I Accidentally Broke America

I'm sorry, America. I owe you an apology.

30 SEP 2024

Paco noticed that my keyboard had stopped clicking. Not just for a moment — but with the finality of a man who had run out of things to say that mattered.

From the hallway, the click, click, click of his toenails on the hardwood floor grew louder as he approached. He stopped in the doorway and stared at me with that “it’s time to go” look that he had given me hundreds of times before.

But this time was different, and he knew it.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled the chemical signals coming from my body. Dogs can sense when you’re afraid. They can sense when you’re petrified about what comes next. They can sense when you have no idea what the coming months will bring. And that’s what Paco sensed.

He had seen me loading the truck for several hours the day before, so he knew we were going on a trip. Beyond that, he seemed to realize the existential stakes of our impending journey.

I had no job. There were no design proposals to review, outlining the next big AI software product my company might launch. No lucrative software license agreements to approve, each worth millions to a billion-dollar enterprise. No emergency strategy meetings to attend, scrambling to placate an important but angry customer. After nearly thirty years in Silicon Valley, working on a constant stream of projects that promised abundance and utopia for humanity, I suddenly had nothing of importance left to do.

I stared at the screen.

Paco walked closer and jumped up onto the bench seat where I was sitting. He gently put his paw on my shoulder, like he does when “the stare” doesn’t get me up and moving.

“I know you’re right, buddy,” I said, looking at his hopeful brown eyes. He lifted his head up as I scratched under his ears, scooted closer, and pressed his back against my torso. I kissed the top of his head. He looked away. Paco doesn’t like public displays of affection. Neither do I, to be honest, but it felt right at that moment in time. It felt necessary.

There are times when a trip is neither for work nor pleasure. It’s your last chance to see if you’re still capable of finding meaning in life. It’s your last chance to be a role model for your daughter, for your wife, and for future generations. It’s your last chance to see if you can find a connection with the country you were born in — that you grew up in. And that’s what this trip was for me. It was my final exam.

I stared at the loaded truck in the driveway, knowing this wasn't just another trip — it was a last ditch attempt to prove I could still matter.

It’s time to go.

I closed my laptop, slipped it into my backpack, and walked out the door — with Paco at my side.

I write this report not to inform or instruct, but simply as a confession of my sins and a description of my quest for redemption. And I feel better now, having put down these words to describe my journey.

I say this, aware that those who traveled another road, or took another way, will hold their own truths about what it means to be an American.