Before I ran off and joined the circus, I frolicked around in the corporate world within the context of healthcare technology next to the other rats in the race to nowhere. I’ve kept one foot planted there for the last 20 years, in part to keep a pulse on the dark side, but also because elephants are expensive and capitalism rewards this particular…talent? Skillset? Area of expertise? Bullshit? It’s been the easiest way to afford the super glue needed to piece all my trash in the Museum together. I haven’t applied (or even looked) for a job since I started at Epic in 2006; timely opportunities keep knocking on my door. And like a sucker, I take the lucrative bait which in turn leeches on my soul just a little bit more each and every time. Feels like it might be time to permanently remove that foot, maybe lean on other talents to collect those peanuts. I hear the soul regrows like your liver when you stop abusing it. 

I doubt the circus crowd ever wonders if I’m an undercover nerd who tweaks code and casually chats with CIOs about strategic goals and fiscal years, but there’s no chance my corporate colleagues don’t immediately realize I’m not one of them. Earlier this year I flew from a music festival in Colorado straight to work in Little Rock and wore the same outfits in a slightly different way. Every time someone mentions using AI to do something we are capable of doing without, I gasp or grimace and say something to the effect of hardly worth draining a lake in Utah or congratulations, you just melted an iceberg.

The corporate world is bonkers and my job is strange. You know how a family member can tell you something again and again and again, and you just kind of ignore it until it eventually becomes background noise, but then maybe a stranger says the same thing and you start to think that maybe there’s something to it? That’s what we call the power of a visitor badge in the consulting realm. And I play the role of the stranger, the visitor. 

It’s wild how many people operate out of fear; fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of losing their job, fear of retaliation, fear of ruffling feathers, fear of not getting that raise or promotion. My job is basically saying all the shit that’s been falling on deaf ears or what no one else will because they’re afraid of the consequences. I don’t have those fears.

I truly do not care who you think you are. Titles don’t mean much to me. You’re the CEO? Cool. I’ve been in your world long enough to know how people get there, and it’s not necessarily because you were the most deserving or knowledgeable or even know what you’re doing at all. Maybe you’re just a part of the good ole’ boys club. Look at the federal government for fuck’s sake. I focus on the helpers, the seers, the doers, the knowers, the changemakers, regardless of title. And sometimes it takes someone not affiliated with the organization to say hey yo, this shit is fucked up. You know there’s another way, yeah? I get paid to say what everyone else is thinking and I still can’t believe my personality is a real job.

Anyway.

My friend Rob stopped by the Museum a few weeks ago, equipped with three beers from his recent travels to Maine and some tiny island in Canada. Rob lives in Arizona these days, but I’ve come to understand he lives wherever he is in the present moment. When he left Madison, he drove down to Bisbee and lived in his car until he figured out his role in the community. He’d randomly call late in the evening just to share how incredibly starry the sky was or to narrate a wild encounter with the creatures of the desert, human and otherwise.

Rob hunts scorpions down there, sells ‘em to a guy for $3 a pop who sells them to more guys for who knows how much. Carries them around his neck in a jar, he says when he gets a bunch the sensation is wild. Maxes out at 100.

We split Beer #1 at the Museum. He was in town restoring a historic home a few blocks from my house when I got the call. Rob is a rare breed; always phones, rarely texts. I don’t believe in coincidences but I’m often looking at my phone when he rings which is wild considering how little I look at my phone. When he’s not hunting scorpions he’s a carpenter, like Jesus. I don’t know if he only works with the real old bones, but he prefers them. This one is next to what once was the grocery store in the first Black neighborhood in Madison. I only know this because Rob told me, which inspired me to read the historical plaque on the corner as I simultaneously wondered if it had been there the other 10,000 times I walked by. The guy who owns the building today is keen on restoring rather than demolishing and he has the luxury to do it on Rob’s time, which Rob splits equally with the whims of the world.

I don’t even really drink beer anymore, but I did that night, and they were delicious. I shared the demise of my recent relationship over the first beer; he shared the origin story of his new love. Before we left for the park, I had him pick from a tiny metal-etched Major Arcana only Tarot deck. He pulled The Lovers card. I told him to keep it. We’re both witches, I think.

We shared Beer #2 at the small park behind the church at the end of my street overlooking Lake Mendota, contemplating the juxtaposition of the douchebaggy jet ski next to the peaceful sailboat, how we knowingly poison our waters in name of our individual entertainment. Fuck the ducks and fish and turtles and freshwater creatures of the lake. Enjoy our obnoxious noise and fumes, because WEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Beer #3 was poured inside the gutted historic home with no plumbing. I peed in-between the houses, found a piece of patinaed copper as I copped a squat. I put it in my pocket and it stabbed me slightly when I walked for the rest of the night. 

I don’t actually know Rob that well and I haven’t known him all that long, five years, maybe? A couple dozen conversations. Sometimes when people cross your path, you just know they’re meant to be in your orbit and that’s Rob, intermittently forever. I felt the crackle from moment one and I won’t speak for him, but he keeps showing up, so I think for him too. 

While looking around the Museum over Beer #1, Rob pondered softly out loud, I can’t believe you’re still here. 10% in that I can’t believe you’re still in Madison and 90% I can’t believe you’re not OUT THERE. In the world. 

He’s not wrong. COVID derailed my adventure train and I’ve been decorating my sleeper car with plants, second hand delights and pieced together trash ever since, burrowing deep inside the comforts of my mind, one foot dangling in this weird world controlled by fear. I like to blame Fred for my stagnation, but I’m also aware that’s an excuse. He’s a dog. As long as I’m there, he’s in. Rob was a visitor with an invisible badge, the only kind I care to see. Even I need to be reminded there’s another way sometimes.

No more excuses.