watched most others wallow in the muck of their own mediocrity, where the typical dream involved a lottery ticket and an obese cruise ship drifting along beneath a flashbulb sun.

Tom sat at his desk and began to draw. His mind wandered for a moment as he pictured himself wearing a cowboy hat made of cheese. He knew it was a ridiculous image, though the cheese tycoon was fabulously wealthy and drove a cheddar-colored Cadillac. Then the phone rang.

"Hello," Tom said.

"Tom, how are you?" It was his mother.

"Hi, Mom."

"I don't mean to bother you—are you coming over this weekend? It's your father's birthday, remember? I'm having a little get-together. Nothing too big—just the family."

"Sure, I'll be there."

"Oh good, you know we always like to see you. And don't bring anything—just bring yourself."

"Yeah, all right." His mother always said this, but Tom would still bring a present. He'd bought his father a samurai sword, imported from Japan, with a gold plated hilt and a blade of stainless steel. He knew his dad would like that kind of thing.

"I talked to Bill—he's coming down. He's still working those ridiculous hours. I think he's working himself right into the cemetery."

"Oh, Bill's going to be there?" Tom was glad. They could talk about hockey.

"Yes, and Marie is coming with the kids."

"That's good, Mom. I'll see you there."

"Okay, Tom, see you then."

Tom sighed and clicked the receiver in place. He returned to his drawing.

It was a rough sketch of an ad for an executive watch. A well-dressed man was exiting a limousine and stepping onto a carpeted runway while throngs of drooling onlookers stared from behind silver ropes and barricades. The man's fist was raised, exposing the gold timepiece strapped to his wrist. Underneath the ad was a caption bearing the watchmaker's logo along with the following words: "ISN'T IT TIME TO SHOW THE WORLD YOU ARE A SUCCESS?"

Tom thought about his tomatoes. He would grow the perfect tomato. He almost had it right.