The Jerry Putter Files #001: Fear and Loathing at the Latchkey Convention

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Filed by Jerry Putter. Location uncertain. Curtains closed.

The news reached me at 14:07, just as the carpet began making some persuasive arguments.

A member of Gen Z had declared Gen X “the worst generation.”

I checked the locks.

“Jesus Christ,” I told the dog. “They’ve disturbed the people who remember telephone numbers.”

The dog left. Sensible animal. She wanted no part of whatever was coming through the treeline.

My assignment had been straightforward: investigate a minor generational dispute. Observe the natives. File six hundred words. Submit expenses without mentioning the ornamental lizard.

Now a millennial was on my screen trying to explain why insulting the latchkey generation might require emergency accommodation.

She understood the situation. You could see it in her eyes. She had borrowed a Gen Xer’s favourite CD once and returned it without the case.

There are things a person carries.

I attempted to establish contact with a local Gen Xer. Dani. Blonde. Tattooed. Buttering toast with the composure of someone who had already survived several economic crises and a dial-up connection.

“What’s your response to being called the worst generation?”

“Whatever.”

She went back to buttering toast.

I wrote ESCALATION POSSIBLE in my notebook and moved away from the kitchen knives.

These people had been left alone in houses at eight years old with a key, half a loaf and a telephone attached to the wall. Their emergency contact was a neighbour who smoked indoors and believed most injuries could be treated by walking them off.

Nobody tracked their location. Their parents occasionally checked whether the bicycle was outside.

They returned at dusk carrying information adults had never requested.

And now some poor bastard with a ring light had decided to assess their emotional development.

By three o’clock, I had assembled a diplomatic offering: a cassette, a bottle of red and a packet of crisps large enough to suggest remorse.

The cassette was blank.

A terrible oversight. Potentially fatal to the negotiations.

“Can’t you just send them a playlist?” someone asked.

I stared at him until he understood that he would be travelling separately.

To be clear, I like Gen Z. They ask why the job pays fuck-all. They discuss mental health. They recognise a corporate family as a hostage situation with cake.

Useful instincts.

But they have mistaken Gen X’s absence from the argument for an inability to participate.

Gen X is elsewhere. Looking for the good screwdriver. Dealing with an ageing parent. Trying to remember why they entered this room.

They don’t have time to hate every generation individually.

At 16:40, my contact finally sent a response.

Three words.

Who is this?

I had interviewed her in person.

There was something magnificent about it. The refusal to engage. The efficient disposal of an entire cultural controversy while presumably standing in the supermarket comparing wine prices.

I abandoned the mission.

Outside, a bicycle lay on its side beneath a streetlight. Somewhere, a garage radio was playing a song without asking anyone to subscribe.

I walked faster.

Jerry’s finding: Gen Z is entitled to its opinion. I would recommend expressing it from a different postcode.

Expense claim pending. Apparently “precautionary wine” requires a receipt.