Once again, waiting on a friend gives a body time to think about things. Scribbling furiously in a notepad, somethings the thoughts come too quickly, the revelations even. In the light of the next day, they might make the heart go backwards in revulsion. That night, at that pub, they seem to be the exact answer to all the problems that have been tied around both head and heart for the past few days. Freedom is the only magnet nowadays.

He shows up, lady friend in tow. Old times are exchanged. New offers are tabled. The past month has been crazy, things have been slowly making sense but I’m still edgy. Not quite one hundred. Getting there, but call the facts the facts and at least do the favor of offloading the denial. It’s the least anyone can do for themselves.

The Oatmeal Stout in hand is the same one we drank on a road trip down to Florida. First time I ever surfed Floridan waves. Or rather, paddled aimlessly around in and into. A huge distance has taken place since then, about a decade – an almost friendship shattering spat, eventually reconnecting on an aimless walk through Manhattan, his departure to the West Coast. Fortunate enough to both sit down and have a friendship to show for it.

His lady tires eventually, God bless her for even listening to us drone on for the better part of an hour or so. He bids me farewell, and prompts me to seriously consider the offer to come out West and ride Mount Rainier. I am just as serious about taking him up on it. Staying open to the influence of others can be a bitch sometimes, but it doesn’t really cost you much in the long run. If anything, the experience puts you ahead of anyone that seeks the comfort of their own control. I got bitched at once for “trying to control everything”, and I’ll be damned if the lady didn’t have a point. Funny that oftentimes people aren’t around to see the effect of their own words.

Even in small ways, other people teach you things about yourself. Sometimes it’s hard to find those truths in the mess of everyday reality. Sometimes pulling out the lessons requires sifting through a shitpile of confusion and emotion. That’s what sitting at the bar can be.

People move fast. We make snap decisions and sort the aftermath. At least I have. Maybe it’s a delusion that I can accelerate my personal growth by going at life with speed and vigor. It’s likely up to someone else to decide. Somewhere in the heap of quick decisions, I made a wrong turn. For myself and other parties involved. Only time will tell me exactly what it is and where it went wrong. Time and a shitload of reading. One day I’ll be sitting there and the exact right line will hit me. This is why it pays to be well read – personal experiences and analysis can be way too slow, and we benefit the thoughts of those who have previously been at such a crossroads.

Tip the glass, it’s time to go. More on this later.

Luckily, Moose stepped in. By the time he turned around, Moose was shoving the other gentleman backwards while the shovee littered the air with anything profane that came to mind.

Moose led him to a back room. He supposed that someone wanted to know what he did to make him run so fast down that street. Either that, or already knew what he did and wanted an explanation or some form of retribution.

He was hoping it wasn’t retribution.

Moose led him over to a tiny desk chair and gave him a very small but powerful shove. He took it as an indicator that he should sit his ass down and wait for further instructions.

“Mind if I smoke?” he directed the question at Moose, but didn’t bother to wait for an answer. He tapped the soft pack, and one of the family poked it’s head out it. He nipped it with his mouth and felt in his pocket for a lighter.

Moose grunted at him and produced a sterling Zippo.

“Thanks,” he said, and lit up the cigarette. He handed it back to Moose warily, but Moose could barely be bothered to look his way any longer.

They sat in silence for a bit, then he heard a voice calling Moose from somewhere far way. Moose’s head jerked up and him started lumbering towards it. He stopped suddenly and turned.

“Don’t go anywhere. I don’t feel like running again.”

He nodded and Moose continued his trek across the large room, and was eventually swallowed by the other side

After a few minutes he came back.

“Your presence,” he said. And that was it. Suddenly his breath had taken on a hint of bourbon, but neither of them mentioned it. Moose grabbed him by the arm and led him away and across to the darkness.

He was conspicuous in his rush. When the light gave him permission, he continued his beeline towards the waterfront. Towards the garage, towards the safety of the car. If he could get there, he would be in a decent position. Just get there and drive. It didn’t matter where. Somewhere south. For whatever reason, South seemed right.

He thought that maybe he could find safety there, some type of safe haven from his actions, from his thoughts, from the city that was taking him apart piece by piece. From the game that he had made for himself and forced every member of his staff to play. What was fun had degraded into something that was terrible and pressure filled.

If anything he sought relief. He stopped again another block down, and caught his breath. His composure was as bent as his posture. Suddenly he felt a meaty hand grip the back of his blazer, jerking him in the direction he had fled so hastily.

“Seriously, you need to reconsider the direction of your flight,” Moose grunted at him.

He gritted his teeth and looked Moose up and down. He was aptly named. And aptly employed. He lowered his head in shame and let Moose jerk him back towards the heart of the city.

Moose let him trail behind him, confident that he wouldn’t try to flee. Hopefully out of respect or, failing that, out of fear. Moose failed to anger quickly. But he could certainly anger in a grand way.

Aaron stood over the body with an air of confidence. Like he was proud of what he had just done to the poor sap lying on the ground. I can’t say I blame him – his victim looked pretty bloody, though he was still breathing. Having a little trouble doing it, but he was definitely still breathing.

When he caught my glance, his eyes opened in mild surprise before narrowing again. He grinned at me and stepped away from the body, giving it a swift kick to let me know that, Yes, he had been the one that did this to him, and he regretted nothing.

I drew closer to Tin-Tin’s body as Aaron backed away and walked back up the alley. The knife in his left hand was still clutched tightly, and his chest rose and fell erratically. Looks like he underestimated Aaron’s self-defense abilities.

I drew down loser to him, feeling my thighs burn in a crouch.

“How ya feelin Tin-tin?”

He just groaned in response, and looked at me like he wanted to curse my every descendent.

“I’ll call you an ambulance, but you know what? Don’t you ever come back here. I mean, I’m sure that Aaron asserted you’re not welcome back in this district, but just to be crystal clear: you are very specifically not welcome back in this bar. Right?”

Tim’s eyebrows pulled down over the crest of his eyes as he jerked the wheel towards the narrow shoulder of the parkway. The flopping sound coming from the rear right tire became more irregular as the car slowed and eventually silenced as the car came to a stop

Aaron sat mum in the passenger seat, his lips restraining any commentary that might be trying to force itself from his brain. He meekly opened up the passenger side door and craned his neck to look backwards. He car definitely titled a bit. He heard the sound of Tim angrily opening the driver’s side door and slamming it shut, causing the partially rolled down window to rattle harshly against the frame.

“Jesus” Aaron mutterred to himself as Tim made his way back to the trunk.

He gathered his thoughts for a second, sighed heavily and then began to step out of the car. He straightened up and smoothed his pants as he approached Tim, who was lugging the jack and tire iron from the wide open trunk to the passenger side of the car.

“Tim?”

Tim just grunted sharply as the tire iron clattered to the ground and he began to descend to his knees. He shoved the jack roughly into place.

“Tim”

Tim looked back at Aaron sharply, and Aaron felt his heart jump up into his throat. He exhaled again.

Tim struggled with the jack and began cursing as he scraped his knuckles against the ground while rotating the mechanism.

Aaron gingerly picked up the tire iron. He stood over Tim, absorbed in jacking the car up and cursing their foul luck.

“Tim!”

“WHAT?”

“You have to loosen the nuts first. Step away from the car and calm the fuck down”

“Fuck you Aaron, you’re retarded.”

Later, he would tell himself he had no choice – he just felt his entire body convulse, compress and uncoil in a moment of pure, unadulterated anger and release.

For a lot of my compatriots in design, development and UX, ethos plays a huge role. This is something that Bret Victor addressed in a recent talk called “Inventing on Principle” (http://vimeo.com/36579366), and the concept has stuck in my cranium ever since watching it. I spent some time looking around the web, trying to figure out what my own working principles would be, and if I even had some poorly formed idea of one in the first place. This is part of the problem; oftentimes we are marginally aware of the principles by which we are living.

I think one tenet that many of us start out with is : “let’s make cool shit”

Great, right?

Then we start adding on.

“Let’s make cool shit that challenges us to grow as developers and people”

Even better.

Then we start managing

“Let’s make cool shit that challenges us and creates cash flow”

Still good.

“Let’s make cool shit that challenges us while creating cash flow, and do it in a way that is sustainable”

Actually that’s a pretty good statement, and it’s kind of fucking up my point.

My point is that between living the rest of our life, sometimes we lose the more ephemeral parts of that statement – so we focus on “creating cash flow in a sustainable way”. That’s still a really good way to look at running a business. Maybe not a creative business, or a business that is going to be the number one or two company in it’s field, but a pretty good business nonetheless.

I think creative people want the full monty, however. They want to feel energized, challenged, inspired. When they can’t get that, they get restless. Or cynical. Or bitter. Any and all of the above.

Maybe some of them just shrug in resignation and put their energies into family and home. Work becomes a conduit to support those other things where they feel energized or rejuvenated. That’s cool. Ultimately, is that what people want in their colleagues? And how does that affect the group as a whole? Does it even matter? I’m not saying they should neglect their life, I’m saying that engagement is important.

Anyway: ethos, amirite?

Funny to discover him lying on the floor, a good decade after he had disappeared from my daily life. I was beginning to muse on the sadness of it all when I heard the key turn in the latch, locking it by accident, then rotating to unlock and carefully nudge the door open.

“Harry?” her voice creaked slowly.

I rushed to get up and the wooden planks creaked beneath me as I paced towards her voice – “mrs mulligan, yeah hey. …”

She knew before I even had the chance to gently lead her into the foyer. I was sorry for her. She swooned a little and fell into me, forcing me back before steadied the both of us.

She shuffled her feet towards the couch and collapsed onto the gaudy pink cushions while I stood, slightly dumbfounded.

“Well, I’ll have to call the police” I murmured.

Jeff was still in the back room, I could hear him rummaging around as I made my way towards the kitchen. I tested the phone on the wall. No signal.

I burrowed into the pocket of my suit jacket and brought out my phone, hesitantly dialing. I stopped myself before sending the police call and keyed in a message to Jeff instead. Something along the lines of “vamoose, now’s a bad time”. Hopefully he would look at it, and hopefully nobody would look too hard at my phone records.