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testing the waters of capitalism
Friday, May 11 2001
The day was going along nicely until I had a meeting with the VP of Data Systems about a persistent problem that's been happening in the objects I must use to save the XML in my publishing applications. This problem has been so crippling that we've been forced to rely on XML files instead of the database, yet no one has found the time to help me with this situation until today. Throughout the meeting I noticed that the Data Systems VP was very reluctant to give me eye contact. It wasn't even subtle; I felt completely cut off from him conversationally. Gradually I came to think that he must be feeling guilty about something. What could that be? There weren't many things he could do to feel guilty about except perhaps making the suggestion that my name be added to the list of those who would be laid off on Monday. By the end of today's meeting I was certain I was going to be laid off. It was horrible feeling. I couldn't do anything really except write a little experimental code to track down what exactly was happening with the buggy XML objects. By the time I split for the day, I was in a serious funk.
The employment market for people in my line of work is so weak right now that it's possible I won't be able to find another job should I lose my present one. What to do? I have a house and five thousand dollars worth of credit card debt.
When he came home I told my housemate John about the uncertain employment situation. As expected, he was very understanding and considerate about it. If I should need to sell the house or something dramatic like that, it didn't seem like he'd be upset. Later in the evening he was actually encouraging me to put the house on the market just to see what the market has to offer. This suggestion is cast directly from his personal style; he's all about testing the waters of capitalism. Every now and then he puts his VW Golf up for sale to see if there are any suckers out there who will offer him more than he paid for it. John also told me that my selling the house would be the kick in the pants he would need to do the sensible thing: move to New York.
We sat around talking about these things for awhile and then realized we were just moping around the house on a perfectly good Friday night. So we decided to walk down to that Irish pub near the corner of Wilshire and 26th Street in Santa Monica.
Once there, it wasn't long before John had invited us into a game of pool against a pair of low key frat boyish gentlemen who played much better than us. For some reason, though, they were plagued with bad luck and our ludicrous unproductive shots served us well as defensive moves, causing the white ball to get lost into hopeless patches of "traffic." We almost won the one game that counted (one played for a round of beer) but John scratched on that last decisive shot.
There was cute hippie chick across the bar looking lonely and drinking a beer by herself, so John did the bold thing and invited her to come play with us, something she agreed to do. When it turned out that all she wanted to do was sit and talk, I suggested that she could be our "muse" and she liked the idea. She's from Turkey, is living in Culver City and studying something tricky like neural pathology. After a beer or so she gave John her phone number and went home on her own.
After an unremarkable "game" of darts, John and I walked to Q's in West LA with hopes of maybe getting kicked out, but it was already 2am and the place was closed. So we bought junk food at a nearby 7-11 and walked home. A crazy guy was outside the OJ Simpson McDonalds talking to himself and occasionally bursting into song. We sat on a nearby wall and listened for awhile and wondered about why some people are crazy like that.
Back at the house, doing post-mortem on the evening, John was impressed with our social performance tonight. We'd successfully interacted with a couple of unknown guys at a pool table and then he had secured the number from an exotic Turkish chick. Maybe, so went the implication, LA isn't really all that bad after all.
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