Casually Compromised - Book 1

Where Do I Begin

Sunday.

Sunday's always seemed to be more notable than other days in the week. I was up early, Ally snoozing, her day to snooze as much as possible. I was up in the rocking chair in the living room, next to a book case Ally let me rework as a beautiful display of liquor. Rum upon rum presented, with a few extra spirits. Over the past year I got into craft cocktails, largely as an experiment in flavor. I enjoyed mixing things. Each bottle had a story to tell, place of origin, twinge of madness, a balance could be formed in blending the harmony of spirits together. I enjoyed the invention aspect of it.

A large sliding glass door revealed the arctic outside. A coat of ice and show was falling outside. I sat in my PJs in my chair of choice, under the skylights. Chilly. The heater in our home sucked but I didn't want to spend anything just yet. I patiently waited for the sun to arrive.

In a few hours I was to mentor a friend of a friends kid on "entrepreneurship". The boy was 16 and full of ideas. He had been driving his parents crazy exclaiming that no one could keep up with him or understand him. I wondered, should I tell him the dark side of the "ship". How easily the "ship" would consume him. Drive him to invent, manifest and likely drink? Course he still had women to figure out, life its an adventure who am I to spoil it for him.

There's no cliff notes for entrepreneurship, you basically learn it. You can't teach entrepreneurship- like taking a class in hustle 101. Doesn't really exist. Lots of people try but most of them are selling some other shit masked as entrepreneurship. Get enough people around a parking lot and there will be someone selling you access, optimization, and the whys of parking itself. Hustlers are born not bred.

The more cynical I got entrepreneurship the more people were drawn to me to discuss it. As if I was the super connector again, showing people the path and I didn't really know much about it other the total consumption of the soul part- that I got. Where was my soap box, surely we had one somewhere in the house.

Back in the bedroom, Ally looked warm and cozy in our bed. Our cats sleeping on either side of her, standing watch, ready for anything, especially if she got up so they could crowd her, trip her or better yet sing their whining song of ages in the bathroom, desperate for attention. I could relate.

I slipped on my jeans, no sport coat today, lets go casual, lets look human.

The mentoring meeting was on the upper east side of town- where the especially rich live. Great, I had to lecture a brat.

My hands pooled themselves around a hot cup of tea. I didn't drink coffee any more much. My friend arrived with his kid, a scrawny upscale looking boy. He had braces with those little rubber bands, those suck, I remember those.

"Hello Mr. Evans, thank you for meeting with me.." the boy said. In front of him on the table were two moleskin note books each filled with notes, scribblings, his touch of madness exposed. He fidgeted a bit to get comfy or get ready to be understood I wondered.

"Hi there, I'm Parker, nice to meet you." I said, that was a nice statement, clean precise- perhaps I could pull this off and not destroy this kid.

The conversation began. Andy his name, was frustrated by no one understanding his genius he told me. He told me how social networks worked. He explained how we could do x to achieve y and sustain an optimal z for a better growth trajectory. He was into marketing. The kid was slinging every piece of jargon possible at me. It felt like work. Here I was in another meeting I didn't care for, listening to self entitled wanna be.

I quickly diagnosed the kid with early onset of douche baggery. I imagine myself in hospital room, meeting with the parents, the stark bright lights flood the white room. There I am in my scrubs tapping the fathers shoulder. I could feel a tremble through his skin. The desperation of wanting to know what is wrong building up.