Authors: Amy Wolf
DON’T LET ME DIE IN A MOTEL 6®
One Woman’s Struggle
The Great Recession
By Amy Wolf
DON’T LET ME DIE IN A MOTEL 6
One Woman’s Struggle
The Great Recession
Copyright: Amy H. Wolf
Published: 1st December 2012
Amazon Kindle (KDP) Edition
The right of Amy H. Wolf to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Author, classmate, friend
The world is a better place for
having had him in it.
To Cindy, Joe, and Nisi
Who told me to keep writing
Gerus & Matt Hallman
The “A” Team
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a
--Milton, Paradise Lost
I am going to tell you a story.
It's unlike any you've ever heard, since the story is mine
and I am
the only me.
The plot is so heightened it
, but all of it is true:
ain’t no Jane Austen
folks dipping in and out, their speech polished and their manners
It is a story of the Great Recession
, where, boys and
girls of future generations, the
got screwed by The One, lost their jobs, their dignity, their homes, became
and essentially, did nothing.
It is the story of America in the new millennium, as
terrifying as Room 101
We had no Lenin to lead us
because we didn’t
Instead, we “Occupied” cities and
looked like horse’s asses
left a sparking ruin by the Big Swinging Dicks of Wall Street
The good news:
still alive, after trials
that make the Story of Job look like
a day at
to emerge out the other side somewhat sadder, certainly wiser, and a
There is an upside to suffering.
You just have to hope that it doesn’t
years, a rollercoaster
until even the thought of
is forgotten in the screaming descent.
did I mention?
Very Dark Ride.
Like so many of my colleagues at
, I had no idea, sitting in my gray-wal
led cube, that I would soon be A
o History. Sure, the stock price had been falling, but this was endemic as the Home Loan Bubble blew its last toot on its horn, took
off its funny hat, and fell drunkenly to the floor
things, the party was finally over.
When the stock
began to plunge, we received an email from Head Guy #2 telling us to ignore it
this wasn’t an indicator of anything. Of course not! Not for a national bank with
a portfolio of
$300 billion! We knew that everything was great, because that’s what our managers told us. They reassured us that a
–year-old landmark could weather any storm, even the one where rain
poured through the roof, bouncing off our PCs
On that fateful day
I walked several desks back, looking down
the traffic and people. A
round us in downtown Seattle stood
testaments to concrete, steel, and power: skyscrapers which, unlike ours, were not
. They had no homey fireplace in the lobby, lit even in summer
did they have
ank branch, and company store festooned with the corporate logo, blue and yellow and cheerful: “The Friend
f the Family.” All seemed well in
Land; in fact, we even called ourselves
here had been some unpleasantness lately: scared depositors rushing to close their accounts; the FDIC auditing the books. But KKK, our CEO and
eader, had rustled up some serious cash
hold off the pod of
whales who wanted to swallow us whole. We felt that
like Jonah, we were righteous, a homegrown institution which at its height employed 60,000, the bright
across the land.
As usual during the workday, we did nothing. This was the
other Americans would kill for.
We were highly-
paid IT workers
personal business and occasionally updated a spreadsheet
wrote some online
code. I was living
I had many good friends at the bank; they regarded me as a curiosity – an L.A. gal who talked at warp-10 while they were still sipping their lattés. Still, I was well-liked: I served as a sort of court jester, relieving the tedium with
underground newsletters and wisecracks to spare.
My satire of a classic PowerPoint slide: “If Things Don’t Change, They Stay The Same” was still talked about after a decade.
September 25, 2008.
I was busily reading Solzhenitsyn’s
(I was studying for my degree) while my colleague Lisa planned her wedding.
I received an email from my friend Larry in L.A
Office of Thrift Supervision had
he Feds had sold us to JP Morgan Chase