Olivia Curtis
When I walked out of the law firm that day, box of pens and desk clutter in hand, I didn't bother to say goodbye. Twelve years of taking minutes at meetings where my name barely registered, answering phones for men who forgot I had a degree, watching them pat each other on the back for six-figure wins while I budgeted my grocery list—it was enough.
I retrained as a real estate agent. That was four years ago. I’m thirty-nine now, and I sell apocalypse real estate. I’m from Queenstown, New Zealand, a town that’s beautiful enough to feel surreal but remote enough to fit the bill for my clients. It’s as bizarre as it sounds: sprawling tracts of land in New Zealand’s backcountry or coastal cliffs with vaguely "fortified" homes. Luxury bunkers disguised as lodges. For the right price, some even come with solar grids, underground water tanks, or air filters straight out of a sci-fi film. The clients? Tech billionaires, hedge fund managers, "visionaries." People who don’t believe in collapse but still buy insurance against it.
New Zealand, to them, is a lifeboat. Isolated, green, sparsely populated—a fortress by virtue of geography. If the planet cooks, if the markets implode, if cities become warzones, they imagine New Zealand will hum along quietly, like an old generator forgotten in the shed. I don’t tell them that our food systems aren’t indestructible or that the power grid isn’t some bulletproof marvel. My job isn’t to disillusion them; it’s to sign contracts.
And it pays. I made more in one commission last year than I did in five years as a secretary. That’s the part I wrestle with. These men hoarding lifeboats while fueling the very crises they want to escape—and me, cashing in on their fear. Two more years. Then I’ll buy a little house, something quiet and self-sufficient, with good soil and room to grow beans. I’ll plant native trees and keep my head down.
Maybe that’s hypocritical. I’m not sure anymore. But I’ve stopped believing I can fix the world, and I’m not rich enough to escape it. All I can do is carve out a corner that still makes sense when the lights go out.