by Kevin Sean
Rachel swivels an enormous phone-shaped screen towards me and begins scrolling through a slideshow of images. Each picture shows a potential design for the app.
Damn. I’m always pleased with the work this department does, but I’m extra impressed with these mockups. They’re all beautiful. Every combination of colors is complementary and pleasing to the eye. I can see they’ve selected specific shades of deep blue, maroon and mauve.
Our research lab found these colors to have the highest combined scores of aesthetic appeal and easiness on users’ eyes, which are key factors in promoting prolonged consumer engagement. These colors will make our users all but addicted to ConnectMe.
Is this practice ethical? You tell me. Is it profitable? Hell yes.
“Damn!” I exclaim as I examine the samples.
“You like them? Don’t blow smoke up our asses, you’ve got to be honest with me, Lex,” says Dan. The developers and engineers would be scandalized if one of their coworkers called me Lex, but things are always more chill and casual in the design department.
If I’m being honest, I’ve always found Dan cute. Of course, I would never ask him out.
There’s a reason I always stick to one night stands and refuse to go to bed with anyone I interact with daily. Even just imagining the hypothetical scenario of me and Dan having casual sex and then having to transition from orgasm face to putting on our work face sounds exhausting and is making me sweaty… and not in an enjoyable way.
I need to focus on my varied ongoing work projects all day, and relationships—be they with men who work in or outside my office—are not conducive to me being a productive CEO.
The more I reflect on the messy aftermath of sex with strings attached, the more confident I am in my decision to engage only in one night stands.
“Of course I’m being honest,” I respond. “You know me too well by this point for me to even bother trying to bullshit you, Dan.”
It’s true. When the design team strikes gold, I respond viscerally. If I’m not a fan of what they’ve done, it’s always hard for me to hide the sour expression from my face and be complimentary. I’m lucky that they respond well to critique and the ultimate product is flawless every time. ConnectMe and all its subsidiaries have gorgeous, intuitive layouts without fail—and that’s in huge part thanks to this team.
“These interfaces are almost too subtle and sleek for a dating app! This is top notch work, team.” I say, and I mean it. “I wish I could stay, but I’m already late for my next meeting. Can you send these same mockups to me so I can review them on my phone while I’m traveling to my 4 o’clock conference?”
Rachel and Dan nod as a bunch of design interns scurry in the background, no doubt compiling and sending me all the mockups as we speak.
I’m lucky to have so many trustworthy and hard-working employees. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible and tell you my final decision for the ConnectMeet color theme. Once I’ve made a choice, you’re all free to call it a day and head home early,” I say.
The entire room cheers and applauds. They’ve earned an afternoon off—those mockups looked fantastic.
“Oh, and one more thing… make it work!” I exclaim, once again pretending I’m a mentor on Project Runway. The group of designers groan, but they are all still grinning as they all wave me off. I can’t help but feel accomplished in having spent some time building rapport with my company’s creative time while also encouraging their artistic endeavors. Or however you say keeping my employees smiling and working hard in industry lingo nowadays.
I rarely buy into that new age office ideology, but I notice and appreciate the improvement in overall quality of both life and product when the people who work for LexTech are happy. I take pride in being at the helm of a company that does important work, fulfills and enriches the lives of its employees, and connects people all around the world. Not to toot my own horn too hard.
My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Sue: The car is waiting for you downstairs.
I hustle to the elevator and make it just in time before the doors close. My head is spinning with ideas for investor pitches, with marketing campaigns for the new dating service, and with additional features we could integrate into the application.
I grin, recognizing this flurry of firing neurons as a sign that I’m in app launch mode. I’ve always got a million things on my mind when we’re in this stage of rolling out a new LexTech product. I book it through the lobby, exit Lexington Tower and make a beeline for my black town car.
“To your next meeting in Pacific Heights, oui, monsieur?” the chauffeur, Pierre, asks me from the driver’s seat.
“Yes, thank you.” I’m headed to the affluent neighborhood to see Paul “Pop” Pollard, the CEO of the Texas-based fast-food chain Pop’s Taters. He’s made the move to San Francisco and word on the street has it he wants to invest in LexTech’s latest project.
The car climbs up and down hills lined with colorful Victorian houses. The views of the city’s skyline and the Golden Gate Bridge behind it grow more and more stunning the closer we get to our destination. I can almost make out my home, out there in the distance, underneath the iconic bridge.
I cannot wait to get home, get out of this monkey suit, pop open a bottle of wine, and unwind.
But duty calls. This is a big investment chomping on the line… so I’ve got to reel it in.
We pull up to a gorgeous teal mansion. The house has Victorian spires and beautiful bay windows which offer a spectacular view. A round-bellied man in a cowboy hat saunters down the stairs to greet us.
“Hello, Mr. Pollard!”
“Howdy, sonny. Pleasure to meet ya in person after all these emails back and forth. And that’s Pop to you, now, don’t you forget it,” he says to me with a wink. Pop shakes my hand up and down with the ferocity of a rabid dog eviscerating a chew toy while he lets out a laugh from deep within his belly before ushering me inside and to the left into what must be his office.
“Pleased to meet you too, Pop,” I say as the Texan marches across the room and pulls out a leather chair next to his desk.
“Sit down, son, and tell me about this here application of yours you’ve been workin’ on,” Pop says.
“So, we will basically try to re-invent the dating app by integrating it with one of the world’s most popular social media platforms: our online space, ConnectMe.”
Pop smiles as I plaster his desk with a binder’s worth of printed charts and graphs showcasing the findings of LexTech’s preliminary market research. This information is necessary when launching a new app—both for our own development needs, and for inundating investors with so much information that they throw up their arms in defeat right before tossing us a check.
While Pop scans the documents my eyes wander the room. I take in dusty trophies and medals displayed in a glass case. They must be for a sport Pop hasn’t played in at least 20 years—football? Baseball? The walls are adorned with sconce lamps, faded family photographs and objects with a decidedly heterosexual energy, like signed footballs on display stands and miniature ships in bottles.
My gaze settles on a flat-screen TV playing a local news channel. My stomach twists into knots when I see the headline on the program’s lower lower third: Photogram CEO to Announce New Project Tomorrow.
Fucking Photogram. Is nowhere sacred? The news station flashes a photo of Dalton Elijah, the CEO of LexTech’s biggest competitor and my least favorite human being on earth. At the very least he’s in a dead heat with my ex, Aaron.
Why do I despise him so? Oh, if only there were enough time in a day to name all the reasons…
Dramatics aside, I’ve founded my distaste for Photogram and its CEO on the fact that for the last couple of months, new technologies and app ideas which we’ve discussed at LexTech under the lock and key of NDA contracts have sprouted up at Photogram, who are all too happy to present them as their own.
I’ve suspected for a while now that someone from my staff
has to be leaking the information, but I have yet to figure out who’s behind it since there’s no traceable path to the leak. Yet.
Pop’s bellowing Texan accent interrupts my thoughts.
“I’ll tell ya this, I’m very interested. But I don’t have the slightest insight into the world of dating on the internet… I’m single as a shingle, so perhaps I need to put in some time researching my investment!” This is followed by another kind wink. “Kidding, kidding. Mabel is rolling in her grave hearin’ me say that, sorry darlin’! Rest in peace and all that!”
I try to force a laugh for the sake of politeness, and to not betray the fact that I’ve turned my attention away from our meeting and can think of nothing but Photogram now.
Nothing scandalous, damaging or important has leaked from our company to theirs so far, so I’ve decided it’s not worth bringing my concerns and accusations public in case it somehow is a freaky coincidence that Photogram’s ideas and my company’s business plans are near-identical. I doubt that this is mere casualty and I hate that this ongoing leak gives my competition at Photogram an advantage over LexTech.
They’re constantly undermining and undercutting us by copying ideas we’ve been planning for months and then announcing them right before us, making my company appear to be the ones without a plan.
I’d laugh at the irony if it didn’t piss me off so goddamn much. Or resurface terrible memories from the murky deep of my brain, stuff from the years B.S: Before Success.
It’s silly, but this bullshit with Photogram always brings me back to my first and only boyfriend. Aaron, the beautiful blonde-haired jock, who high school Logan thought would be the love of his life.
We started dating less than a year before I founded LexTech, and I believed he would stand by my side as I rose to the top of the tech world.
I was a naïve idiot.
At some point Aaron loved me. After all, we had so many happy memories in those months before and after I started LexTech. So I believed him when a year after I started the company, Aaron told me he was breaking up with me so I could “soar to even higher heights.” I was even glad to give him some many to get back on his feet. Looking back, I want to slap myself silly.
Whatever positive feelings we harbored between the two of us shattered when Aaron appeared on America’s most viewed (and trashiest) daytime talk show, revealing all the juicy “behind the scenes” scoops about how I was a nightmare boss and boyfriend, popping pills and unleashing my drug fueled rage on my employees and loved ones… which would be scandalous and perhaps career-ending had it actually happened.
It wasn’t even just an exaggerated spin on a more innocent reality, Aaron’s story was all a flat out lie pulled from thin air. It’s a lie which he was paid handsomely for, I’m sure.
“Now let’s pull up some at pictures of Logan Lexington at the latest LexTech press briefing. If you zoom in you’ll see circles under his eyes… do you believe this relates to his drug issues and stress over internal company mismanagement?” The loud-mouthed interviewer had egged Aaron on during the daytime TV show taping.
“That’s exactly what I think,” Aaron had responded, putting on a fake serious face and bowing his head. It was preposterous. I’m furious all over again just thinking about it.
None of the things Aaron claimed I’d done in that interview had happened in front of the scenes, let alone behind them. I never do drugs. I would especially never take anything mind-altering before a press conference.
Aaron tried to smear me again in the press multiple times since that first explosive interview. He didn’t get much more coverage after the initial falsified story broke, but during the months which followed I was hounded by a handful of interviewers and reporters. They were desperate to find out if there was any truth to Aaron’s scandalous claims.
I’m more than wealthy enough now to catch and kill the stories Aaron tries to sell to tabloids and papers, paying him off so he doesn’t run his mouth, but I refuse to do that. He’s never getting another dime from me. Besides, his “tell all” interviews barely register in the news cycle at this point now that Aaron’s fifteen minutes of fame are up.
After Aaron I’ve refused to let another lover burn me using sex and intimacy to bring me down. Call me emotionally frigid, call me soulless, that’s fine—I consider it a simple matter of protecting my heart (and my wallet). I’ve been flying solo for a decade and counting without regrets.
Snap out of the pity party, I tell myself before turning my focus back to my potential investor. Pop is still smiling. I pray that my face hasn’t betrayed just how much I’ve spaced out of our conversation by twisting into a scowl or going blank.
He doesn’t seem to notice my absent mindedness at all. “Ok sonny, this all sounds fantastic to me. I realize I’m new to the tech scene and this dating thing is unfamiliar territory for you, too, so… I’ll want some regular updates on this project’s progress.”
“Of course, sir—Pop,” I correct myself. I’m still a little discombobulated from Photogram bullshit derailing my train of thought. “We will be in constant communication.”
“Don’t think I don’t trust you, Lexington. I do. I trust in your company and the services you provide, but… this here is a hefty chunk of change. I don’t take this investment lightly.”
“I understand.” He extends a hand, which I shake back mindlessly. I’m like a zombie on auto-pilot, thrown through a loop by my competitor pulling shady shit and then still coming out on top. I’m normally not like this when I’m pitching an idea—usually I engage my brain at a level above “comatose.” I need to not let Photogram and Dalton Elijah get under my nerves and turn me into a vegetable.
My thoughtless stupor continues well after I’ve secured Pop’s investment and said my goodbyes—I don’t remember walking to the car. I’m like this for God only knows how long until pangs of hunger stir my consciousness and bring me back to life.
I’m craving pastries. Baked goods. Cream cheese frosting and way too many chocolate chips.
“Can you stop in at the nearest bakery for me to grab a bite?” I call to Pierre up front before sending the partition up and relaxing into the heated leather seat, dreaming of casual sex and slices of cake… preferably served together as a meal.
3
BEN
“That one looks like an elephant!” says Montana while pointing at a cloud on the eastern horizon. It does resemble an elephant, trunk and all.
“That one looks like a… sewing machine?” My find is less exciting and less convincing.
“Woah, that one looks like a strap on!”
“Montana!” She’s not wrong, but we’re in public!
We’ve spread out a tapestry embroidered with the twelve signs of the zodiac in the middle of Great Meadow Park. I grab a slice of bruschetta off of the paper plate obscuring the symbol for Scorpio.
“Enough cloud watching,” Montana declares before tossing a bunch of grapes into her mouth. “Tell me, what did you end up doing today during your big city staycation?”
“I did a bunch of exciting things! There’s so much to see at the wharf, you know: I visited the Musée Mécanique and played a ton of old-fashioned pinball, I drank hot cocoa at Ghirardelli’s, and even rented a bicycle and rode along some bike paths by the shore for an hour or two. It was amazing!”
I’m gushing because I love San Francisco. My day exploring a slice of this beautiful city reinforced my high regard. “What about you? Have you done anything fun which you haven’t told me about?” I almost ask if she’s done anything fun or crazy, but with Montana crazy is a given.
“Well, just this last week I went on a date for the first time in like, a million years. I’m finally getting back on the horse!”
I’m surprised Montana ever fell off the horse: a year ago she was usually dating ten girls at a time. Then again, I’ve cooped up alone in my apartment for the last year, being a rotten friend and keeping out of the loop. A wave of regret envelops me, but I push t
hrough. Now is a better time than never to be supportive. “Really? How was it?” I ask.
“It went so, so well, Ben! I met this super interesting woman at the library two weeks ago when we were both looking for the same set of books on psychedelics. Can you believe it?”
Yes, I absolutely can believe it.
“We hit it off and texted back and forth for a week until we made a time work for both of us and go on a date,” she says.
“That’s so cute, Monty! How old-school, meeting someone in a library.” I can’t help but feel a little envious of Montana’s ease in picking up women. All my flirting mojo is long gone, disappeared into thin air along with my urge to create art. “What did you do for your first date?”
“Oh you know, we did some skydiving and then a concert.” Montana says, waving her hand dismissively as if skydiving with a stranger on your first date is normal.
“Skydiving? Wasn’t that scary?” I’m incredulous, but if I’d been spending more time with Montana lately I’d know not to be too shocked: this is all par for the course for her. When you’re with Monty, one has to expect the unexpected.
“Nah, it was no biggie. The fall to earth was quite inspiring,” she continues, brushing off my concern with enviable ease. “It expanded my mind and lead to a breakthrough moment with my music… there’s a song I’ve been playing with in my head for months and after skydiving it all came to me at once, like some kind of dream.”
Montana’s been trying to self-produce her debut disco-country concept album for years now, so I know this songwriting breakthrough is an enormous deal for her.
“Well, damn, I can’t argue with divine inspiration,” I quip, distracted by a flurry of my own anxious thoughts. Before this picnic I thought I’d do anything for inspiration to paint again, but now I’m second guessing my devotion to my art. Going skydiving to get one’s creative juices flowing again is a little too extreme for my taste.
