Useful on Purpose

The garage door was half up, like a lazy eyelid.

Arthur liked it that way. Let the cold air in, let the world remember he was still here, and let the neighbors see—if they happened to glance over—that something was always getting fixed.

The garage smelled the way a good garage should: a little oil, a little rubber, and a little history. Tools hung on pegboard with the quiet confidence of things that knew their purpose. A space heater clicked now and then, fighting a losing battle with January.

On the stand in the middle of it all was a kid’s bike.

Not a fancy one. Just a neighborhood bike—blue frame, scuffed pedals, bell that sounded like a cough. The front wheel was off, and the brakes had been complaining for weeks in the form of a squeal loud enough to summon dogs from three blocks away.

Arthur had the wheel between his knees, fingers working the spokes in small, careful turns. He didn’t rush. Rushing stripped bolts and made extra work.

He was just about to set the wheel back on when he heard sneakers on concrete.

“Mr. Arthur?”

Arthur looked up. There was Miles—neighbor kid, twelve going on thirty, hood up, cheeks pink from the cold.

Arthur wiped his hands on a rag. “Come on in. It’s warmer by the bench.”

Miles stepped into the garage like he was entering a museum, eyes traveling across the walls, the shelves, the pegboard of tools.

“I brought you the… um,” Miles held up a small plastic bag. “The little part you said. The… thingy.”

Arthur took it. “Brake pads. Good. That’s the name of the thingy.”

Miles grinned, relieved. Then his eyes went to the bike. “My mom said you used to fix… like… big stuff.”

Arthur chuckled. “I used to fix machines. Real machines. Loud machines. Machines that could hurt you if you got arrogant.”

Miles’s eyes widened. “So what do you do now?”

Arthur set the brake pads on the bench and leaned back against the worktable.

“I do this,” he said, as if it were the simplest answer in the world.

Miles blinked. “Yeah, but like… are you… retired?”

Arthur smiled. There it was. The word that sounded like a door closing.

“Yep.”

Miles hesitated, searching for the polite way to say what he meant. “Is that… like… when you’re too old to work?”

Arthur laughed—not loud, not offended. Just a small, surprised laugh.

“That’s one definition,” he said.

Miles looked down at the bike. “My dad says he can’t wait to retire. He says then he’ll finally do what he wants.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “That’s the part people don’t talk about. They think retirement means you stop. Stop working. Stop being responsible. Stop being needed.”

Miles frowned. “Isn’t that… good?”

Arthur held up a finger. “Rest is good. Nobody should grind themselves down to dust. But being needed… that’s not a curse. That’s a kind of food.”

Miles made a face. “That’s weird.”

Arthur smiled. “Most true things are.”

The quiet in the garage settled around them.

Finally Miles asked, “Do you miss being… important?”

There it was. Not “Do you miss your job?” But the thing underneath all of it.

Arthur didn’t answer right away.

Because the honest answer was: yes. Sometimes.

But he also knew something now that he didn’t know then. He knew that “important” was a trap word. It made you chase the loudest version of meaning.

Arthur looked at Miles.

“I used to have a big job,” he said. “It was great. And now I’m not on anyone’s payroll. But I’m not done.”

Miles’s eyes narrowed. “So what are you then?”

Arthur felt the answer come out before he could polish it.

“Mostly,” he said, “I try to be useful on purpose.”

Miles blinked, like the words had never been put together that way before.

“Useful,” Miles repeated.

Arthur nodded. “That’s the secret people forget. Staying useful matters. Not because the world needs you to be busy—because you do.”

Miles looked at the tools, the bike, Arthur’s hands. Old hands, yes. But steady hands.

“So you just… fix bikes?”

Arthur grinned. “Not just bikes. Sometimes it’s a chair. Sometimes it’s a neighbor’s leaky faucet. Sometimes it’s helping Mrs. Patel carry her groceries when the ice is trying to kill us all.”

Miles smiled at that.

Arthur held up one finger. “One useful thing a day. For somebody else.”

Miles stared at him. “Every day?”

Arthur shrugged. “Most days. I’m human.”

Miles was quiet. Then he said, “My teacher says AI is going to do everything soon.”

Arthur watched his face. That sentence had weight. It had fear hiding under it.

He picked up his phone from the bench. “I use AI.”

Miles’s eyes widened. “You do?”

Arthur nodded. “Yep. For this.” He held up the phone. “It’s a sidekick.”

Miles laughed. “A robot sidekick?”

“Pretty much. But listen—this is important.”

He spoke quietly into it. “Give me three ways to explain brake pads to a twelve-year-old without making him feel dumb.”

The phone thought for a second. Then words appeared.

Arthur read them, then looked up with a grin. “Option one: Brake pads are like the bottoms of your shoes. They’re what touches the ground and slows you down, and they wear out.”

Miles smiled. “That’s actually good.”

Arthur set the phone down. “So you don’t use it to… do the work?” Miles asked.

Arthur shook his head. “Nope. I use it to help me help better. AI can give you information. It can give you ideas. It can even give you words. But it can’t give you—” He tapped his chest. “—this part. The part that notices people. The part that cares if they feel stupid. The part that knows when to slow down.”

Miles pointed at the bike. “Can I help?”

Arthur smiled. “That is the best thing you’ve said all day.”

As they worked, the garage filled with small sounds: the click of a wrench, the soft scrape of rubber, the quiet conversation of two people building something that wasn’t just a bike.

Halfway through, Miles said, “What if you miss a day?”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Then tomorrow I do one useful thing.”

Miles nodded slowly, like that answer made the world less fragile.

When the brakes were done, Arthur spun the wheel and squeezed the lever. The pads kissed the rim with a clean, satisfying hush.

Miles’s face lit up. “That’s… awesome.”

Arthur stepped back. “It’s a bike.”

Miles shook his head. “No, it’s… like… you fixed it.”

Arthur nodded toward the driveway. “Take it for a spin. Tell me if it feels right.”

Miles rode a loop in the cold sunlight. When he came back, his grin was big enough to warm the whole street.

“It’s perfect!”

Miles hesitated, then said, “Do you think I could do… one useful thing a day too?”

Arthur felt something soften in his chest.

“I think you just did.”

Miles blinked. “I did?”

Arthur nodded. “You asked to help. That counts. Usefulness starts there.”

Miles looked down at the bike, then back up. “Okay,” he said, like he’d just made a decision.

He wheeled the bike toward the sidewalk, then paused. “Can I get a sidekick too?”

Arthur laughed. “Sure. But here’s the rule: You think first. Then you ask.”

Miles grinned. “Deal.”

Then he rode away, tires humming quietly over the cold pavement.

Arthur watched him go.

The garage door stayed half up.

The space heater clicked.

And Arthur—retired, yes, and older, sure—felt useful in the best way.

Useful on purpose.

Arthur’s challenge (and Miles’s, and maybe yours): Do one useful thing a day. For seven days. Not heroic. Just real.

When you need help, ask AI one question that supports your usefulness without stealing your thinking:

- “Give me three kind ways to offer help.”

- “Help me explain this simply.”

- “Draft a message I can edit.”

What’s your one useful thing tomorrow?​​​​. Hit reply if you try this. I’d love to hear what you choose.

A short story about staying useful on purpose—prompted by Tim Ferriss’s conversation with Dilbert creator the late Scott Adams about being useful.

Until next Sunday, stay useful

— Mike