Stalled

The four of them were wedged around the sticky table near the window, where a napkin kept fluttering up every time the draught from the broken door swept through. Someone outside had parked a 2006 WRX with a wing so big it could have been classified as renewable infrastructure.

“Did you read that Burn-Murdoch piece?” Adam said, squinting at his pint like it had personally wronged him.

Marcin snorted. “Yeah. Economist trapped inside an economist. Proper ceteris-paribus cultist. World’s collapsing and he’s there going, ‘Why don’t people believe the pie is infinite?’ Mate, the oven’s f***ed, the baker’s quit, and there’s mould on the dough.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. “He’s acting like voters are irrational for noticing the walls closing in. As if the real problem is people seeing limits, not the limits themselves.”

There was a shout from the bar — someone arguing about the Liberal–National leadership mess. “Whole pack of shiny-suited c*nts,” someone barked. “Promise the world, can’t find their arse with both hands.”
The regulars nodded. It was not a controversial statement.

Pete took a sip of his beer, grimaced. “Tastes funny.”

“That’s because it is funny,” Adam said. “They watered it down again. This pub is basically an allegory for the economy.”

Marcin laughed. “Yeah — and Burn-Murdoch would write a column about how the regulars are catastrophising because they ‘perceive scarcity’. Mate, the beer is 3% and costs thirteen bucks. That’s not perception. That’s structural f***ery.”

Anna leaned back, watching the rubbish swirl around outside in the wind. “Look, politics of acknowledgement isn’t complicated. First step is to admit we’re hitting limits. Next step is to stop pretending growth fairies will bail us out. After that… well, maybe we actually start redesigning things.”

“Not gonna happen with this lot,” Adam said, jerking a thumb toward the TV showing a clip of liberal candidates arguing like toddlers denied iPads. “They’re still operating in Infinite Pie Mode.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “But people aren’t. People can smell the edges.”

The napkin fluttered again, lifted by the same wind that always comes just before the lights flicker.

ref: Welcome to the age of zero-sum politics