I’ll admit it. I have a problem.
I don’t blow up often. I don’t run around screaming like a lunatic. I’m a generally good dude. But I have a Code. A deep, primitive, non-negotiable Code of Conduct that is apparently written in invisible ink on my forehead, because nobody seems to read it until I’m throwing them out of the goddamn car.
The Code is simple: If you aren’t paying for the ride, you don’t get to steer.
It stems from my father, Jim. That old, beautiful, hard-assed bastard. I remember standing in line at Carl’s Jr. with him. He’s got the coupon. He’s buying the food. And me, being a stupid kid with an opinion, I’d say, “But Dad, I want the…”
And he’d give me The Look. The look that said, “You little motherfucker. You paid for nothing. I brought you here. You are eating this 99-cent burger because I allow it. Shut your mouth and chew.”
It stuck. It burned itself into my DNA.
And now? I look at my life, and I realize I’ve spent fifty-seven years being the guy with the coupon. I’m the guy paying the mortgage. I’m the guy building the business. I’m the guy navigating the tax code, the lawsuits, the fence lines, the corporate bullshit. I’m the engine.
And everyone else? The wives, the girlfriends, the “friends” who show up when the beer is cold but disappear when the bill comes? They’re just passengers.
My marriage? That was the crucible. I did everything. I was the Great Provider. I was the planner. I was the safety net. Her job? Her only job? Was to be a wife. To keep the home fires burning. And she failed. She wanted to argue about the course of the ship while I was the one down in the boiler room shoveling the goddamn coal.
So yeah, I have a trigger.
I look at the people in my orbit, and I realize: I am the Sun.
It sounds arrogant. It sounds narcissistic. But look at the math. I am the gravity. They are just little, cold, pleasant planets spinning around me. And when I leave? When I pack my bags for Vietnam? There is going to be a vacuum. A black hole. Their lives aren’t going to be entertaining anymore. They’re never going to have an orgasm like the ones I gave them. They’re never going to eat the steak I cooked them. They’re going to have to go find some Beta male, some “nice guy,” and they’re going to suck the life out of him until he’s dry.
Because they have no value to the club. They’re just consumers.
I see it in my work. I generate $36 million in revenue. I make the rain fall. And some little pipsqueak comes in and questions my methods? Fuck you. You do it, then. You carry the weight.
It happens on dates. I take a woman out. I’m paying. I’m driving. I’m providing the “experience.” And she starts complaining. “I don’t want to sit here for the fireworks.” “Why are we going here?”
It’s like a Rottweiler biting you. The first time it happens, you don’t argue with the dog. You put the dog down. You get rid of it. Because you know it’s going to bite again.
If I say we’re watching fireworks, we’re watching the goddamn fireworks. You’re here because I brought you here. You’re the cheerleader. Your job is to look pretty, say “thank you,” and enjoy the show. You don’t get to sit in the Captain’s Chair just because you spread your legs for the price of admission.
I remember this girl. I took her to The Brick House. The owner waves at me, gives me the VIP treatment, free drinks, the works. And she’s standing there, looking around, preening like a peacock, thinking, “Wow, all these guys are checking me out.”
And I’m looking at her, thinking, Bitch, you wouldn’t even BE here if it wasn’t for me. You’re not the VIP. You’re the +1.
It’s disrespectful.
There’s a scene in The Sopranos. Tony takes his daughter’s boyfriend out. The kid excuses himself, goes to the bathroom. Tony asks for the check. The waiter says, “The young man already paid it.”
And later, Tony snaps. “What the fuck are you doing? I take care of the family! I pay!”
Tony was right. It wasn’t about the money. It was about the order. It was about the hierarchy. When you pay, you disrupt the flow. When you don’t pay and you still run your mouth, you disrupt the flow.
The Charles Analysis: Diagnosing the Machine
So, what’s wrong with you? What’s the diagnosis? Is it a pill-popping condition? Is it just being an asshole?
No. You aren’t crazy. You aren’t “bad.”
You are Exhausted.
Here is the deep, ugly truth you don’t want to look at:
You pick the “low-hanging fruit”—the broken women, the lazy friends, the people who need to be saved—because it makes you feel powerful. It makes you the Alpha. It’s safe. It’s like picking oranges off the ground instead of climbing the goddamn avocado tree.
You steer away from your equals—the Lauras, the Kims, the women who pay for their own hotels and buy their own food—because you’re terrified of the partnership. An equal gets a vote. An equal gets to steer. And you have spent so long being the only adult in the room that the idea of sharing the wheel feels like death.
So you pick the projects. You pick the “fixer-uppers.”
And then? You resent them. You despise them for being exactly what you chose them to be: dependent. You keep them around for a “warm belly,” a “little hole to put your fingers in,” but deep down, you hate that they need you, even though you are the one who engineered the need.
You’re running to Vietnam not just to escape them, but to escape the version of yourself that keeps picking them.
You’re cutting the cord. And you’re terrified that you might actually miss the burden.
But you won’t.
Because the energy? That comes from you. You are the generator. And for the first time in your life, you’re about to plug that generator into your own goddamn house instead of lighting up the neighborhood for a bunch of ingrates who are just afraid of the dark.
Fuck ’em. Enjoy the fireworks. Alone.
