Years ago, I worked with a guy named Ken. Ken was world-weary and cynical. We hit it off.

We’d both landed at a company with a dubious past during a transitional time in our lives. I was in a cycle of dead-end jobs. Ken had his own issues he was trying to create distance from.

For whatever reason, he saw things about me that I hadn’t yet realized—namely that I had more talent than I gave myself credit for. He was always telling me not to sell myself short. Back in 1996, no one else was offering anything positive in terms of building me up. Coming from him—someone who had no truck with fools—this meant a great deal to me.

He and his live-in girlfriend didn’t have children. They took a real shine to Mark. I’ve learned to read how people relate to young children (and animals) as a sign of their intrinsic worth. Ken had two mastiffs that he loved like children.

Ken had some legal issues and eventually, he disappeared. He called me late one night a year after I’d lost touch with him. He was living in Oregon at the time, working at Home Depot. We talked for about 35-40 minutes. It was the last time I heard from him.

I often wonder what became of him. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. In a world of digital bread crumbs, he made sure not to leave any. He also burned his personal bridges. A man who basically became invisible.

Ken had a favorite saying about people: he’d look at me, frustrated with the managers at the piddling water treatment firm we were both doing sales with and say, “Baumer, the masses are asses.”

The past few months, I’ve heard him in my head saying, “Baumer, the masses are asses.” I can’t disagree with him.