INTERLOPERS

 "A company used to be a community of people working toward a common goal. Now, it is often just a bundle of assets to be stripped, optimized, and discarded." 

-Proletariat's Prose

When I was younger, I saw a news story about a man who had it all. He was wealthy, had a beautiful home with a two story library, wife, kids. Maybe not the typical American Dream, he was an advertising executive, but living the dream nonetheless. The story before his downfall sounded like he was wont for nothing save more time with his family. Or so the story went.

He lost it all - career, home, family, savings. Everything. At the time he was laid off from his job he had essentially aged-out of that career field as a job seeker. As I've learned, your worth attenuates with age, and a lifetime of experience is viewed as archival. New blood, for a lesser wage. It's a savage reality for an older person to experience. Put out to pasture so to speak, written off as unsalvageable junk not worthy of recycling. That's how I felt. Feel. 

I didn't have it all, but I had what I needed. As a minimalist since childhood, I had all I wanted. I never yearned for an enormous house, expensive watches or cars. It all seemed compensatory for a small person inside. I was made fun of in school because I wore clothes from Sears and didn't have that stupid fucking alligator sewn on anything to indicate a higher status. Like the John Hughes's films, there were richies and poors. You either had a new car, sometimes in school colors when you were 16, or drove a junker from a repo auction. Or rode a bike. High School classism was a gross and uncomfortable phase for many. In elementary school, getting into a fight was never about really anything substantive I can recall. In high school you'd come to blows because some rich fuck would make fun of your shoes. It's a dumb thing you learn to blow off later in life, but when first confronted with the 'them vs us' scenarios, you fight for the right to come to school everyday and not get fucked with. Civility can't win the battle. The privileged youth were bullies and I wasn't going to be bullied. I was suspended often. No admin likes the kid in the Iron Maiden t-shirt, and your side of the story was never even considered. School board members were the stay at home moms filling the role as a hobby. There were Kings, and Princesses in charge, and us peasants didn't have a chance in a fair fight.

I was laid off at a much younger age than the man portrayed in the story. I had worked decades in software development and systems engineering roles, mentoring dozens along the way. I never liked being titled a manager and was more or less nudged into those roles, but I had that under my belt, too. My last significant role I had spent a decade restructuring everything that was tech-based from a near home-based operation into a modern, secured infrastructure that was home to a global business. It felt like a solid home run, and a solid place to plan a future on ie, buying a home and staying in one city for once in my life. Then the holdings company came in.

Those demonic money fiends erased the company's legacy and culture that made it a boutique brand. They swept out the old and swooped in with the new. The new being the nepo babies of the firms owners and family members. It was a disturbing, in your face greedy grab under the guise of a family business. High and low earners were out in favor of consultants and 1099 laborers to put less of a strain on HR duties for the new, inexperienced staff imported from overseas. They annexed and figuratively burned down the once successful business model in favor of a cold, corporate imperial hierarchy seen in eastern European nations. And these motherfuckers were Dutch!

My new quest for employment felt like a recently released felon seeking reintegration into society. I was shunned. I never anticipated being over-qualified as a disqualifier. I was in my 50's interviewing with 30 year old's. Always a great initial call, but the face to face interviews were all the same, like I was a decrepit, derelict too frail for the workforce. Out of desperation my job seeking took me to applying for hourly positions like shipping/receiving, night stocker at Home Depot, and for fucks sake, even as an overnight janitor at Walmart. No one would take a bite out of this now obsolete apple. I was trash, thrown into a compost pile with other aged-out Techny's. The storied advertising exec wrote a book about how Starbucks saved his life. A place run by Gen Z'er's at the counter told me I needed to have more experience in the service industry, the wretched swine's.

It wasn't long before I was homeless. The only thing going for me was a new car I could sleep in and reliably use to get myself around. Hundreds of resumes out there, dozens of rejections, I couldn't get a job parking cars at a hotel. I wasn't yet broke, but I was destitute emotionally. It brought out unfamiliar feelings and thoughts. I could only suppress the thoughts of suicide with outlandish consumption of alcohol and watching stand up comedy on my phone. I called 988 once when I was at my lowest. I wanted to die, but I had a son back east, so I let some better wits about me make the call.

'Thank you for reaching out to our crisis hotline. All agents are busy. Leave a message, and someone will get back to you in 45 minutes. If this is an emergency, please dial 911'

I couldn't help but laugh. Carry on, dude I told myself.

I didn't really have any personal contacts to leverage for employment. All my friends either worked for the same company that had laid me off, or were bartenders. I was perfectly positioned to go anywhere. No lease, relationship, pets, I didn't even have a house plant. But I had nowhere to go.

I didn't mind living out of my car for a time. I'd only wished I had a van for better privacy. I enjoyed the late night, middle of the night AM talk shows. I'd toggle between conservative commentary and shows focused on the supernatural. Interesting how those two genres intertwined. It was my first experience with concentrated listening to the rantings of seemingly on purpose crazy hosts taking calls from legitimately crazy callers. Entertaining and frightening all wrapped up into one disturbing format. Reptilians in high Government, the 'greys' among us, liberals sucking on children's blood and eating their livers. These were very real thoughts in the garbage disposal minds of the audiences. Drunk and doped up only made the mouths louder, the thoughts were sadly comfortably rested in the minds of those psychopaths. These people had jobs and drivers licenses. How far do I have to go down the path of losing my mind to have resources?

I didn't however enjoy the occasional knock on my window from other homeless people. These were the crazy ones. 3am, knock-knock-knock, hey man, got a light? What? I was smoking a joint outside my car one night and a bum approached and asked for a drag. I was done and said here you can have it.

'What? You don't want to share?' as he walked nearer to me

'You think I'm going to give you a disease, motherfucker?'

A kick, and a hard kick to the balls and a punch to the side of his head knocked him down. Great. I'd been drinking and smoking weed and now I had to haul ass out of there to find another place to park. The only vehicles out at that hour were police cars. I wonder if 988 is busy now?

Every day had it's routine. I had a storage unit and the facility had a restroom on the other side of the gates. The code to get in was metered, and didn't allow entry until 7am. 7am on the dot I was in, and so were several other homeless folks with what's left of their lives stored there. We took turns in the restroom taking shits and whore bathing out of the sink. I rarely went to my unit. I'd just sleep some more in my car until the property manager rolled in around 9am. My only safe place was the bar. 

I'd been an everyday regular for ages and it was welcoming. The bartender would let me in early and serve me off the books until 11am. I'd always viewed friendly bartenders as something along the lines of lap dancers - they're nice to you when you give them money. Dale was different, a true friend. He offered me a p/t gig bartending, but I can't stand unfamiliar drunks and would surely get the place a bad Yelp review. And not make jack shit in tips. So I'd spend my day on my laptop with cocktails sending out resumes and taking pre-screen calls from my car. My home office. Throughout the day my friends would revolve through. It was a truly eclectic bunch ranging in age from 30 - 75, rich in stories and experiences. If I won the lottery fuck Monte Carlo, Paris, Hawaii...I'd live out my days in that bar. I'm not just a minimalist, I'm simple. And had become a full-fledged, no-drinks-barred, drunk. This routine went on month, after month, after month, as my aspirations to once again be employed and housed waned, and waned, and waned.

Then everything changed for the life threatening worst...I don't need this shit, man.

End Pt 1