My Story Part IV
“What name calling?” I protested. “I didn’t call anyone names.”
I was on the phone with my boss and mentor. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or ticked off.
Apparently on the 2020 employee opinion survey, somebody had the gaul to call out senior leadership for what it was: toxic and corrupt. Our thin-skinned director launched a witch hunt to find the anonymous commenter.
“You did. You called a director a ‘petulant child tyrant,’” he groused.
“Oh yeah. I guess I did write that. But . . . it’s actually a pretty accurate description of the guy.” The “petulant child tyrant” comment would go on to live in comedic infamy, but at the moment, it was no laughing matter.
I assumed I’d fly under the radar during my 2 year assignment at the joint venture – that’s why I took the job. But that was ruined now. The “petulant child tyrant” comment had not only elevated my risk, but it put my peers and boss in the strike zone of Lord Snod’s divine hammer.
“Look, I’m sorry Tim. I just . . . wrote how I felt,” I muttered.
“It’s your honest opinion. And it supposed to be anonymous. I won’t tell them you wrote it.”
“Will they take it out on you?” I asked.
“Maybe. I don’t care. There is nothing they can do to me now they haven’t already done.”
In 3 months, my mentor, benefactor, and boss would retire early and tell the overlords to shove it. My career was safe . . . for now.
The Sinking Ship
Three months was also how long Covid took to spread from China to the world. As hospitalizations raged, my fears of the witch hunt faded. Instead my worries turned to masks and converting our home into a remote school/office.
My family adjusted, and I settled into my joint venture role. It was career exile, but a nice change. It was like working for a different company. Unfortunately, Covid ended my hiatus early.
Supply constrained and down a leader due to Tim’s retirement, the mother ship recalled me. I was immediately deployed on another fool’s errand, like a kamikaze plane barreling toward a warship.
It was clear what was going on. Lord Snod’s empire was in decay. Morale was down. People were quitting. The same overworked people were reshuffled and overburdened to plug all the leaks. But no matter how hard we worked, the ship kept taking on water.
Lord Snod’s cult busted out the violins and played on. I was now a prisoner on a sinking ship.
Practically speaking, this meant impossible goals, blame, pressure to lie, and work hours often spanning 6AM to 9PM. Over the next year, my career sputtered, and I fell into a fog of depression. I hated my job. I hated my life. And I saw no way out.
Fast Food Dad
“Dad,” my youngest whispered, “you almost done?” Her face showed concern.
It was another day in 2022 working late. My wife was out of town, leaving me to parent solo, and I was still on the phone with my schmuck boss.
“Hey, you still there?” Even the sound of his voice turned my stomach.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Any questions about your rating?”
Questions? Yeah I had questions. When are they getting rid of Lord Snod and his minions? Why are we being punished with shitty raises for his unrealistic goals? Why are you defending inept leaders instead of your own people?
I swallowed my thoughts. A leader might have cared, but he was no leader. He was a willing accomplice in Lord Snod’s army, looking out for one person only: himself.
“No, boss. No questions. Look, I forgot to get dinner out of the freezer, and it’s late. It’s clear I can’t succeed here. There’s nothing else to say.”
A short while later, I sat across from my kids at Culver’s. They were happy enough with a late change in dinner plans, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t shake the sick feeling in my stomach.
My oldest daughter saw the worry on my face. “Its okay, Dad,” she reassured me. “We’re not upset. It’s not your fault. We got Culver’s out of it, so we’re happy.”
“Listen,” I told them, putting my hands on their shoulders. “I will never fail as your dad like this again. Ever. No job is worth that. I’ll quit if I have to. I’m sorry about today. But never again.”
Surprise Millionaires
A few weeks later, my wife tried to reassure me. “Don’t worry, I’ll be your sugar mama if I have to.”
With zero debt, we hadn’t needed dual careers to make ends meet for many years. Before jumping into another job, I wanted a clear exit plan. Early retirement, maybe by my early 50s like my old boss Tim? I was running spreadsheet numbers to find out.
“Look at this!” I pointed at the screen.
“Um, that says $1.3 million. M-i-l-l-i-o-n.” She drew it out slowly like it was a foreign word. “Does that include our house?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? How is that possible?”
It was my first time adding our 401Ks and bank accounts together, and the 7 figures on the computer screen smacked my eyes too. How could we not know we had this much? “Well, you always said we were cheap-asses.”
“Yeah, but being a cheap-ass doesn’t make you a millionaire.”
“Apparently, it does. We’re cheap-asses. And apparently . . . millionaires too.”
Realization struck me like a lightning bolt. I realized then I didn’t need to work. Neither of us did. “Hon’, I don’t think I need another job.”
Take this job and shove it
A month later I stepped into Lord Snod’s dungeon for the last time. I wore shorts, sandals, and an aura of steely resolve.
The HR lady took my box of company’s assets. I observed the man pictured on my badge before handing it over. Ten years younger, he was full of gratitude for the job, eager to sacrifice and do anything asked. The man holding the badge hated his job and would never sacrifice again.
“Is there anything we could have done to keep you?” the HR lady asked. A required question or genuine interest? I couldn’t tell and didn’t care.
“Maybe at one point. But not now. It’s time I move on.”
I felt relief as I stepped out of the building afterward. My future had unknowns, but of one thing I was certain: my career, and my need for it, was over.
My wife was recording me on her cell phone to commemorate the occasion. “And you can take this job and shove it!” I joked as I strutted across the parking lot.
What comes next
Herein ends my financial freedom story. It was no Hollywood ending. There was no sunset and I was no hero. Just an average guy who got burned out and quit.
If I did anything special, it was finding the secret glitch in the matrix that can lead an average guy to wealth in 1/3rd the time it takes most people. If I had superpower it was buying my future self’s basic needs now instead of funding my present self’s wants.
Some people call this rejecting lifestyle inflation. I find that term demeaning. I spend money on things I value. But most of my life energy is dedicated to finding and creating happiness that money cannot buy.
My two daughters jumping into a pile of leaves. Creating guitar music. Buying 10 bags of Doritos on sale and then cracking an irreverent joke at the checkout aisle to amuse my wife. Rolling the windows down and blaring “Don’t stop believing” while my family sings at the top of their lungs.
As of this writing in 2023, my wife and I have a $2M net worth and are choosing to work a little longer. Mine is just a job, suitable for now, whereas my wife still has a (mostly) fulfilling career. I’ll be done in a year; she’s more flexible but may hang on a few years longer.
We feel lucky to have so many options of our own choosing, but luck did not get us here. English degrees, debt, the Great Recession, and dehumanizing contract work are no recipe for financial independence, yet we reached it in 15 years in spite of these circumstances.
That chapter of our lives has closed. A new chapter begins. Everyday we write a new page. Where will it lead? I don’t know.
My career once drug me to the abyss edge, where an unclear but painful fall awaited me. I find myself once again standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into the fog. But this time I have no fear.
I grip my wife’s hand tightly. Together, we step confidently over the edge and walk into the next chapter of our lives.