He sold his soul for solar and all he got was a stupid t-shirt
A story about solar power, scams, Gen-X energy, and my Mad Max cosplay fantasies
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The young man at our door wants to know if I have a minute for the environment. I have a minute to spare, and that’s not a lot to ask for the environment, so I say yes.
“Great! I’m Mario. I’m a senior at CSUN, and for my internship, I’m doing a five-question survey about the environment.”
That seems like a small number of questions for such a big topic, but I’m here for it. I’m also here for Mario’s “Mr. CSUN” t-shirt, but that’s another story.
“How important is the environment to you, on a scale of one-to-five?”
“Five is most important?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Five!”
“No hesitation. Great. When it comes to renewable energy sources like solar, how important is that to you?”
“Five!”
“Damn. You really care about this stuff. You’re amazing!”
I do care about this “stuff,” but I don’t feel “amazing.” Honestly, I feel like a failure. As a kid in the 1980s, I harangued my parents about eliminating styrofoam and aerosol sprays that were destroying the ozone layer. As a teenager in the 1990s, I volunteered to remove plastic waste from local beaches, protested against Big Oil, and told anyone who would listen that we were killing the planet—and ourselves. Eventually, I turned 18 and took my cause to the ballot box. Sadly, after 25 years of elections, I know this: the environmental candidate is never bold enough, but that doesn’t matter because they usually lose. So yeah, Mario, I don’t feel amazing. I feel hopeless and cynical. But most of all, I feel like my generation blew it, not because we kicked off this environmental catastrophe, but because we’ve known the score our whole lives, and yet our collective pushback amounts to an apathetic fart in a Hurricane force wind.
“You know what,” Mario says, “I’m just going to mark you five all the way down.”
That doesn’t seem legit, but I’m too busy with my old man energy to notice. I tell Mario I’m glad to see “young people” like him taking up this cause in bigger numbers, and that I’m pleased to see that the renewable energy sources that were derided as “pipe dreams” in my youth are now viable. But, I tell Mario, climate change has gotten way worse, and it’s accelerating faster than the political will to do something about it.
“I hear you,” Mario says. “That’s why I’m doing this internship. For the environment. And to be honest with you, it’s so cool to talk to someone who cares. Most of your neighbors don’t really care.”
“No shit.”
I tell Mario about the Aliso Canyon natural gas leak just up the road. He’s never heard of it, which is surprising because Mario was in high school when that particular shit-show hit the fan. It was the worst environmental disaster of its kind in U.S. history, and it inspired some people in our area to become environmentalists. But once engineers capped the leak, most people returned to their regularly scheduled apathy, which elected officials took as their cue to cut the lip-service and return to their regularly scheduled policy of not giving a shit.
“We ran an environmental candidate for city council last year,” I say. “Loraine Lundquist. She’s actually a CSUN professor. I volunteered on her campaign.”
“Really? Never heard of her.”
“She’s one of the most popular professors at CSUN,” I tell Mr. CSUN. “We did a ton of voter registration drives on campus.”
Mr. CSUN shrugs.
“What does she teach?”
“Environmental sustainability.”
Again Mario shrugs.
“She put the environment at the center of her campaign,” I say. “But people didn’t give a shit. I get it. Jobs, traffic, homelessness are top of mind, but if you don’t view those issues through an environmental lens, you’re fucked. Because what’s the point of a good job, or affordable housing, or quality of life stuff if the world is on fire?”
“Wow. You’re just so refreshing.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of Loraine, given your interest in the environment and your internship.”
“Oh, I’m not a science guy.”
“I’m not a science guy either. But me and some of my neighbors had this crazy idea that we should put a scientist on the city council.”
“Who’s that?”
I study Mr. CSUN. Is he dense? Does he have a weird case of amnesia like that guy from that Momento movie? Who does he think I’m talking about?
“Loraine Lundquist,” I say. “The CSUN professor I told you about.”
“Oh yeah…”
“What are you studying, Mario?”
“Marketing.”
Suddenly, the marketing campaign kicks into gear.
“My internship is with a solar panel company,” Mario says. “But unlike other installers, we install solar panels for free. No gimmicks, totally free.”
“How are they free?”
Mario looks up at the blue sky and points to the sun.
“We have all the free power we need.”
“Sure, but the panels cost money. The people who install the panels need to be paid for their labor.”
“We offer zero down financing!”
“If there’s financing, it’s not free.”
“No, it is free because the surplus energy pays for the panels.”
“What if there’s no surplus energy?”
“There’s always surplus energy.”
Mario touts his company’s plan, but I’m growing skeptical, not because I don’t believe in renewable energy sources like solar (I do!), but because I smell a scam.
“Do you want to hear the best part?” Mario asks.
“OK.”
“For every solar panel we install, we put money toward building a desalinization plant in Kenya.”
“But if solar is free, how do you have any money to put toward clean water in Kenya?”
“I’m not a math guy, but trust me, it works.”
I don’t trust Mario. Here’s why.
Mario only asked two of the five questions on his survey before pivoting to a sales pitch.
Mr. CSUN, who claims to be an environmentalist, had never heard of CSUN’s leading environmentalist.
Free anything is a red flag.
Free solar that also raises money (somehow) for clean water in Kenya is a double red flag.
When you question someone’s dubious claims and they say, “trust me,” you absolutely shouldn’t trust them.
“The great thing about my internship,” Mario continues, “is that I don’t have to sell anything. I’m not selling anything.”
But Mario is selling something. He’s selling solar. Actually, he’s selling free solar, which isn’t a thing, and as a bonus, there’s free water too, which also isn’t a thing. Mario, I fear, is selling a lie. And that lie is just as damaging as the climate denier lie because it stands in the way of everything we need to do to save the planet—and ourselves.
“What would really help me with my internship,” Mario says, “is if you would agree to meet with us about solar.”
“Meet with you? I am meeting with you right now.”
“No, I mean meet with the company. I’m just an intern.”
Now, I get it. Environmentalism is Mario’s hook. He’s a walking, talking lead-generation machine. I am a qualified lead (“fives all the way down”). The sales team will definitely want to pitch with me. If I say yes, it won’t be free, and I’m pretty sure that however this scam works, it won’t provide clean drinking water in Kenya either.
“So, what do you say?” Mario asks. “Would you be willing to put solar panels on your home, again for free, and help people get clean drinking water in Africa? It’s a win-win for the environment, and I know how much you care about the environment, Michael.”
I do care. Of course I care. That’s why I’m pissed. This is a fucking scam. I hate scams, especially when they exploit worthy causes.
“It’ll just be a quick fifteen-minute meeting about solar,” Mario says. “And all you have to do to help me out with my internship, and help the environment, is say yes.”
I should tell Mario to fuck off, but like his pitch for free solar and free drinking water, that seems too easy.
“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.
“Sure!”
“I don’t really care about the environment.”
“You don’t?”
“Yeah, I was just pulling your leg. See, I’m actually anti-environment.”
“Anti-environment?”
“I don’t recycle. Recycling is for suckers. I drive around in a gas-guzzler for shits and giggles. Later today, I plan to do some illegal dumping. I don’t need to dump anything, but I just love the feeling I get when I drop non-biodegradable waste into a local landfill. It turns me on.”
“What? Why?”
“Honestly, I’m trying to accelerate the death of this planet.”
“Why? Why would anyone…”
“I have my doubts about humanity. Earth is great, but we suck. So, fuck us.”
“Huh?”
“Of course, I also have a personal motive. The real reason I’m working so hard to destroy the planet is so I can live out my fantasy as a Mad Max cosplayer.”
“A Mad Max cosplayer?”
“Yup, all I need is a pair of leather underwear that doesn’t chafe and a hockey mask that fits over my glasses.”
“But…”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking: can a guy with a dad bod pull off the leather daddy aesthetic? Well, that’s the thing about the apocalypse, it ain’t pretty.”
“But Michael…”
“Don’t call me Michael. Call me Lord Humungus. Or, if you want to use my formal title, I also answer to The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla!”
Mario backs away from our door.
“You’re crazy,” he says.
Maybe I am crazy. But at least I’m not a fucking liar, Mario.
Thanks for reading! If this story brought you joy, please pay it forward by sending the link to a few friends. They’ll thank you for being so cool! 😎
I’ll be back with a new story next Sunday! And for the record, we are investigating solar panels now that project garage door clusterfuck is complete.
Another approach (borrowing from my father-in-law, RIP) is when the guy at the door or on the phone asks if he can talk to you about the environment, or the bestest gutters on the market, or whatever the latest bullshit is, is to say, “certainly but first I want to talk to you about my personal relationship with Jesus …” Sacreligious as heck, but I think Jesus would be happy to see scammers get scammed. Think money-changers in the temple.
Laughed until I couldn't see through my glasses anymore.