In Search of Truth

“I don’t know where it is man”, he said as he paced around the kitchen table, randomly lifting things up to look underneath them.

“Did you check the dustbin?”, I asked helpfully.

“No... Yes. It’s not in the dust bin.” he poo-pooed.

“Are you sure..”

“It’s not in the dustbin, okay?” he said getting irritated. A cloud of smoke rose up from the sofa, as a voice on the other side of it said “Yeah man, why would it be in the dust bin?”

“When did you last have it?” I asked, as I followed him into his bedroom, as he still randomly lifted things up and turned them over.

“Today! I noticed it was gone before I came to meet you.” he said as he turned to me with his hands on his hips.

“What did you do today?” I inquired, trying to jog his memory and establish the facts of the case.

“Nothing! I went to my mother, had lunch, came home, met you, came back home. That’s it.” he recounted. With this he turned back towards the living room, re-lifting all the objects along the way.

“Hey, is this it?” I said as I picked up a black leather wallet that was lying on the kitchen table.

“No.” he replied with an of-course-that’s-not-it-you-idiot tone in his voice. “Nah man, that one’s mine.” the cloud of smoke from the sofa chimed in.

“Did you have it at your mother’s?” I asked as I put the wallet back down on the table.

“Yes”.

“And you noticed you lost it when you got back?”

“Yes”.

“You’re going to have to cancel your cards, man” came a call from the guy on the sofa, feet rested on a small coffee table that had an ash-tray still emitting a trail of smoke from a recently extinguished cigarette.

“God damn it”, my friend said as he stopped in his tracks in despair.

“Did you have a shower before you went out?” I asked. If he had a shower he might have changed his clothes and left his wallet in his other pants.

“No.”, hmm, so much for that idea.

“Did you change?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check..”

“Yes, I checked my clothes.” he interrupted.

“Did you have any money in it? Think back, what did you eat for lunch?”

“What?”

“What did you eat?”

“Penne Bolognese. What does it matter?”, he said, his eyes widening.

“I’m just trying to jog your memory. Was it good?”

“My mother cooked it, of course it was good. What the hell does this have to do with my wallet?” he said, raising his voice.

“Hey, here it is! No, wait that’s mine. Sorry man”, the sofa guy said as he picked up his wallet on his way to the fridge.

“And how do you know you had your wallet at your mother’s?” I asked.

“I know”

“Maybe you left it here..”

“No, I had it.”

“How do you know?”

“I gave some money to my mother.”

“Why?”

“That’s none of your business!” he fumed.

“But why? This is crucial information!” I insisted. Now we were finally getting to the bottom of it.

“Yeah, why did you pay your mother, man?” sofa man contributed as he walked back to the sofa. My friend folded his arms and raised one eyebrow, saying nothing.

“You’re not really helping with this investigation..”

“I don’t need a bloody investigation, I need my fucking wallet!” he said angrily.

Well we’re not going to find your wallet if you don’t start cooperating…”

“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up”

Some people are so ungrateful. With this he turned away and started to walk around the kitchen table again to re-re-lift all the bits of paper and cloth and clutter in search of his missing wallet.

“So did you check in the car?” I asked, judging it was now safe again to relaunch the investigation.

“Of course.”

“The ground near the car?”.

“Yes”

“Hey man, is this it?” said the voice on the sofa as he held up my wallet.

“No, man, that’s mine.” I said as I took it and put it into my pocket before it too went missing.  

“Did you call your mother?”, maybe she had it.

“Yes, she looked everywhere, she couldn't find it.”

“Does your mother…” I started

“Yes?” he said and stopped, giving me a stern look.

“Does your mother, um, know.. know how to look?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, does she look well?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, sorry, it’s just that there’s something missing here…” I said exasperated.

“I know there’s something missing. It’s my fucking wallet. Now stop asking stupid questions and keep looking!”.

Hey, I can't find my gate...

Kafé Apologia

“Definitely red. How about you?”.

“I’m for blue..”, she said as her eyes turned towards me.

“Me? Oh, I like brown”.

“Brown!? You can’t like brown! Nobody likes brown!”

“Exactly”. Unloved and uncared for, rejected and disposed of. A colour tolerated only out of necessity. But tell me where are your friends, blue, red and green? Perfectionist abstractions always just out of reach. Ideals the real world cannot live up to. This is the world of dirt, rust and brick, not of pure hues and pure ideas. Those extremes exist in another plane, where we are dead.

With your head turned upwards to admire the azure sky or the crimson sunset, you forget all the real beauty all around you which is altogether much closer. The earth, the tree trunks, the brick and wooden buildings. How can we scorn the warm brown colours that surround and nurture us?

You know the back of your hand well, as the saying goes. But do you really? Have you not seen it’s brown colour? Not brown you say? But black? Or white? Look again, more closely now, for it is a shade of brown, maybe darker, maybe more pink. Together we are brown. What new friendships are possible when we realise that all this time we were all the same colour?

Wave your green flag and scorn the unbeliever, show him which unexamined certainties you cling to. Unfurl your red white and blue banner and show everyone that this side of the imaginary line on the world’s surface belongs to your clan. Put on your red shirt and sing the songs of your masters. Do all this, or embrace the brown. Unostanatious, it stands for nothing. And nothing is something that has to be stood up for. No gods, no nations, no dictators. Just brown people living in a brown world.

Or maybe I just like the colour.

Ok. Fine. You're brown. Can we start the game now?

The Starting Gun Misfires

“Run! Run as fast you can. Get far from here”. Foot follows frantic foot. Every action now has urgent purpose. The trees rush towards and then away, first slowly and then in a quick blur as they pass the eye. The horizon bobs up and down with the rhythm of each stride.

Warm legs stiffen, the mouth opens, taking in greedy gulps of air. The mouth dries, dizziness follows. Each step becomes painful as swift paces degenerate into slow staggering steps. Stop. Hunched over, looking at the ground and gasping for breath.

The breathing slows, the pain in the legs fades. Thoughts collect, the head rises. Eyes dart around. “Out here you are alone”. Away from everyone you know. Here you are free. A new man, escaped from all obligations. A feeling of excitement creeps up from tired sore feet as the eyes scan the unfamiliar surroundings. Lips smile as the sun sets, eyelids close on the first day in the new world.

Tired eyes crack open on the 279th day in the new world. Though this world is hardly new, nor is it empty. A strong vibration moves a smartphone on a desk a small distance. Subsequent vibrations move it further still, edging it closer and closer to the edge. Every day, the spinning globe takes us around in a giant circle, only to leave us back where we started the next morning.

“Now what, genius?”. Should you have run the other way? It’s no use, you are stuck here, with yourself. Your self what you forgot to leave behind, what followed you here. Your habits, your feelings and your tendency to run, they are all in bed with you.

A tingle works its way across the arch, from the ball to the heel. The foot itches, deep inside a shoe, protected by a sock covering. In there, it cannot be scratched. Nor would scratching stop the itching. It wants to be run. Patience. Endure the discomfort. The world isn't ending just yet.

Actually these aren't my running shoes...

The New Frontier

“How’s it going man?” the burly bartender sporting an outrageous 19th century imperial mustache asked. Despite the warm, informal greeting, this man was a stranger, however I appreciated his attempt to make me feel at home. Feeling at home, ha! My head is spinning. If I were a car I’d be overdue for a service considering the miles I've clocked this year. Another assignment, another city, another bar. Every face I encounter stained with impermanence, a deep-rooted sense that these passing gazes will never be seen by my eyes again.

“How did you get down there?” asked a woman sitting on top of a metre-high sandbank on the beach. “What do you mean? How did you get up there?” I retorted. “Huh? I uh, I was born on this side…” she said confused. She could easily hop down on to the wet sand, so I didn't take her question too seriously. I turned away as my feet ploughed the sand and the fine sea mist wet face. It had taken some effort to come here, after a while you get tired of checking out the sights. Sometimes you just want to sit in your hotel room in your underwear and write a blog. It will have been a year soon that I left my home and still I’m no closer to finding a new one. Where is home?

“How can you say, I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved. Just like everybody else does.” The Smiths sang on the radio as I drove back to my hotel in my brand new red rental car. One hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the sun visor, constantly adjusting it to maximise my view of the road while blocking the setting sun from my sight as the trees and the two-story buildings crawled by.

“Use the left two lanes to turn left onto Main Street. Turn left onto Main Street.” my navigator told me in an almost sexy feminine voice. A sense of fleeing comes over me. Why do I feel like I’m always running away? “What is the next move?” I asked myself. Not even a year in and you want to move again. The law of diminishing returns, every new home lasts less than the last one. To what end? Nomad. Wanderer. Where is home? Enough moving, stand and fight. The next move will be homewards. I just need a destination.

I know what you're thinking: small pool. Outrageous.

Long Live the President!

"'There will be no boots on the ground', the president said at a press conference called just before his vacation. This just days after he signed an executive order authorising airstrikes.." the news roundup informed me as it showed the president behind a podium set up in front of his white palace. What power. Ordering military strikes without parliamentary approval in the morning, the first family, the first dog and entourage enjoying a much deserved summer vacation by the afternoon. That got me thinking as I left home for the train station.

Democracy is the best solution out of a list of poor choices. We believe this to be true. However we should keep in mind why democracy is our preferred solution to the problem of deciding who makes the rules. We should also remember what is wrong with the alternatives and why democracy is still problematic and is not out of place in a list alongside military dictatorships, absolute monarchies and a council of religious elders as forms of government.

Democracy has won. Just one hundred years ago, monarchy was the way of things. One by one, the old dynasties fell, or in western Europe, got relegated to symbolic roles in government. Good riddance. Monarchy is a bad idea. It's not so bad if you have a good king. But what if the next in line is a psychopath like Ivan the Terrible? What if, as sometimes happened, the monarch dies to leave a child to take the throne? What if he dies childless? Minorities (rule by a monarch who is a minor) and bad dynastic luck often threw kingdoms into turmoil. It was such an instance that prompted Harold Hadrada and William the Bastard (later the conqueror) to invade England in 1066.

So here comes democracy to save the day. The people will elect a 'king'. They would not chose a madman or a child. They will chose someone who they think can address their problems. After all, he who is best choice for the majority of people would surely do the most good for most people. Why didn't they think of this before?

They did. Democracy is very old. The very word is coined five centuries  before Christ. Indeed, many monarchies started out as being elective, where the nobles of a kingdom would get together and elect one amongst them to be the next king. Only after many generations of the same family winning the election, would traditions of inherited monarchy emerge and elections forgotten.

The possibility of getting stuck with the wrong man for the job is bad enough, but the problems of monarchy do not stop there. There is an inherent unfairness of having one superior to all others, whose word is law, whose person has a special grammatical case and who gets to have all the swans. Monarchy adapted and improved as the public demanded more protection from the moodswings of their king. Ramses was god and Pharaoh one could scarcely stand in his presence, the English king Charles II had to ask permission from parliament to to make important decisions. The trend continued until the hands of kings were securely bound by law, by a constitution.

Democracy is three wolves and a sheep deciding what to eat for dinner. Does it really make that much difference to elect a tyrant instead of have him inherit the throne? Changing the tyrant every four years or so, having a council of tyrants, the problem remains. The problem is tyranny, the only solution is freedom. Democracy does not solve this problem, only a strong constitution can save us from the excesses of power.

I am not advocating a return to constitutional monarchies. Electing our representative leaders is a pretty fair way to select those in charge. What I am trying to point out is that democracy is not a substitute for freedom. I would rather live under a constitutional monarchy than an unbridled democracy that can vote me into serfdom.

This photo is relevant to the above article, I promise.

Safe and Unsound

“And I’ll have the IPA” I told our waiter as we basked lazily in the sun like lizards sprawled out on a hot rock. “Very good sir, and to eat?” the waiter asked as he distractedly tapped on his tablet computer. “Oh, nothing. Just the drinks will be fine”, I said, handing him my menu. His expression changed suddenly “Uh, no I’m afraid that’s not allowed.”, he said. “It is illegal to consume alcohol outside unless accompanied by a meal”. “What? Seriously? That’s stupid.” I protested in disbelief. After several minutes of trying to get him to budge I ordered a plate of chips, livid that such an intrusive law should exist and that people were foolish enough to enforce it.

“Hey!” the cyclist at the traffic lights said “Where’s your helmet? You have to, like, protect your brain. Safety first!”. I would have told him to mind his own, but the lights had changed and the twenty-something-year-old man sped off on his expensive-looking, ultra-light racing bike, head crouched down, his arse perched high up on the bicycle seat at the level of his shoulders to give him maximal aerodynamic efficiency. “It would take more than a helmet to save you if you crash at that speed on that flimsy thing, son” I said out loud to the vacant space around me.

“This is wonderful” I said to my companion, interrupting the tranquil sounds of the waves around our feet and the occasional splash of our paddles hitting the gently moving water. The green river banks around me and the hot sun on my head told me that this was the height of summer. Hard to imagine the water below the gently rocking board I was standing on was so recently a hard block of ice, several centimeters thick. A drop of sweat gained critical mass, and quickly slid down my brow. It was hot, particularly under the thick, insulating material of the bright yellow lifejacket I was forced to wear.

It is maybe natural to think that health and safety are ultimate goods and that measures that improve them are incontrovertible, but at what cost do these measures come? More signs, more fences, more rules. Less freedom. Nobody but myself is responsible for my own health and safety. I expect to be protected from others, but let me get myself into as much trouble as I feel I can handle. It is wrong to delegate this important responsibility to others, besides, they can never do as good a job for others as one can do for oneself.

Build a wall around every river, round every sharp edge, remind us clearly that danger is everywhere. A man warned is half armed, let nothing that is not food be left unlabelled “DO NOT EAT”. What’s that man running for? He might trip! See the stupid smile on his face? There! He jumped! Stop him before he does it again!

Why do people hate fun?

The Shareconomy Strikes Back

“Taxi?” the cabbie asked hopefully outside the train station. “No thanks man, I've got a lift” I said as I motioned to a grinning stranger in a red car that just flashed his lights at me. The cabbie muttered something underneath his breath as I walked over to greet my driver.

“Oh you should try the big Irish pub in the town center. They’ll be showing the game for sure. That’s where we’re going to be tonight at any rate. Who are you rooting for anyway?” My hostess said cheerfully. “Oh that’s great. We’ll certainly drop by for a beer during the game. Thanks again for letting us stay with you!” I said.

The free market had struck a blow. A better service at a fraction of the cost. Tailor-made for me, technology had just upgraded the weekend getaway. My benefit, my hosts’ and my drivers’ benefit is clear. They can make some extra cash and I get a better and cheaper service. Who is the loser in this new arrangement? The professional taxi? The hotelier?

Just like the makers of whips and buggies, this human capital must get re-allocated to reflect the change in technology and in our preferences. It would be so wrong to artificially  prevent this, to force us back into our horse-drawn carriages so that nobody has to lose their job. Losing one’s job can be a personal tragedy, but someone getting a job can be a personal success story. Everybody benefits when misallocated capital finds it’s proper place. Cheer at the news that the candle-maker has gone out of business.

There is another loser. One who deserves no sympathy and whose wasteful and harmful efforts need no reallocation. The regulator. The mass rejection of their uncompetitive constrained offerings is a slap in the face and proof that their meddling is not welcome. Why do we need to expensive licensing procedures anyway?

Let’s not claim victory just yet. The regulators are slow to react, but they will fight back. They are praying for some serial killer to misuse the sharing economy so they can shout out “Do you see? You need us to regulate everything for your safety! We need tighter rules, more control!”. More power. I hope that this time the consumer will fight back and maybe freedom will return to yet more segments of the economy and regulators end up where they belong: on display at the museum of bad ideas.

I saw a really weird bike, it had four wheels and two seats.
I don't understand how anyone could get around in that ugly thing.

A Holiday Home

“We've only got one left” came the needlessly concerned warning. “Well then, give it to me” I said with a smile. The barman handed the drink to me with a friendly laugh. I sat down at a table and looked over the sea.

The deep blue water mirrored the azure sky only to turn turquoise as the sea’s bedrock gave way to the sandy shore. A 17th century fort watched me sternly from the other side of the bay.

All of this seemed so mundane, so helplessly quaint and inadequate when I was little. Perhaps everyone should move away from home, live as far away as possible for as long as they could stand, just to be able to fall in love with where they came from.

“Welcome home” the wind around my ankles seemed to say. The northern breeze sent a chill up my spine, I had underdressed, having been over-enthusiastic about the warm sunny weather - it is still early May after all. The beaches all yet empty.

“But it’s not so cold. Not nearly cold enough”, I said to my drink. Another gust of wind confirmed; it was very pleasant outside. Then why the chill? Was it what the wind had said? Those words, like those from a former lover. Cold and hopeful, pleading not welcoming. Stating a desire, not a fact.

No, I was not home. I was on holiday where I used to call home. To make here home again would be to start over in a foreign land. I am a foreigner now. Not here, but everywhere.

Maybe this is why I keep complaining about the weather

Avalon

“Taxi! Taxiiiiii!”, I shouted with one hand in the air, the other clutching my suitcase. The tall buildings and the swarm of people crawling the streets like ants surrounded me here in my latest work trip. Two taxis already left without me after I had stopped them, apparently I was not heading for an area where they can easily pick up their next fare. “Yes, where to?” the latest cabby said as he leaned out his window and pulled up next to me. “Thank you” I told him as I got into the taxi without telling him where I was heading, once the door was closed he grumbled as we got on our way.

“Water. Water everywhere, and yet, not a drop to drink.”. I thought to myself as I put a glass of cold beer to my lips and looked over the sprawling skyline, dwarfed only by the stars above it. I've heard it said, that when you go to an island you should not expect to find anything that you do not bring with you. Yet, what was I looking for anyway? Being more than busy enough with work, I would not have much time or energy to see the sights, let alone find some Holy Grail.

“Take a look at that view!” I said as I looked over the sea. The magnificent thirty, fifty, hundred story towers built by enterprising people. All those people, they came from everywhere to all the way over here. They came here empty-handed, they came in search of something. What did they expect to find? Was it freedom from bondage, from want, from tyranny? To be allowed to worship whom they choose, to pursue a happiness of their own definition? Relief from taxation, escape from an old, crumbling world where opportunity was stifled by regulation?

What fools. Didn't they know that no man is an island? We must all be beholden unto our brothers. You have to serve somebody, we are all our brothers’ keepers. They cannot find anything here, having brought nothing. And yet, their defiant towers stand tall and proud. “No”, these ghosts say. We are not our brothers’ jailers. We make associations of our own volition, we will not be bound. Look there, in the sea. There is our man-island, standing alone, arm raised defiantly. We came here with hope and we found our freedom.

Excuse me miss, you need a permit to have an open flame in this area...

Beware the Ides

“It doesn’t really look much like a horse”, I patiently explained, “you use it to dry your clothes on” I said as I made my best impression of someone hanging up laundry. “You mean like dis wan?” the dollar store shelver said in a lazy voice, pointing in the general direction of an ironing board. “No, no, a clothes horse, you know.. um, a drying rack?” I said as my attempt at charades was getting more elaborate. “No... no... no ‘orse here.. I donno” he said shaking his head slowly with a puzzled look on his face. “Look, like this, let me show you..” I said as I whipped out my phone and searched the internet for pictures. “Ah, tendedero! Yes! Yes!” he said excitedly on seeing the picture, “We no have, sorry”. I would never have guessed that laundy would be such an issue in this country.

“When is it going to be Spring?” I demanded, “This is the longest winter of my life, it’s March and it is still well below freezing” I explained as a cold gust of wind blew snow down from a nearby rooftop. Showing no reaction to my question, the squirrel twitched his tail a couple of times, then without warning jumped to it’s feet and scurried away across my fence. What a jerk. I suppose the winter has been pretty harsh for the little guy too, and he has to stay outside all the time. But still, there’s no need to be rude.

Riding home from work, a stiff twilight breeze drowns out the music playing in my ears. A cold tear works it’s way down my face only to give up halfway down my cheek and get blown dry by the icy wind. The wind changes direction as an animal darts across my path, I brake hard with surprise. “Huh? A rabbit? That’s new… could it be a sign of Spring?”. The omen encouraged me to quicken my pace, forcing a smile I cycled into the dusk.

“This is more than a bit messy”, I told my colleague who had just dropped a large blob of sauce from his lunch onto his lap. “Oh no!” he said with a full mouth as he wiped the stain into a large patch with a tissue paper. The incident failed to dent the mood, it was ten degrees, the sun was out and for the first time since I got here we were eating lunch outside. Maybe the rabbit was right.

“Urnh! Urrrrnhhhh!” I grunted as I pulled at my frozen bicycle lock. “Urnaaaaa!” I exclaimed as I stumbled several paces backwards in the fresh, inch-deep snow with half my liberated U-lock in hand. “Never trust a rabbit” I thought sleepily to myself as I carefully rode over snow that concealed a layer of slippery ice that had fallen as rain just before the temperature dropped again. A squirrel clinging upside-down to a tree trunk gave me a knowing look as I wended my way to work in the silence of falling snow. “Rabbits don’t know jack.”, the squirrel said, “In March, winter battles spring. I can tell you how it ends, spring always wins. What I cannot tell you is when the final battle will be.”


.

Et tu, lepus?

Fix-a-drink

“Please help, I've got a situation on my hands”, a well-dressed man told me calmly as he walked up to me at the train station. “I've got fifteen people in my minibus I’m meant to be taking to a conference. I’m their driver. Unfortunately I got a flat, and I need a can of Fix-A-Flat to repair it. Thing is, I've gone and lost my wallet. Is there some way I can borrow some money?” he explained.

“Fixawat?” I said confused. “Fix-a-flat” he said again, “It’s a can you use to fix up a bust tire. I've got these people waiting on me can you please help?”. “How much does this can of fixie-thingie cost?” I asked with genuine concern as I looked at the time on my phone to make sure I was still in time to catch my train. “They have it a hardware store round the corner for $18.50. I’ll pay you the money back, I am not a bum” he pleaded as a light went on in my head. Something about the last sentence, his story and his tie. Yes, this guy was not a bum. He was a scammer.

“Sure!”, I said, checking my phone for the time once again, “I’ll do better than that. Luckily I’m very early for my train, I’ll walk to the hardware store with you and help you get on your way. Where did you say the store was?”. “No no no no no. I couldn't possibly ask you to do that, the store is quite far.. and you've got luggage, I wouldn't want you to miss your train!” he said nervously. “Oh that’s fine!” I said with a smile, “I've got heaps of time! Also, I’m very handy with this sort of thing, I’ll have you on your way in no time! Let’s go” I beamed as I motioned away from the station. “Oh no, you’re far too kind. I've taken up too much of your time already. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine” he said in a low voice as he started walking away. “But your passengers! We can’t leave them stranded! Hey! Where are you going??” I shouted at him as he quickened his pace and left the scene. Maybe I came on too strongly.

“Thank you and I hope you enjoy your stay” the concierge said as she handed me my keycard. Kicking my shoes off and throwing my suitcase on one of the beds I decided to turn on the TV, it had been a very long time since I’d watched. “...and we can expect to have severe snowfall all over the area by Wednesday, falling mostly on Tuesday night...” the weatherman on the local news network said as he massaged the map behind him with both arms waving to the right in a sweeping dance-like motion. Outside it was snowing hard, I was in for a tough week, being away on business in a small city can be boring at the best of times.

“What would you like?” the barman at the empty hotel bar asked. “More money and a bigger house” I said with a smile. “No” the barman said patiently, “I meant, what do you want?”. Well, I knew what he meant, but just to be funny I said “To meet a beautiful woman, fall in love and have a baby with her”. “What’s it to be?” the barman said, less patiently. “A boy or a girl, I don’t care” I couldn't resist replying. “What would you like to drink sir?” he said at last, putting an end to my little joke. “Oh, let’s see.. what have you got?” I asked looking over the unfamiliar names on the beer taps. To which came the reply, “Nothing, I’m perfectly fine”. Touche barman, we'll call it a draw.

Yesterday I had to change a lightbulb, then I crossed the road and
walked into a bar. It was then that I realised that my life was one big joke.

The Minimum Job

“Unexpected item in bagging area” the do-it-yourself checkout machine scolded. A light and a loud beep went off as I proceeded with the on-screen instructions. I wasn't trying to steal anything, the machine was just behaving uncooperatively. The complete lack of any reaction from any of the store staff or other customers told me that this was the norm. Machines like this are the consequence of bad economic policy, let me explain.

Witnessing the poverty and hardship that some individuals suffer just to make ends meet is hard to bear. Our hearts go out to our brothers, but not so often our wallets. This is what makes some people cry out, “Raise the minimum wage!”. Sensing opportunity like a shark smells blood in the water, politicians are quick to take on the task. But when populism trumps reason, it is these very same, vulnerable people who suffer most.

It seems like a great idea at first. Raise the minimum wage, and all the poorest people get a pay rise overnight. The greedy corporations take a hit to their profit margins and the world becomes a better place. Alas, if only it were so simple. Such reasoning discounts the reality of why anyone has a job at all. Wages are a price, someone’s wage is worked out in the marketplace of supply and demand according to the productivity of the person.

By setting a minimum wage, the government is effectively mandating a minimum level of productivity. It is saying that if you you can’t do something that it is worth someone paying you $10 and hour for, you must not do anything at all. After all, the only reason anybody ever gives anyone a job, is because they want to make money. If the employee costs more than he or she is worth, the employer is going to do something.

One thing the employer will do, is pass the costs on to the consumers. Some corporations might be making a lot of money, but margins are always razor thin. There is no way companies can absorb the costs of a mandated wage hike. The resulting price increases leave less money in the hands of consumers. Once again it is the poor who are worst off.

It gets worse. By effectively removing the first rungs on the career ladder, these unfortunate individuals end up never being given the opportunity to learn on the job. Even some high school dropout getting paid next to nothing for filling up your car with petrol and wiping your windscreen is learning a lot of valuable skills. That person is learning to get up early and show up on time. Also, by hanging around the petrol station, he or she might learn enough to become a mechanic. It certainly does them no good to force them to stay home, what would that do to their self-esteem?

Employers will also try and find more ways to reduce the number of people they have to hire. Expensive machines, like the one I was using, become a more attractive investment. Even though the customers might not like it as much, they are preferable to higher prices. Fewer waiters, fewer barstaff means slower service, but as we vote with our wallets and reward the establishments that can give us the best value, employers quickly find they have no choice and make do with less staff. Countless petrol station attendants, bell boys, ushers, fast-food workers and, as the machine in front of me testifies, cashiers, have lost their jobs to the minimum wage law.

Where such jobs that do not meet the imposed minimum level of productivity still exist is in the black economy. Forced underground as they are now illegal. Just like any other measure of price-fixing, the minimum wage leads to shortages and black markets.

“But that’s not fair” you might well argue, how is somebody supposed to raise a family on less than $10 and hour? How can they afford to pay the rent? That’s no way to live in dignity. Such hardships are real, but the reality is that forcing fewer people to have a few dollars an hour more will not change such hardships, it will only make them worse. Also, why should we assume that every job is for the primary wage earner? What about young unskilled people still living at home, making some extra money for themselves and their family. Should they be expected to raise a family? Is everyone who works expected to afford his or her rent?

Pointing back to a time of greater hardship, the minimum wage apologists bring up anecdotes of coal miners, dock workers and sweatshops. Such exploitation, though real, was preferable to those workers than the alternatives, which often was a life of agricultural subsistence. Increasing productivity and capital investments lifted the masses out of poverty, wage rates were steadily increasing and sweatshops disappearing long before the minimum wage was introduced [1]. Then what good has this measure accomplished? Politicians can take credit for making exploitation illegal, it sure sounds great, but they are just jumping in front of the parade of economic progress and as a result, they are getting in the way.

Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, there is the freedom aspect. Why should not a man be free to chose for himself if a job is worth his while? Who am I, or anyone for that matter, to get between two people who freely chose to exchange money for labour? Be weary of well intentioned crusaders, populist politicians and unexpected items in bagging areas.

It's the least you could do

[1] - http://www.measuringworth.com/uswage/