So No. You do not have enough money to quit working forever at the end of this year. His tone suggested the dots + lines on the fancy graphs matched his expectations. I pretended to follow along with the projections of the points, but none of this has ever made sense to me, and I’m fine with that. That’s why I pay someone else to play the game. Turns out, you don’t have to know everything about everything if you surround yourself with trustworthy people. And I’m excellent at delegating the things I have zero interest in. Like money.

I had texted him the week before in a spiral of recognition that we made it all up, EVERYTHING! Money is just a bunch of ones and zeros in some esoteric system out of my control, feels like the regime could just decide to un-bank me at any moment, claiming I allegedly violated a new law they just declared thirty three seconds ago on Truth Social or something equally ludicrous. I could turn it all into material value, but what even is that if we don’t have a functioning planet anymore? Nothing is more valuable than the tick-tock of the Earth’s heart, and it’s been pounding erratically out of it’s sphere for years, but no one wants to admit that, much less talk about the consequences. Meanwhile, catastrophic once-in-a-century “natural” disasters are happening day-after-day-after-day; we’re not even sending our thoughts and prayers anymore. So maybe I just get rid of it all before they can steal it to bomb more kid schools? Pay off my house, give it away, rescue all the blue-eyed dogs and start a weird canine cult.

Imagine being my financial planner.

I had already definitively decided not to pick up another contract when my gig ends in December. Though I might not have enough cheddar to never work again (still debatable from my end, the numbers may not lie, but they’re not telling the whole story either), I have plenty to buy me some Time. A nice Fuck You to the system, really. I’m terribly uninterested in funding a genocide, but also don’t need those goons knocking on the door of The Museum. Take that, Regime. I played your game, solved enough puzzles to opt out of your bullshit. I’m just gonna donate my time and my mind and my labor to aligned causes that cross my path. Maybe I’ll disappear to the mountains, live in the woods, explore a long trail, if nature still exists in 2027. Until then I’ll do what I can to keep the music playing, the artists art-ing, the awkward vibes flowing.

That feels a lot more doable without a stupid mortgage.

We’ve never really seen eye-to-eye on money, me and my financial planner, that’s probably why I’m doing okay in this rigged system. I consider any debt bad debt, a lifetime of Lessons By Dad inspired me to pay cash for the barely used Toyota I was forced to adopt when the rusted bones of my 20 year old FJ started to factor into not taking roadtrips that weave the fabric of my mosaic. I don’t need more, More, MORE! money, just enough to be. The word retirement doesn’t actually mean anything to me. Retire from what? I left the Rat Race in 2014, and it’s true what they say, you can never go back home.

Plus a long, long time ago, Esmeralda reminded me I’m a hustler. And hustlers gonna hustle.

The last time we met to gossip about my finances was years ago (that’s about the frequency at which I can handle money talk) when we planned on me dipping out at 55. Woof. I can’t mentally handle another full decade of this garbage knowing it’s all trash and getting trashier. I could die tomorrow. Or in a month. Or a year. Whenever I go, I certainly don’t want to be bound by the chains of capitalism. Feels like a waste. Neil pulled up my monthly spending projections to make life updates to the ones and zeros. 

Hmm. If you’re bringing in X, and your monthly expenses are Y, uh..where is all that money going?

Oo. Uh. I dunno. I just…give a lot of it away? Like, in the no receipt kind of way.

We went through the categories. I clapped when I saw a big number next to Frivolous Spending. Apparently that’s how we referred to it last time. Ah yes, no further questions. Turns out, I do know where the money goes, and look, I even accounted for it!

Later that same evening I was walking home from Mansion Hill Inn, where Mr. Chair (a wildly talented local jazz trio) had played. I like to boogie in unexpected places, blur the lines of appreciation, the who, what, how. Society puts too many things in a box and I’m woefully claustrophobic. Music is for everyone. So I sip on white wine and bounce around the magnificent foyer with a pinwheel on my Mountain Grass Unit hat and a fringe skirt, hands flapping while the intimate room of fellow appreciators emote from their seats. Different ways to consume the same experience. I like to tell Mr. Chair that they’re basically a jam band. Not sure they were fully into that compliment the first time, but they’re coming around to it I think.

She was struggling down the sidewalk. Two huge beat up garbage bags, a giant rolling suitcase and something attached to her waist. At first I thought it was a colostomy bag, but later realized it was just Lamb Chop. Freddie has the same squeaky dog toy at home. 

I must have startled her from behind, JUST GO AROUND she yelled angrily. I’ve learned to not take this kind of shit personally. Very rarely are people reacting to me or who I am as a person, more to a series of unfortunate events in their own existence. 

Okay, okay, I am…but…dooo you need help? Why am I like this. She yelled at me again. I don’t know why I can’t just keep walking. I turned around. 

I am sorry you’re having a shit day…where are you headed? Might as well carry something if we’re walking the same direction. Feels kinda weird not to.

She finally made eye contact with me, something made her soften. I’m sorry, everyone’s just been really…mean, like I’M TRYING not to be in the way people. These two ladies, I could just hear them just making fun of me.

We slowly moved forward as I dragged her heavy ass suitcase behind me and she told me about her evening. How she was getting anywhere with all this shit on her own before, I have no idea. Tiny + fiery, kind brown eyes, hair wrapped in silk. Her name was Tonya, spelled just like my sister. She got kicked out of the Salvation Army because some man went off on her for being crazy cuz she was talking to her child, she points at Lamb Chop. 

Oh, that’s your child? Okay. He clearly adores you.

Yes. And he was going off on me saying THAT’S NOT A REAL BABY, THIS LADY IS CRAZY, EVERYONE THIS LADY IS CRAZY! I wasn’t bothering anybody, but he wouldn’t just leave me be. And then they called the cops on ME and I was like fine, I will leave, and now I can’t go back for 30 days so I gotta figure out where I’m gonna sleep tonight with all my belongings. 

Well shit. That fucking sucks. Okay so what can I do? 

Please don’t cuss.

Ooo, I’m a cusser, can’t promise one won’t slip out. What would be most helpful to you right now? I don’t pretend to know what people need in these situations. People think it’s weird I choose to sleep in my car over their house when I visit. 

Do you have a wagon?

I smiled, BOY DO I. I had been avoiding the bright floral wagon in my back breezeway ever since we took the longest short walk home loudly together after being kicked out of the Corey Ruiz encampment one night in July (story for another time my friends, still processing).

I actually DO have a wagon, and you are welcome to it. 

We walked the few blocks to my house where I grabbed the collapsable wagon while she waited outside by choice. I could hear her talking to her kid, relaying she was pretty sure they were safe now, she said she lives alone, nobody gonna bother us any more tonight, and HOLY SHIT did that wagon make both of our lives easier. She promised to return it when she was done to which I replied, I don’t know Tonya, this wagon might just be yours now.

She knew that too. We glided to the gas station across Washington on fresh wheels. Lots of action outside the shop at midnight. Before we left the house she had asked me not to hand her money in front of people. I can respect that. I popped my head out of the station as the money machine delivered. Want anything to drink, Tonya? Any friend might wonder. Sugar free Pepsi, her drug of choice. 

I forgot my phone as I often do, so she called herself a cab, did I know the number? 255-TAXI, reliable since my college days in the early aughts. I secretly hoped they still existed. Fuck Uber. She looked down at Lamb Chop. He looked up at her, adoringly. It didn’t take long to understand and fully appreciate the role Lamb Chop played in Tonya’s life. I wrote my name and number on the back of a crushed up notebook with a marker. She asked for it even though we both knew she wouldn’t call, except maybe in a CUT MY LIFE INTO PIECES, THIS IS MY LAST RESORT, type situation. I’m here for ya, T. The cab arrived. I prepaid the cool ass driver whose name I asked for and have since forgotten, and sent her on her way to the east side motel with $200 dollars, a festival wagon, two fresh garbage bags and a Pepsi. 

I love you, Tonya. 
It just came out.
I love you, too. 
And that felt true.

Frivolous Spending whispered in my ear, danced down the block back home. The only category capable of fueling the fire, of convincing me to keep working. Frivolous Spending. The numbers don’t lie. 

Frivolous Spending (on a random Thursday):
$40 for Nebulebula, an old Mr. Chair record
$30 for a Mr. Chair shirt I cut to pieces
$159 for a replacement wagon I won’t replace 
$200 for Tonya
$26.99 for Tonya’s cab ride