by Ian Hall
As we speak, private
equity is getting the last shred of tenderloin
off the bone. Their spreadsheets & algorithms cut cleaner than any oncologist. I’m talking margins
that’d make a CyberKnife blush. Grandmas are supposed to knit & work needle —according to a jowly man in my Facebook
comment corral— now they just laze around & watch pimple-popping highlight reels. Thanks, feminism!! Crying
shame, another man laments. That store always smelled like those candies old church ladies kept
in their big kangaroo-pouch purses. Takes me right back to way back when. Midst this hypertensive talk
of handheld brains & global gubbermint conspiracy, I’m thinking of the jobs lost, of the kitchen table
come-to-Jesus moments that are looming
in Greater Flyoverville. Of missed rent & the bite of that COBRA
premium. It’s more or less the same tired story: communities gone hardscrabble. Cars up on cinderblock. More people
know the going price of scrap than starting
wages at that ghosted battery plant. A constitutional Right
to Work state, by god. Coal miner, roughneck, lint head—all made redundant, rarefied as the dodo. & now
the bell tolls for the JOANN Fabrics team member. All in a day’s creative destruction. But me, I’m an optimist. Always
look on the bright side: those superstore
layoffs have more time for their hobbies. Listening
to Dave Ramsey while they drive Uber. Learning to code, grind crypto, or maybe even
crochet.
Pegasus 