The lawyer came through, and a big, fat, honking check showed up in my cubicle.  I did not turn around, go to the bank and keep on walking away from gainful employ.  It was tempting, sorely, sorely tempting.

The lesson learned today — Banks, well Bank of America in particular, but I bets they all be the same, banks sure do treat you different if you strut in with a few extra zeroes than usual on your check.  Your check made out to "Densie S." my last name, no less.  It cashed up all right, just as though that were my name.

Densie S., she is now a V. eye fucking P. at the old Bank of A.  VIP, probably could get myself some champagne in the vault room.  V. I. P.  No fees and much more interest, 'cuz that's how us rich folks roll in the VIP treatment.  The rich do get richer and I'm going to plan on exploiting every angle.

Not sure when I get to know the the secret handshake.

Meantime, back at the working people ranch, the moment the check was delivered by the very sweet dude who does that thang, I was reading yet another cunty delight of an email from the cunty delight of a worker bee who reminds me of my Boston roots.  One person in all the people I deal with in a daily, weekly, monthly basis, one person, one, who seems to revel in making shit hard.  Hard and nasty.  But not the good kind of hard and nasty.

Among the reasons I took the job was the name on the door actually connotes the antithesis of a hidebound, east-coast, heirarchical, fuck you you're a peon ethos.  Seriously, the name on the door is something you might hear about at some hotshot MBA exec training seminar, some kind of book you might read, some kind of corporate culture koolaid you're supposed to down and bring back to work with an eye toward happy, happy, joy productivity.   A huge swath of the day, people live the now business cliche and it ain't half bad.

But, there's the one delight who didn't get the corporate ethos memo.  Nope, and she is apparently hoping I roll on over to her dark and bitchy side. 

So I read the email, and I thought about Johnny Paycheck and living cheaply out of my car. 

I'm pretty sure I'm homeless now.  Not in the sense of living out of a shopping cart, yet, but as in no longer possessing a corner of the planet with a deed in my name, or my bank's name.  I don't think I own my house any more.

I dunno, though.  It's all vague and sketchy and reliant on a too incommunicative for me to stand lawyer-type chick.  Theory is that at some point today, a UPS envelope will come with my name on it.  Inside will be one of them there check gizmo pieces of paper that banks run on.  It should have many zeroes (many being a relative term in my humble single-digit existence).

Then, I will go to a bank, and I will be a thousandaire.

I will have no debt (apart from the credit cards I use and pay each and every month).  I will fantasy greatly about changing my name, stuffing the cash in a duffel bag and going off the grid.  I will be Henry David Thoreau meets the Unibomber, but with a little more of a greeting card over letter bomb sensibility.  My stage name will be Henry Dee-Rob Kasinsky.  I will move to the woods in order to live life with more hilarity.

Seriously, no debt, no address, sweet, sweet homeless fantasy living.   A thousandaire.