FU FI

“So are you in Q?  Do we have you?” 

I had to give credit where credit was due.  This guy was good. 

“Why don’t you get one of those popular bloggers,” I answered.  “You know the ones – media whores, paid marketing team, SEO obsessives, pushing e-courses like drugs to kids, charging young inexperienced bloggers for guest posts, financial ‘expert’ coaching, not disclosing affiliate links or paid advertising.” 

I ran my fingers through the stubble of my beard.  “That’s the shit you want.  That’s the shit that sells.  Why even bother with me?  I’m nobody.  I don’t even know how you found me.” 

His voice was velvet, liquid gold over the phone line. 

“No, Q, that is exactly why we need you…” 

He was setting me up.  Setting me up for that perfect winning stroke like a golfer sinking the clinching putt at a major championship. 

“…All those popular bloggers do all the same shit.  They’re on all the same podcasts, selling their books, e-courses, fucking lifestyle design products.  Kids don’t give a shit about that anymore–” 

The more I listened, the more I realized his words flowed, smooth as river stones, his measured tone a seductive silky persuasion, practiced and perfected, aged and proven like water shaping a canyon with its will. 

He was wearing me down, and I didn’t like it. 

“–the industry has changed.  They want new people… real people.  Not these online gimmicks.  They crave authenticity.  They’ve been hounding me to get you.  YOU Q!  Of all people!  You’re pure.  Everyone else has their agents now, but you’re unsigned.  Clean.  That’s why it has to be you.” 

Then he dropped his last line on me, like a pitcher throwing a new curve ball in the bottom of the ninth.  It came at me spinning.  Beautiful.  A work of art. 

“You’re not a sell-out.” 

I let out a deep sigh.  I wanted nothing to do with this.  But I was caving.  He had planted a seed that was growing into the belief I just might be able to make a difference. 

I tried to resist one last time.  “I just don’t think it makes any sense.” 

He’d been calling me for weeks now, trying to butter me up.  He was a recruiter at a local big-time college that booked guest lectures and wanted me to give a speech to the incoming class.  They had created a specific Financial Independence curriculum and were getting desperate to take it in a new direction.  Kids just didn’t buy all that marketing life-style-design bullshit anymore. 

And donors were weighing in.  When big money speaks, you listen. 

They needed a new flare, something different. 

They said they needed me. 

“Q!,” the recruiter was almost shouting into the phone.  “You don’t get it yet.  You don’t have the vision for what you can become.  Think man!  Think!” 

I knew what he was doing.  But it still was never easy hearing what you took for goodness and integrity being transformed into rottenness hidden under a pretty mask. 

“This is the natural progression of FI-fame: you blog, then write your book, sell your course, start your podcast and then become a paid speaker.  You’ll be a Fin-Con celebrity!” 

Nothing sounded worse to me, but he was just getting revved up. 

“FI is going to go beyond personal finance.  It’s still niche right now, but it’s going to go mainstream, baby.   And when it does, it’s going to explode.  We are going to have FI universities.” 

Then his tone changed.  It became hushed as if he were sharing a secret between just him and me. 

“Imagine Q, kids paying top dollar to the system, to learn how to beat the system.  It’s fucking brilliant.  They won’t even know what hit them.  We’ll have an army of administrators marketing to the next generation that these are real skills they’re learning.  It’s going to be gobbled up by the education industry faster than you can even start a new FIRE blog.  Ha!  Get that one buddy?” 

“Yeah, I get it,” I humored him. 

He continued his diatribe without even missing a beat.  Syllables clashing in a perverse but methodical way like his tongue was painting a Basquiat masterpiece. 

“And you Q, you have the fucking story to become a FI-fucking rock star!  Just picture the headline… recovering alcoholic/addict only days from the grave is reborn like a golden fucking Phoenix rising from the ashes of hell while spitting out life lessons better than a Hallmark card. 

C’mon bro, you were born for this.” 

As much as I hated him, he was feeding me some impressive lines.  Maybe this guy should start his own blog?  He was kind of fucking golden in his own right. 

“You don’t monetize, you’re a small guy compared to all these corporate bloggers now.  You play the it’s-not-about-the-money-gig to perfection – all coy and batting your eyelashes like you believe in the common man.  It’s fucking genius.  And then the stories you tell, tugging at our hearts.  C’mon man, people would pay for that shit if I can get you out there.  Let me help you to help me.  I can take you to the next level baby.  You’ll have Elon practically building you your own myquietfi.com rocket ship to mars!” 

It was amazing that with so many words spoken so quickly, this guy wasn’t even out of breath.  He was a master at this craft. 

“So what do you say?” 

The last of my resolve crumbled like decomposed granite falling off a cliff. 

“It’s just once, and for the kids?” I asked. 

“Oh yeah baby!”  He might as well have been singing Halleluiahs to the choir.  “Let’s agree to start at one.  But once you get a taste of that stage, Q.  There’ll be no going back.  Trust me, this ain’t my first rodeo kid.” 

I don’t know why, but I said, “yes.” 

— 

When I showed up to the university parking lot for my speech, I expected it to be empty on a Saturday night.  But it was full, cars packed in tighter than sardines in a can.  Raucous music echoed in the distance like a college kegger from my hey-days, a harbinger of what was yet to come. 

I couldn’t believe it.  This can’t all be for me. 

But as I made my way to the auditorium across campus, there was a line of people waiting to get in, stretching on as far as the eye could see. 

No, this can’t be real.  No one even reads my worthless scribbles. 

Then someone shouted, “There he is!” 

I was ambushed faster than Brad Pitt in the Playboy mansion. 

Girls were shoving bras in front of my face to sign, underwear being tossed at my head.  I was dodging and weaving craftier than Gumby in a Hula skirt shaking contest.  “Q-FI, Q-FI, Q-FI,” was being chanted in the background.  I could see people wearing myquietfi.com T-shirts with my crappy logo printed on them. 

God, that fucking shitty logo again, I knew I should have re-done that shit years ago.  Oh well, too late now.  Man, kids have some terrible taste today. 

I was crushed in so tight I was having trouble breathing.  I began to panic.  Who would have ever thought starting a blog would literally be the death of me? 

But just as fast as the madness had begun, security smashed its way through the mob like a battering ram and pulled me to safety. 

The guard standing next to me was tall as a house, arms the size of tree-trunks, black T-shirt, black Jeans, it was as if he were born of the night. 

“This way,” he said in a voice deeper than a grave.  And I followed. 

We came up to a hidden side door, and before I could enter, he put out his arm to stop me.  The powerful hand pressed on my chest with a gentleness I hadn’t expected. 

“You gotta be careful Q,” he whispered in earnest.  “Status and celebrity are no joke.  You can’t take it lightly.” 

He had said Q?  How did he even know my name? 

Then he whipped out a pen and card with my blog label on it, his smile was wider than a Chesire cat.  It transformed him from this towering creature of the night into an eager puppy.   “Can you sign this please?  I’m one of your biggest fans, Q.  A starless black heaven,” he winked. 

I couldn’t fucking believe it.  No no no no.  This had gone too far. 

“Yes,” I stammered as I took the pen and signed.  Shock pushing my fingers in motion rather than the blood coursing through my veins. 

Then he ushered me through the door, and the real adventure began… 

— 

Inside was fucking spasmodic jubilation, you would have thought you were at some psychotic Trump rally or religious cult orgy rather than a college auditorium. 

I was terrified.  Beyond terrified. 

Then, I looked at who was introducing me.  And you won’t believe it, no, you really wouldn’t.  But I’ll tell you anyway. 

It was fucking Mr. Money Mustache. 

Pete gave his usual speech on saving the world, biking and evilness of the combustion engine that should be placed above Stalin in a priority list of calamities haunting the human race, before finally turning to me, and winking (WTF was up with everyone winking at me?). 

“Just like a punch to the face, eh Q?” 

And then he was gone – he actually hopped on his mountain bike, pulled a wheely, jumped off the stage and rode right up the main aisle out of the auditorium. 

This guy was good. 

How the fuck do you follow that shit up?  Maybe he was biking all the way back to CO from CA?  Fucking crazy Canadiens (which I’m a dual citizen BTW). 

Then the stage was mine. 

The world put you in strange places sometimes. 

— 

To say I was out of my element was an understatement.

There was a Netflix documentary film crew off to my right about to record everything, cameras pointed at me like I was the main red-carpet celebrity attraction. 

Q-FI banners hung from the rafters.  The front row was a bunch of guys with their shirts off that had painted single letters in bright orange and dark blue on each of their bare chests… M-Y-Q-U-I-E-T-F-I… as if they were at a college football game. 

Dancing.  Cheering.  Gyrating torsos.  It was the second coming of the City of Zion in the Matrix. 

Then I stepped up to the mic and said… 

“I have a special announcement tonight, just for you.  I have created a new top secret sub-genre of FIRE.” 

The room had fallen silent as a crypt.  I stared out over the sea of my disciples, hanging on my every word as if I were their savior, their messiah preaching the good word of FI. 

Then slowly, I walked over to the white board at the side of the stage and wrote four letters in large blue marker: FU FI. 

I turned around and was beaming at them.  Take that you little fuckers. 

Then one girl piped up from the back of the room.  “So how do you pronounce FU FI,” she asked.  “Like Foo-FI?  That’s so cool.  Foo-FI just rolls off the tongue.  Like the band Foo Fighters.  You’re so smart.” 

That smile dropped from my face faster than a sky diver’s free fall. 

They hadn’t gotten it.  They hadn’t gotten it at all. 

“No, no, no,” I stammered.  “It’s F-you FI.  Like fuck you FI.  Not foo.  Like fuck off and leave me alone, do whatever you want.  Get it?  It’s a play on letters.” 

She stared at me blankly before finally saying, “I like Foo-FI better.” 

God, there was no winning with these kids. 

My thought was suddenly shattered when someone else shouted…  “Alright, my FU FI e-course just went live!” 

My head swung to him like one of those cartoon faces with the eyes popping out.  “Wait… what?” I spluttered.  “I just made this up, you can’t have an e-course about it yet.” 

Then there was another voice from the other side of the room- 

“There, just ordered 10,000 copies of my new FU FI book I wrote.  It’s on gumroad.com for $100 a copy.” 

“No!”  I screamed in a gurgled anguish.  What the fuck was going on? 

I looked down at him, he was a fucking teenager.  “How old are?”  I asked.  “16?” 

He grinned up at me.  “14… and I’m an entrepreneur.” 

I was aghast. 

This was shocking, turbulent, beyond belief.  When did the term “entrepreneur” become synonymous with “conman”?  Was I that much of a dinosaur? 

Then he finished with the real clincher. 

“I live at home and go to high-school.  I’m already parent-FI, but the cool kids call it P-FI.  I’m just going to live at home and never move out and have them support me the rest of my life.  Haven’t you heard of Parent-FI, Q?  Retiring at 30 is so old school.  If you haven’t retired by the beginning of high school, then you’re a loser.” 

I simply stared at him.  I no longer knew what world I lived in. 

— 

Somehow, I managed to stumble through the rest of my lecture, but I was distraught.  There was no doubt about it.  I tried to tell them that they should live their lives however they wanted.  No path was right.  No road was wrong.  Take responsibility for their actions.  Journeys can enlighten just as much as destinations.  But somehow, I felt it was all lost after my beginning joke had failed. 

I was fucking with them, but they had taken me serious.  Who was actually fucking with who? 

When the lecture was over, I walked off the stage a defeated man, yet showered in boisterous chants of “Foo-FI!”  Many wanted autographs.  I was a fucking FI-rock star.  But my heart wasn’t in it.  In my own mind, I was a disgrace. 

This lecture had been a disaster.  I came here with high hopes of setting some people straight and I had failed.  A washed up 39-year-old corporate employee that couldn’t even explain basic finance. 

I had peaked. 

It was over. 

I should have taken my own advice and kept to the shadows, living my life quietly. 

What was next?  Selling fucking FI Skittles? 

I shook my head. 

At this point, anything was possible… 

-Q-FI 

— 

It’s always fun to fuck around with a little satire and creativity.  What’s your favorite sub-genre of FIRE, or should they even exist at all?  BTW… I’m looking for a few FU-FI podcast hosts.  Anyone game?  Hahaha.