Maybe if I just keep growing this beard, get it nice and ragged, unkempt, a twisting wiry bush of this way and that, maybe then the corporate world can’t take me back.
“Him?, No, he’s much too wild for a cubicle,” they’ll say behind the HR two-way mirrors. “Agreed. For goodness sake he looks like he’s about to spritz himself with deer urine and go kill dinner for the next month.”
“Sadly I doubt spreadsheets can ever hold his interest again, he’s been spoiled.” Being too rough and tumble for it, they’ll regretfully have to release me.
“Did you hear about Dave?,” they’ll say to each other in the aisles, taking a break from genuflecting before fat rolls of money money. “I heard he grew this massive shitpile of a beard and they wouldn’t take him back, told him him to clean out his desk and turn in his badge.”
Nearby heads prairie-dog from hiding positions below four-foot dividers, chiming in with what they know. “I heard he reeked of patchouli and was talking about his soul!” Timid chuckling, furtive glances, a general insecurity.
Into legend, then, I’ll pass. The guy who couldn’t climb the ladder anymore for tripping over that shitpile beard. And is he even bathing daily? Isn’t that in Scripture? Bathing daily? Pretty sure it is and comes with a “thou shalt.” What the Hell does he have to be smiling about, anyway?
Hurriedly walking between meetings, “What’s he doing now anyway? How much does it pay? What do you mean he said he doesn’t care? If he’s not counting dollars how does he fall asleep at night? Sheep? Like the fourteenth century? God did you see that absolute shitpile on his face?”
“I heard he gardens and is writing a book,” hand on belly to soothe cafeteria indigestion, “Bet there’s just bags of money in that.” Timid chuckling, furtive glances, a general insecurity.
“Yeah. That beard and that trip ruined a perfectly good capitalist.”