The End for Now

        I feel kind of bad writing this. I'm trying to be as honest as I can, but still in my mind the possibility of Stuart reading it seems like the start of a painful conversation. Someone once said to me, “no one wants to be told who they really are.”, and okay I don't want to sit here and pretend I'm in possession of some mystical insight that can cut through people's perceptions of themselves down to that bare, painful truth. I'm just some fucking guy who worked at a place.
        But I do have pity for Stuart though, and at minimum, I think he has more pride than to be okay with that, I'm sure he doesn't want my worthless pity.
        On my last day – the day before I flew out to Europe, which I stupidly agreed to work a week beforehand knowing I'd need the money – I called Stu to confirm that he'd be coming in early so I could go home and pack my life up. He gave me the usual, “a couple hours”, which I knowingly doubled and added to the current time - “I probably won't be in by then I've gotta head off,” I started, about to launch into my, “thanks for everything...” speech.
        He held me up though, and surprised me saying he'd try to get in earlier because he wanted to talk to me: “...some people have told me you think I've been picking on you.”
        “What? Nah man, not at all, we're cool. Absolutely, we're fine man, you've been great.” If anything, I'd been picking on him. I called him silly names like Stooman, and The Big Chief whenever he came in, and making fun of his lateness and drinking at every opportunity. For the most part though, we got on fine.
        “...well I still wanted to talk to you. I just figured... I'm 43... you're 26...” where's he going with this? “...I thought we should sit down and chat because I can probably give you some good advice. On life and everything.”

        I do often wonder if there was anything more I could have done. Harry once messaged me at night presumably after an evening working with Stu and a few wines after work, with the simple message:
        “I think Stu is going to kill himself.”
        Now I don't think Stu is going to kill himself, but I can totally see why Harry would think that, and I'd be lying if I said I've not considered the possibility. What would I do if that happened? How would it make me feel? Other than the obvious sadness, would I be left thinking maybe I could have done something?
        George had stepped in out of nowhere to try and lend a hand in rebuilding this man's business, and Andrew was doing the same by bringing his experience to a place that by no means deserved it. I was doing Stu no favours by working at Backstreet, I was just doing a job for money. And I'm not his mate, although we were friendly, but there's a human instinct to help someone when you see them struggling, failing. Some people have to be allowed to fail though, right? You can't play Guardian Angel to every injured foal you come across in the forest, spending all your own precious energy – you'll get eaten as well. Is that right? Or is that a neo-liberal cop-out? I honestly can't decide whether being a part of a society means taking some sort of responsibility for this person, or if you're allowed – and even encouraged as a necessarily selfish actor – to take what's there to take and washing your hands of it.

        And of course I'm being dramatic, I know it's not my responsibility, what am I gonna do, work for free? Fuck no.
        The story is ongoing. Rhys got back from his trip in Asia a few days before I left and we passed the baton, shared some good belly-laughs at Stu's expense, and then I was out. Apparently the place is on the market and potential buyers are coming through every day looking at it. I can't imagine the new levels of stress that's bringing to Stuart's frazzled heart. Actually I can, and am right now. Still laughing.
        If I hear anything I'll let you know, but for now I think we're done here. The most likely outcome right now is that Stu manages to sell Backstreet for many times less than what he paid for it, keeps his house and family, doesn't have to declare bankruptcy, and manages to edge his way back into the mortgage brokering profession for long enough to ensure his retirement in 20 years or so. In an ideal world he is also, by whim of biology, allowed to keep his ponytail. His Dad would clear his debt, and after a period of tumultuous upheaval, his kids grow up and stop hating him. I'm rooting for you Stuart.
        On the day that Rhys came back, my second last day, and the last we'd be working together, I poured us a shot each of the Woodfords Reserve 17 Year Old Rye Whiskey and we drank together at midday, “To Backstreet.”