I
It was 2006 and Mark Brown had climbed to the top of his company, Chief Operating Officer. Mark had achieved the American Dream: beautiful wife, two kids, four-car garage, and a vacation home on South Beach all while taking an extra 30 minutes at lunch on Fridays. Mark fought tooth and nail to establish himself in a demanding business world and had balanced his effort at work with his effort at home; he had done what few businessmen like him had done. Mark had shaped a meaningful life that would have a lasting legacy. He was always considered relatively honest—lying by omission is merely a business tactic—but he was always teased and questioned about his extended midday break at the end of the week. Mark maintained his privacy, though, and for good reason. If his wife found out about Martin she would leave him, he knew that. Martin was born at a time in Mark’s life when he couldn’t stop for family, not then, 24 and fresh out of Columbia with an MBA and countless job offers; he couldn’t risk under-achieving at the cost of having a family too young—he had dreams. Mark Brown always sent money to Martin and his mother, he had the financial means for that, but time was precious and Mark could only afford thirty minutes of his busy schedule to talk to Martin by phone on Fridays. Nobody knew until 2006, two years after Martin moved to Toronto. That year Mark’s wife noticed the out of country calls on their cell phone bill; they were made at the same time almost every Friday. Now Mark sends money to Martin and his ex-wife. Now he reminisces the private businessman, admiring a past life.
It was 2006 and Mark Brown had climbed to the top of his company, Chief Operating Officer. Mark had achieved the American Dream: beautiful wife, two kids, four-car garage, and a vacation home on South Beach all while taking an extra 30 minutes at lunch on Fridays. Mark fought tooth and nail to establish himself in a demanding business world and had balanced his effort at work with his effort at home; he had done what few businessmen like him had done. Mark had shaped a meaningful life that would have a lasting legacy. He was always considered relatively honest—lying by omission is merely a business tactic—but he was always teased and questioned about his extended midday break at the end of the week. Mark maintained his privacy, though, and for good reason. If his wife found out about Martin she would leave him, he knew that. Martin was born at a time in Mark’s life when he couldn’t stop for family, not then, 24 and fresh out of Columbia with an MBA and countless job offers; he couldn’t risk under-achieving at the cost of having a family too young—he had dreams. Mark Brown always sent money to Martin and his mother, he had the financial means for that, but time was precious and Mark could only afford thirty minutes of his busy schedule to talk to Martin by phone on Fridays. Nobody knew until 2006, two years after Martin moved to Toronto. That year Mark’s wife noticed the out of country calls on their cell phone bill; they were made at the same time almost every Friday. Now Mark sends money to Martin and his ex-wife. Now he reminisces the private businessman, admiring a past life.
II
It was sophomore year—about 8 weeks into the term—when I had discovered a secret about my roommate. He had always struck me as a pretentious ass who genuinely believed he was better than most people, for a particular reason I was never able to identify. At first I pitied him because he has lost an important family member at a young age, but his faith-rooted self-righteousness and obscure dorm room décor dug under even my thick skin. There was a generous social contract between us, one that outlined my duty not to interrupt as he recited his proud responsibilities and tasks that were, obviously, top priority for someone as dedicated as he. A bond existed between us though and in a way we were like brothers stacked on top of each other in those bunk beds. I always thought there was something peculiar about him in the time we had spent together—could have been his idiotic plaid newsboy cap or aerosol deodorant—something was just different about him. It was a Wednesday and I was running late, I forgot to print a copy of my paper for class and my computer was shut off; my roommate’s was running on the log in screen and I knew his password, messiah. I hit enter and pulled my hands away from the keyboard in aw of the confusing still frame of a movie titled, Redheaded Tranny Deepthroat. I was able to come up with an excuse to turn the paper in late, but never could come up with one to confront my roommate about his taste in cinema.
It was sophomore year—about 8 weeks into the term—when I had discovered a secret about my roommate. He had always struck me as a pretentious ass who genuinely believed he was better than most people, for a particular reason I was never able to identify. At first I pitied him because he has lost an important family member at a young age, but his faith-rooted self-righteousness and obscure dorm room décor dug under even my thick skin. There was a generous social contract between us, one that outlined my duty not to interrupt as he recited his proud responsibilities and tasks that were, obviously, top priority for someone as dedicated as he. A bond existed between us though and in a way we were like brothers stacked on top of each other in those bunk beds. I always thought there was something peculiar about him in the time we had spent together—could have been his idiotic plaid newsboy cap or aerosol deodorant—something was just different about him. It was a Wednesday and I was running late, I forgot to print a copy of my paper for class and my computer was shut off; my roommate’s was running on the log in screen and I knew his password, messiah. I hit enter and pulled my hands away from the keyboard in aw of the confusing still frame of a movie titled, Redheaded Tranny Deepthroat. I was able to come up with an excuse to turn the paper in late, but never could come up with one to confront my roommate about his taste in cinema.
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| Has our obsession with technology compromised our privacy? |
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