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on mercenaries
I was the first one at work on Thursday, which never normally happens; shortly later Chelski appeared, and then Small Voice, Spike and the Hat Man. My Friend had said he'd be there, and showed up a little before ten; the Carbomb (our boss) had said he would not be there, but nevertheless came, and was kind enough to buy a couple of pizzas to share.
Between the seven of us, we hold either six or seven nationalities - I'm not certain if the Hat Man holds citizenship in his parents' homeland or not; I know the Carbomb does, and he was the only other American-born person there. The lazyass just-Yanks were all taking extended breaks with their lazyass Yank parents, as was Wolfie (his family moved to the US when he was a child); only Curly had left the country to go visit family, in her mother's homeland.
That left those of us without much Christmas spirit, much reachable family, much that mattered more than stretching out transience and running the timeclock (all but one of the hourly-pay people were there).
We are a generation of mercenaries.
When we were in Pittsburgh, M's uncle said (pertaining to his son, who had just finished a specialised career-related undergrad degree and was therefore working at a Verizon kiosk in Chicago) that one trait of our generation that he kinda admired was that we held little abiding loyalty to our employers; I told him that we never even got offered a deal that would warrant loyalty. It was only later that I thought of soldiers - I have gathered that both nations and corporations used to want soldiers, before deciding that we were cheaper and less of a liability. I used to love the word 'mutineer', but it doesn't mean anything any more.
We sold ourselves rationally, in used dollars; M and me settled in the available country that had actual jobs (albeit shitty ones), as did the parents of Wolfie, the Hat Man and My Friend; Curly's father's homeland (where she grew up) is getting gradually eaten by religious weirdoes, Chelski's is busy tearing up its political system on the evening news, Small Voice says hers is so sketchy that her young married friends flatly refuse to give birth there; they all came over on F visas for college (as did Spike) and are now angling for H1Bs. The Carbomb noted how many of his employees from companies past had asked him to lie through his teeth for their H1Bs, got them, and then quit. We're not soldiers. Intermingling is common; out of all thirteen of us who work at Zombies Inc, only the Cyborg and Small Voice are dating someone of their own nationality - I think the Hat Man, the DJ and Spike are single, although in a sitcomlike fashion the latter two are visibly attempting to climb in the pants of completely oblivious coworkers of their own nationality.
London is, oddly, another shared touchstone; Chelski, Spike and The Bond Girl all did a semester of college there, and My Friend and Chelski's girlfriend did some high school a little further down south, I guess because their parents were working there. These are global cities - the places people go to learn and work if they possibly can, if they have any way to afford a chance. The first thing I did when I came by some money was pack up and move to Boston. Back in GA, I knew people - a client, a coworker's husband, a memorable butch I met in a bar - who hadn't come by money so had gone with the more literal option of getting a PMC job in Afghanistan. And up here, every ad in every bus is pitching either private education or paid medical trials; our generation are all either indentured or selling flesh, and a very lucky, elite few of us have been able to shortcut to a place where we stand a chance of breaking even at it.
As we ate together, our boss announced that we'd make $1.2m next year and told me to divide that by seven; a hundred and seventy grand, and he said that's what we would each be taking home next year because he was going to fire Wolfie and Curly and all the Yanks. The reality is that he is not firing Wolfie, Curly and the Yanks, and at present he doesn't even draw salary for overseeing this whole delusion although he owns the vast majority of it, but holy shit it's amazing to hear someone even joking about treating you fairly.
(Later, My Friend showed us a conference video that included a spot from the former CEO of one of our client companies - a man notable for raising a few million in venture capital financing and then literally spending it all on hookers, blow, and - a trifling expense - Zombies Inc products. He got fired eventually, but it's a nice little story about the startup economy and how effective VC due diligence & management expertise actually is.)
Background oddness; I am not the only one who bestows obnoxious nicknames upon my fellow Zombies, but unlike me, my boss does not keep his to himself. After tagging me as 'the druid' or 'the pagan' for weeks (also sometimes 'the viking'), at the party he finally outright asked me if I was a Wiccan. I'm not, and I'm bad enough at talking about it even when sober - I told him I was esoterically minded and mentioned a couple of specific things I dig, and left it at that. Because I am completely socially hopeless it took another few days of mulling before I even figured out the screamingly obvious reason why he asked me that; because he is. Or something like. There've been hints before - he talks about astrology in a way I mistook for mainstream. Over Thursday's pizza lunch, he was talking about pre-Christian monasticism in Ireland; I am now pretty sure he is Celtic recon, in addition to being one of those baffling Americans for whom pretending to be Irish is their actual ethnic identity.
Between the seven of us, we hold either six or seven nationalities - I'm not certain if the Hat Man holds citizenship in his parents' homeland or not; I know the Carbomb does, and he was the only other American-born person there. The lazyass just-Yanks were all taking extended breaks with their lazyass Yank parents, as was Wolfie (his family moved to the US when he was a child); only Curly had left the country to go visit family, in her mother's homeland.
That left those of us without much Christmas spirit, much reachable family, much that mattered more than stretching out transience and running the timeclock (all but one of the hourly-pay people were there).
We are a generation of mercenaries.
When we were in Pittsburgh, M's uncle said (pertaining to his son, who had just finished a specialised career-related undergrad degree and was therefore working at a Verizon kiosk in Chicago) that one trait of our generation that he kinda admired was that we held little abiding loyalty to our employers; I told him that we never even got offered a deal that would warrant loyalty. It was only later that I thought of soldiers - I have gathered that both nations and corporations used to want soldiers, before deciding that we were cheaper and less of a liability. I used to love the word 'mutineer', but it doesn't mean anything any more.
We sold ourselves rationally, in used dollars; M and me settled in the available country that had actual jobs (albeit shitty ones), as did the parents of Wolfie, the Hat Man and My Friend; Curly's father's homeland (where she grew up) is getting gradually eaten by religious weirdoes, Chelski's is busy tearing up its political system on the evening news, Small Voice says hers is so sketchy that her young married friends flatly refuse to give birth there; they all came over on F visas for college (as did Spike) and are now angling for H1Bs. The Carbomb noted how many of his employees from companies past had asked him to lie through his teeth for their H1Bs, got them, and then quit. We're not soldiers. Intermingling is common; out of all thirteen of us who work at Zombies Inc, only the Cyborg and Small Voice are dating someone of their own nationality - I think the Hat Man, the DJ and Spike are single, although in a sitcomlike fashion the latter two are visibly attempting to climb in the pants of completely oblivious coworkers of their own nationality.
London is, oddly, another shared touchstone; Chelski, Spike and The Bond Girl all did a semester of college there, and My Friend and Chelski's girlfriend did some high school a little further down south, I guess because their parents were working there. These are global cities - the places people go to learn and work if they possibly can, if they have any way to afford a chance. The first thing I did when I came by some money was pack up and move to Boston. Back in GA, I knew people - a client, a coworker's husband, a memorable butch I met in a bar - who hadn't come by money so had gone with the more literal option of getting a PMC job in Afghanistan. And up here, every ad in every bus is pitching either private education or paid medical trials; our generation are all either indentured or selling flesh, and a very lucky, elite few of us have been able to shortcut to a place where we stand a chance of breaking even at it.
As we ate together, our boss announced that we'd make $1.2m next year and told me to divide that by seven; a hundred and seventy grand, and he said that's what we would each be taking home next year because he was going to fire Wolfie and Curly and all the Yanks. The reality is that he is not firing Wolfie, Curly and the Yanks, and at present he doesn't even draw salary for overseeing this whole delusion although he owns the vast majority of it, but holy shit it's amazing to hear someone even joking about treating you fairly.
(Later, My Friend showed us a conference video that included a spot from the former CEO of one of our client companies - a man notable for raising a few million in venture capital financing and then literally spending it all on hookers, blow, and - a trifling expense - Zombies Inc products. He got fired eventually, but it's a nice little story about the startup economy and how effective VC due diligence & management expertise actually is.)
Background oddness; I am not the only one who bestows obnoxious nicknames upon my fellow Zombies, but unlike me, my boss does not keep his to himself. After tagging me as 'the druid' or 'the pagan' for weeks (also sometimes 'the viking'), at the party he finally outright asked me if I was a Wiccan. I'm not, and I'm bad enough at talking about it even when sober - I told him I was esoterically minded and mentioned a couple of specific things I dig, and left it at that. Because I am completely socially hopeless it took another few days of mulling before I even figured out the screamingly obvious reason why he asked me that; because he is. Or something like. There've been hints before - he talks about astrology in a way I mistook for mainstream. Over Thursday's pizza lunch, he was talking about pre-Christian monasticism in Ireland; I am now pretty sure he is Celtic recon, in addition to being one of those baffling Americans for whom pretending to be Irish is their actual ethnic identity.
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I think you should claim to be the high priestess of secret Wiccan tradition.
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