You Don’t Have to Stay Here
Workin’ for the man ev’ry night and day,
And I never lost one minute of sleepin’,
Worryin’ ’bout the way things might have been.
From “Proud Mary”, Credence Clearwater Revival
It was the late summer of 1981, and I was feeling stuck. Stagnant. Locked in. Uninspired.
I was in my mid-twenties. For nearly five years I had been working full time on PLATO system software for Control Data Corp., a large computer company in Minneapolis. I really didn’t have much to complain about at my job. I was paid well, and I felt respected by my manager and coworkers. I didn’t have to punch a time clock and could pretty much come and go as I pleased as long as I made progress on my projects. But I was bored with it.
The thought of looking for a different job held little appeal. I still had the feeling that within the world of computer software, PLATO was the place to be. Certainly that had been true in the mid 1970s, when PLATO was miles ahead of everything else in so many ways. Whether or not that was really still the case in 1981, I still believed it. So if I was sick of my job with PLATO, as far as I was concerned I was sick of computer work altogether.
So I was stuck. But in another sense I was adrift. That spring my girlfriend and I had amicably decided to separate, and I’d moved out of the house we owned together. I’d answered a “roommate wanted” ad and moved into a large house near Lake Calhoun with four other twenty-somethings.
It was a makeshift solution to my homelessness, but it did nothing for my ennui. I was beginning to feel almost physically allergic to my workplace. I found myself going in to work later and later in the morning, and leaving earlier and earlier in the afternoon.
Often I would start my day with a run. One August morning as I was doing my lap around the lake, my mind was also going in circles. Hate my job. Need my job. Hate my job. There’s no good job. Hate my job. Need my job. Hate my job. Round and round.
And then, as if some unseen friend had whispered into my ear, I heard these words enter my mind:
You don’t have to stay here.
What a revelation! Almost immediately, the broad outline of a plan began to take shape in my head. I would take a leave of absence from my job and go vagabonding around the country. As I considered this idea, I realized I was almost perfectly situated to go through with it. I had enough money saved that I could afford to live without an income for several months, at least, maybe a year or more if I was careful. I was no longer in a committed relationship. I had a good car, a 3-year-old Honda hatchback. I could easily get out of my temporary rooming situation. I was half-owner of a house, but my ex was still living there and I could leave most of my belongings there while I traveled.
By the time I was finished with my run that morning, I knew I was going to do it.
It took me a few months to pull all the pieces together. Autumn was fast approaching and I wanted to have a long stretch of good weather ahead of me when I set out crisscrossing the continent, so I aimed to leave the following spring. Meanwhile, I began thinking about places to go, things to do, and people to visit. I wanted to camp in the desert and hike in the Superstition Mountains. I wanted to stay a while at Paolo Soleri’s Arcosanti. I wanted to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway and camp among the giant redwoods at Big Sur. The magical city of San Francisco exerted a magnetic pull on me. Most of all, I wanted to work as a volunteer with John Lilly’s Human Dolphin Foundation. I also had hopeful thoughts about a certain girl I knew on the west coast, and another on the east coast. Mainly I wanted to shake things up: go new places, try new things, have new experiences, meet new people. And I never wanted to spend my days sitting in a corporate office cubicle again.
In mid-March 1982, while snow still blanketed the ground in Minnesota, I packed my Honda Accord with a tent, a sleeping bag, and a bunch of books, and headed straight south on Interstate 35 in search of warmer weather and adventure.
It changed the course of my life, and I’ve never regretted it.
Good for you, David! I remember decades ago my still-childless nephew and his wife had a dream that would uproot them from good jobs. His parents (my brother, his wife) were unhappy about it and discouraging them. I took them aside and said, “Go for it while you can…” Today they’re very settled, in great jobs and recall my encouragement. My advice to young people often is, if it seems crazy and perhaps irresponsible, it’s probably the right thing to do while you can!
During my period of vagabonding I met lots of people who said to me “I wish I could do what you’re doing!” My response was always, Well, you could. But they never believed it.
I remember it well! We all were going nuts at PLATO. Frustrations at lost opportunities, that “we are changing the world!” feeling sliding away. I stuck it out for a year or so after that and went out on my own in ’83. Hard to believe that over 30 years later I’m still programming…but have always done it (more or less) on my terms.
I had a similar thing happen when I stopped acting. I was backstage in a show, waiting for my next entrance and I heard “You don’t have to do this anymore.” And that really was the end. I finished the run of the show, and did a couple more out of momentum, but that was the end of my acting career. Such a strange experience, and such good practice for the rest of my life.
Same feelings. Same moment of freedom. Same desire to renew and repurpose and to put myself in play. Different age (you at 22 and I at 72) creating urgency and different objectives. But not all that much. I don’t have time to procrastinate. You were setting the stage for your future life – I’m milking it for all its worth. Nice post David,
Dear David: Just like with HONY postings, I’m curious about the 2/3 and 3/3 blogs that supplement this one. How did turning, turning help your life?
Probably more ways than I can say. But here are some big ones: It freed me from the mindset that I have to have a “job” where I go to work 40 hours a week and get a paycheck twice a month. It made me aware of how much of the STUFF I own is stuff I can get by without. I lived for many months with just the things I could fit in my car, having left behind an entire house full of things that I apparently didn’t really need. It made me realize that my time is more valuable to me than money. It gave me an understanding of both the freedom and the pain that come with being alone most of the time. It gave me an appetite for new experiences and exploration that had been largely latent before. And ultimately it led me to meeting the woman who became the mother of my son. She and I are no longer together, but having my son (now 25) in my life has been and continues to be a great blessing.
I don’t know what you mean about the 2/3 and 3/3 blogs – can you explain that reference?
David – What an inspiring story. (I believe Lael is looking for “What happened next?”) Thanks so much for sharing.
My “Gotta Get Outta Here, Can’t Get Outta Here” involved consulting firm where the work was demanding, interesting and worthwhile, but the Boss was brutal, dishonest and incompetent–and did not like me. I had a wife, a child, house payments: to quote Zorba, “The full catastrophe”. One day I realized, “I am selling most of the projects this office is doing, on top of which I am 120% billable . . . I don’t need these guys!” I called a few clients and asked if they would consider me independently for future work. They basically said, “You’re the only one we know and trust. Your boss? It feels like I’m talking to a congressman.” I bought two t-shirts that featured a man cutting off his tie, with the slogan “Say no to real jobs”. Went home and gave one to Sandy, and told her we were going into business. She was my office manager and production person, most of which she could do from home. Our little Sole Proprietorship went 20 years. We never lost a competition with my previous company. W.C. Fields once said, “It was a woman who drove me to drink. I only regret that I never wrote to thank her.” I should have written my former boss–but he got the message anyway.