First New iCloud Note

My cheek was pressed against the deck, the forest bare and swaying before me. “All You Can Do Is Write,” I wrote.

My back was leaned against a plastic display where bird bodies were tacked and placards assembled.

Eternity hit me for the first time. My friend Ryan and I tried LSD and had rented out The Hiker’s Hut, a wooden structure operated by the Sierra Club in Pescadero, CA.

I wrote in the Moleskine notebook he brought us.

I’d see those pages again in Oxford, Ohio in the parking lot outside Keystone, the apartment building Beta Theta Pi Fraternity owned and operated for members of its staff. Ryan and I had just returned from Nashville for the 4th of July.

I’d found our host for the long weekend on Couchsurfing, a website and community for open-minded strangers. I didn’t know Josh beyond his online profile but he seemed chill. I trusted him, though eventually I learned his front door didn’t lock. And we showered by candlelight.

Anyway, now I’m back job searching in a Starbucks. I have no plan and that’s a problem.

“So here’s my idea for your future,” Sarah Gchatted, “simple black and white. Mull it around and we’ll talk later. It’s like a hybrid of you moving to Austin and being an artist-bartender and you moving to Chicago and being a well-paid marketing genius.”

I was six months unemployed, 25 years old and square in the “I need a role at a company to give me an identity” season of life. Undocumented freedom was a problem. Why? Drugs. Sex. Parents. Facebook. Death. I don’t fucking know. I just know it is.

“I can give you an ‘internship’ at our new ‘collective’ until I can bring you on full-time. See, the brilliance is that you get to be a starving artist AND a social media mogul at the same time!”

All I want is for someone to want me. I want to be recruited, desired and invited. I want some professional vehicle to accelerate and absorb my attention and non-freedom. I want love in the form of money.

“Plus, I can get you a gig bartending anywhere in town. We know everyone,” she added. “But I need to learn more about what you really want to do before I force you into being my minion slash best friend forever.”

“Great!”

“If you’re free tonight, I’ll give you a buzz when I get home from this networking thing. #eyeroll,” she says.

“Which will result in friend requests and emails that are vague, ambitious, not directly purposeful and will require herding and face-palming on your part?” I replied, finally.

“Yup. See? I like you already.”

“I am pounding the pavement on the professional campaign trail,” I joked to another old friend. “I was up until 5am laughing to myself, scribbling a vision for my new resume. I am applying to more places today, putting myself out there to some startups…lots of growth and reflection, my future anything but certain, but I’m excited to be where I’m at.” I wasn’t.

To be on a job search is to stare at and question your worthiness as a human being. To job search is to become a commodity, a product, a can of language waiting to jump up and exclaim, “Hi, here’s what I’ve done and here’s what I can do for you.” Sing and dance while they, Caesars, smile and think about what to do with you. You are an hourly rate, an output mechanism described by the bold headings and resume bullet points you’re staring at in this Starbucks now.

“There are so many companies, so many teams and so many cultures,” I lamented to a friend. “It is endless. So it can’t really be about you being good enough for them, can it? It’s really just the law of averages: the openings that post and someone reads something and picks a person they don’t really know. That’s the reality. Work isn’t a true reflection of purpose or potential, it’s filling a need.”

Like many liberal arts majors who graduated around the financial crisis, I went into marketing, the business of saying what people want to hear. My resume bullet points and career story were good but oxidizing at an alarming rate: six months of joblessness can be seen as an automatic reason to ignore what one might contribute who is beckoning attention from a corporate gatekeeper.

I was nervous to be seen, anxious about my virility and worth.

I spent days presenting myself and tracking my impact, making more presentations to more potential suitors, becoming well-versed in hoping and waiting without the warm kiss of external signal.

I wanted one of these people emailed to throw me a life in a box: a job, city, apartment; friends, happy hours, events, weekends out of town. Fuckers! I’m worthy!

Reading online did not help. One headline, “In The Future We Will Have Eyeball-Embedded Robot Intelligence And Be Hackable Humans In A Gamified Society” did not inspire or help my condition.

I had to find an employer. I had to fly to Indiana and get my stuff. I had to go somewhere.

Sarah sent the offer letter:

As Online Media Intern, you will report to the VP Producer and be part of the production of digital marketing projects for Collective clients. Projects will include brand strategy, marketing planning, identity design, online advertising, online PR, search, website development, mobile marketing, video, social media, email marketing and other marketing services required by The Collective’s clients. As a Member of The Collective you will exemplify our five values: curiosity, cooperation, responsibility, swagger and happiness; and follow our brand creative process: investigate, collaborate, cultivate, integrate and celebrate. We serve our clients with a belief in The Collective’s five-tenant creative philosophy: representing the voice of our client’s tribe, listening to include ideas from anyone, sharing all knowledge, knowing the medium is the message, and governing the client’s brand to greatness.

This was enough “it” for me. Kansas City, Missouri? Sure. I’ll pitch a tent on that desk and circulate.

My father’s car (now mine) was parked in Tim’s driveway in Santa Claus, Indiana. The suits I owned (bought from Men’s Wearhouse in the strip mall with the Target near my house in the suburbs) were inside the house. So I flew to Indiana, packed up my car, said goodbye to my friend Tim and headed west. The drive was sunny. I was sweating in the driver’s seat, sticking to the leather. I called my father to say I was fine as I followed the directions spoken by the woman in the navigation device stuck to the dashboard. I picked “Just Like a Woman” by Bob Dylan on my iPod.

I had a friend in Kansas City I could crash with while I got my affairs in order. I pulled up to the house after winding through the streets leading to his door. We hugged and said hello then hauled the car-full of things inside the house, up the carpeted stairs and shoved them in a corner of his spacious, carpeted bedroom.

I set up shop downstairs on the brown leather couch, spreading my chargers and devices around, making sure to stake out enough real estate but also not to impose. On and around the coffee table, all cords and earbuds were accounted for.

Josh was his name, a chance acquaintance from college. We’d met at a national gathering of male college students. He was the first Kansan I’d ever talked to. I drank beer and walked around Dallas with him. I wore his friend’s cowboy hat into a Hooters. The college men from California enjoyed the camaraderie of those from Kansas and vice-versa.

Josh and I stayed in touch online, indulging through the years our shared habit of quietly inviting others to see and appreciate our observations. We had similar minds. As it turned out, in physical space we also ran a similar offense: our drawer, closet and shower-surface games adhered to almost identical management strategies; a pleasant, ferocious minimalism. Our closets smelled the same and the space between hung dress shirts was generally equal.

The next day, my first day in the city, I took my laptop to Westport, the part of town where twentysomething creative types roam free. I found a Boba tea place with Wi-Fi and a leather chair to slump in beneath a sunny window. It is here I used a boilerplate message to update people on my move, one by one.

So with sugary honeydew drink in hand, I began, and with impressive ammunition:
“Some good news to report today — as of three days ago, I’ve taken a new job in the lovely, the up-and-coming, the unexpected Kansas City, Missouri. I’ll be helping start up an ad agency alongside three creative crazies, all with a unique track record of success and innovation. They’re in the upper crust here, i.e. TEDxKC pre-event VIP types, and I’ll have the opportunity to help brand and build community around the agency as well as for clients.”

I’d found a video of laid-back dudes in designer vests shaking and stirring handmade bitters from massive glass jars, molasses-looking bourbon they’d just smoked with a gun, etc.

The mixologist-protagonists argued that because they lived in what others call flyover country, they could do whatever the hell they want. They were my heroes immediately.

As sunlight poured on a patch of plastic chairs in this Boba tea lounge, messages were landing:

“It looks as though you have found a place where your brain will excel,” worlds said in unison. Here’s my proof I was living it right.

After some solid hours of relationship management, I went back to Josh’s living room, the brown leather couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. Plugged-in devices were on the floor near the heating vent. Josh walked up the stairs behind me from a workday like any other.

After friendly greetings, we cracked open bottled beers from the fridge, turned on the TV and saw the Royals were playing a home game. My attention scattered between pitches — I honed my eyes on the seams’ momentum as well as text messages that had come in that day.

I was diligently engaged in the project of trimming who I followed on social media, an active science and exercise of deciding what to ignore and what to enhance — essentially, a click-by-click game of choosing who to become more like.

I’m such an active user…the companies must love me

I ticked the database holding my preferences, “unfollow” and “hide”
tuning out mere acquaintances (whose work I don’t much respect)

the world of my habits forced to ask questions like, “is this person worth 7 seconds per week of my attention?”

Our parents’ generation didn’t have to do this; to “defriend” someone was an organic condition of leaving. They left things behind. They left college and retained maybe five good relationships. Brain space was free to accept new friends as life went on. I went into this stage with my brain space and media intake already spoken for. Nobody’s reaching out to polish our lenses on reality for us. Everyone just wants what they want.

our plastic buzzer beeped and shook on the black leather couch in the dark, cavernous dining room of the barbecue spot the roommates suggested I get under my belt

red lights flashed and a woman appeared. She led us with a smile from the bar to our table.

“I love this city,” I told them quickly, having been there a matter of hours
citing the low cost of living, ease of transit and quality of life. “You sound like the Californians who discovered Austin a few years ago,” one roommate replied. I scanned the menu while envisioning myself married and successful in an urban loft and a career with a proper name

“You will be a founding member of a renaissance here. In other big cities, you’ll pay $700 or $2,000 for rent. Here, you live comfortably for $400 walking distance from more than one great neighborhood. No clawing and climbing through millions of strangers. Here, you know people. Here, you have time and the money to go enjoy things: food, drink, parks, art, and best of all, relationships with people who really know you and aren’t on a mission to people-please. We aren’t social climbers,” one roommate said.

“Yeah man,” the other roommate said. “Every person you want to meet lives here: painters, models, girls spinning on strands of yarn, CMOs, entrepreneurs, war veterans and single moms whose strength will inspire you; travelers, dreamers, masters and mentors who will actually give you the time of day. In New York or Chicago, there’s a line of people better looking, smarter, more willing to lose sleep and do whatever they can to step up and over you. But here, it’s all about the human stuff.”

The waitress approached and I ordered multiple meats. “Let ’em fight it out on the coasts,” I said with a smile. I picked up my drink and continued, “I think I’ll stay for a while and enjoy the work of living.” I thanked them for their hospitality. They told me not to mention it.

I woke the next day to pinging, energy barreling in at me

messages from my friend who’s the son of a preacher-man for real

“God lets nothing go to waste.”
— Aaron Sheppard’s father as told via Instagram DM 3/9/18

I’m not gonna lie and pretend it’s not now

“He who is in you is GREATER THAN he who is in the world” (John 1?)

“If you bring out what is in you, what you bring out will save you. If you fail to bring out what is inside you, what you fail to bring out will destroy you.”
— Gnostic Gospel of St. Thomas

I browsed Craigslist for life partners, picking and bookmarking pages with text and images whose combinations suggest a decent human match to my current state. I opened a Word document to draft the language I would use for outreach, to carefully yet casually explain who I am and why that is just what prospective roommates have been waiting for.

tiptoed through Josh’s bedroom, utilized his designed combination of body and hair agents
drove to a new coffee shop, got a callback

talked for 20 minutes with Adam, 29, karate instructor, former system admin, bass player, comic book collector, dude from St. Louis, likes good bourbon, has a Jack Russell Terrier/Chihuahua mix named Ralph.

Lean my head against the morning sun in the back corner window of The Filling Station
an eavesdropper would peg this a budding bromance; I was laughing so hard, head pitched back
in a coffee shop made for the dark-wash jeans and MacBook Pro hustle crowd
the design aesthetic was weathered barn, wrought iron, blah blah blah
complete with chalkboard hand-lettered whimsically
hulking iron geometric sculpture bolted to the front lawn
serve 24-hour cold brewed coffee
fresh-pressed bell pepper-apple-carrot-kale juice

His place is walking distance to Westport and Volker, both cool neighborhoods. It’s a quick drive to the Plaza and an easy connection to Southwest Trafficway, which takes one to the Crossroads Arts District for work, which would begin tomorrow. Rent was $375. According to his karate dojo’s website, Adam “went from pizza delivery man to changing lives as a martial arts instructor.” His story, his laugh and his frequency of using the word “dude” was comforting.

As one is wont to do, I checked in on work.

“Good morning! Hey, wanted to know what time y’all officially get to work. See you Monday right?” It was Friday. My boss was online in a green chat bubble.
“Well good morning. Officially? 8:30. Realistically? 9:05.”
“Got it,” I typed back.
“We have a meeting every day at 9. Or, 9:10 rather. Shoot for 8:45. Haha.”
“I’ll aim for 8:37 and a half,” I typed back.

“Sounds good dude. Are you excited about tonight?”

Tonight was an event I was asked to put on my calendar before I left California
at the newest, swankest, sexiest jazz club the city’s seen in years. It’s said to be the shining emblem of everything we’re becoming. Tonight would be my debut

There would be mixology. There would be who’s who. My head and heart ought to be screwed on tight.

we pulled the car underneath the cement hood of Parking Structure B2, the aluminum placard above our heads read

I’d parked in B2 before, last lifetime it seemed but this same driver
Josh hosted my car and I in Lenexa, the Kansas City suburb where he grew up
I stayed in his childhood house
I was driving from California to Ohio, day 12 of the road trip to the job before this one. I’d nearly reached my destination by the time I came
I remember the night: his friends and I piled in the backseat, barbecue, a country music concert
Oklahoma Joe’s, a barbecue joint attached to a gas station that Anthony Bourdain, renowned seeker of the gritty, called one of 13 Places to Eat Before You Die
after dinner, with bricks in our stomach, we descended on the just-constructed Power and Light District, a shopping center of drinking and flirting with grown-up daughters of America’s agricultural heartland. Together we stood, feet and shoulders touching, swaying to guitars and drums going hard on the stage at the center
drank beer from plastic cups
I appreciated America and the freedom it afforded
but that was a different night; tonight was my debut.

We shut the car doors, left B2 and found the jazz club with the phone’s help