And now, another installment in our search for safe harbor during the nonprofit apocalypse…
Our plucky band of nonprofit survivalists, having been recently turned away from the false Sanctuary that was run by a Foundation officer, happen upon a razor wire-topped stone wall shielding an old building besides a woody copse of trees. Tentative after their last encounter with “civilization,” Jon takes the lead, with his falchion twirling in hand like a nervous lover.
Suddenly a voice booms out from behind the wall, “Welcome Bro, I’m Trevor.” Sarah stops suddenly and casts her gaze just to the left of what must be the entry gate. There, a late 20-something man, perfectly coiffed and groomed, stands to attention in a Ralph Lauren Black Label pinstripe suit. He carries no weapon or associated accoutrement… just a highball glass with an amber-colored liquid, neat. Behind him, the nonprofit survivalists can discern a hodge-podge of human rabble, adorned with little more then rags, tending to a shiny car of some sort.
“Is that a Mercedes S-Class behind you?” Jon proffers, trying to hide his incredulity.
“Sure is,” the well-dressed man responded. “How else do you lead but by inspiring greatness in people? I mean look at them. They’re all lazy. Half of them don’t even have the drive to put on a Brooks Brother, forget a Ralph Lauren. It’s my job to show them that if you work hard, meet benchmarks, and embrace accountability, then the sky’s the limit. That’s how I got to be the boss… by playing the boss. It’s all about appearance you know? And it’s all mental discipline. And it’s 90% sheer determination. Oh, and it’s also 50% who you know. That’s how I got to be in charge. These desperate lazy fucks saw my inherent qualities, my success, and handed everything over to me. After all, they knew if I got all this shit, then I must know how to work hard. ”
“Um, wait, work hard? It sure looks like you’re the one enjoying a Scotch while they’re breaking their asses,” Sarah blurted out before Jon could interject a more measured response. “I think what my esteemed cohort means is that it doesn’t seem to be an equitable distribution of labor… after all this is the apocalypse. Shouldn’t everyone be pitching in, sharing the load?”
“Pitch in? Do you even know who I am? Dude, I graduated Yale second in my class. Third generation. I started my own boutique hedge fund in Greenwich and was managing $7 billion in assets by the time I was 27. I know how to work hard. Damn, I work like 18 hours a day. Like yesterday for that matter. I got up at 6am, hit the gym to work out next to a couple of hotties. Got some digits, yea, whatever. Grabbed my double expresso and rolled into my office at 8am. Worked the phones all morning. Went to lunch with Taylor and Austin to discuss that IPO launch and the percentage split after the derivatives are swapped. Back to the office to work the phones. Left at 5pm to hit a strip club and talk business with the guys from Blackrock. Four lapdances and two hits off the top of the toilet later with those jackasses, and WHAM, $25 million being wired into our account. That’s how I roll bitches. Making it rain.”
“You have an expresso maker?” Sarah said lovingly, longingly, apparently missing the rest of Trevor’s improbable screed. It had been months since she indulged in that particular addiction, since before the apocalypse, when she earned a decent salary at the nonprofit she worked at. Usually she grabbed a cup to go from the mom and pop coffee shop next to the train station on her way into the City each day… not of course, from the Starbucks by her house… she wasn’t a pretentious fraud with no morals after all.
“Yea, babe, I used my Chase Sapphire Black Card. Wanna’ check it out? It’s in my penthouse apartment overlooking the park.”
Jon, clearly unimpressed, and a bit perturbed by the outward misogyny, turned the conversation back toward the issue at hand… surviving the apocalypse. “Ok, you’re clearly someone of great renown. We get that. Can you offer sanctuary to our plucky band of nonprofit survivalists? We’ve got nurses, teachers, musicians, farmers, engineers, you name it. They’re all willing to work hard to build a community… to build a better life.”
“Sorry Bro. No can do.”
“WHY!?!” Sarah screams, partly from anger, and partly from the prolonged hunger associated with having to ration a bagel cut in foursies across as many days.
“Because, sweetie, there’s no ROI.”
– Jon and Sarah