by Liza Palmer
“How is that possible?”
“Because this is their first real job. All they want is to—” Thornton seems to catch himself. A quick, almost disgusted shake of his head and then: “—be appreciative of their beer and have money to pay down their student loans.”
“You forgot the part where you said you were using this time to figure out what you wanted.”
“I didn’t forget it.”
“You just left it off.”
“I edited me.”
“Yeah, but you cut the part that made you”—I shoot my hand forward, and lock eyes with Thornton—“have a plan.”
“No, I cut the part of what I said that proved my point.” He pauses. “And yours.”
“But I don’t think you’re easily manipulated.” I pause while my eyes scan the other employees at Bloom. “I think they’re easily manipulated.” Thornton laughs.
“No, you’re right. What a great business plan. Develop a billion-dollar algorithm, build a start-up, and then hire a bunch of kids just out of college to ferry your vision to greatness,” Thornton says.
“No, that’s—” I cut myself off with a quick intake of breath.
Wait. Holy shit.
So, Bloom isn’t like those other stuffy companies with mission statements, business plans, and an impenetrable hierarchy that only cares about the bottom line. No, Chris and Asher will serve you beer and pizza and let anyone—yes, anyone—ask them anything—yes, anything. Details about office leases, specifics about upcoming contracts, and utter transparency about everything that matters to their carefully chosen workforce.
Bloom’s very specific workforce is mostly comprised of people right out of college, who’ve probably never had a real, “corporate” job. Their bank accounts are either connected to their parents’ or are being actively pillaged by student loan officers, exorbitant Los Angeles rent that’s split seven ways, or cheap fast food.
“What? What are you thinking?” Thornton asks.
“Nothing,” I say, breathless.
“You’re never thinking about nothing,” Thornton says.
“And you’ve known me how long?” I ask, pushing away his uncomfortably accurate character assessment.
“Long enough.” He uncrosses his legs and leans in. “What were you thinking?”
I look at him. Really look at him. I don’t know Thornton Yu at all. But that emboldens me to actually tell the truth. He leans closer. And waits.
“Why would Bloom handpick a workforce that would never ask what your company does or how they do it?”
Thornton stares at me.
“I don’t know.”
“What are they trying to hide?”
“Could be nothing,” Thornton says.
“But it could be something,” I say. I sit back in my chair. Thornton sits back in his. I look over at him. He’s smiling.
“What?”
“I knew you were going to say that.” He takes a long drink of his beer. Chris and Asher talk. We listen.
What are they trying to hide?
If Asher and Chris don’t want their workforce to know how the sausage is made, then there could be something wrong with the sausage. And if there’s something wrong with the sausage, then that means the sausage isn’t made up of the things Asher and Chris say it is. So the first question becomes: what’s really in the sausage?
My hands start twitching.
I need to write all this stuff down. When I get home tonight, I’ll dig an old, unused notebook out of the moving boxes in my room. I can get my old whiteboard out of Dad’s potting shed and, once I get paid, buy some index cards—or maybe there are some unused ones in the moving boxes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a Bloom email from someone named Mackenzie. I click on it, look down at her embedded signature, and see that Mackenzie is apparently Chris and Asher’s assistant. She’s inviting me to a meeting with them tomorrow morning. Mackenzie has called this meeting “Chat with Chris and Asher.” I zoom in on the little avatar next to Mackenzie’s name to see that Mackenzie is none other than the wet-headed blond girl.
I click Accept, close out of my email, and flip over to my calendar for tomorrow. Tomorrow: my third day on the job. My schedule is absolutely empty, except for the chunk of time Thornton set aside to start on the press release for the official Bloom launch, a newly added lunchtime meditation, and now a half-hour meeting with the two founders of a soon-to-be billion-dollar company. I take this opportunity to decline the invitation to meditation and remove it from my calendar.
Once Field ends, I say quick goodbyes to everyone, gather my stuff, and can’t get out of Bloom fast enough. My mind races as I wait for the bus. Should I record tomorrow’s meeting? I have so much research to do between now and then. Once I get that whiteboard out of the shed and … wait, I was supposed to watch Poppy tonight. Should I tell Billy and Anne I can’t? Mom and Dad can do it, they won’t mind. Plus, this is kind of Billy’s fault anyway because of his whole “why don’t you figure things out anymore” speech. If this meeting is tomorrow morning, I’m going to need all the time I can to—shit. I’m doing it again.
My name is Joan and I am desperate to believe I’ve learned something important so I can have my goddamned life back.
10
Just Don’t Say Tit
I don’t sleep that night. I try, but then I just end up sitting in the kitchen at Mom and Dad’s ancient computer doing as much research as I can on Chris and Asher. I already know most of the stuff. Caltech roommates. CAM. Bloom. I make a note to dig deeper into the time between Caltech and the launch of Bloom. Everywhere I look, that time period seems to be consistently hazy.
I look up old classmates, find them on social media, and stalk all of their old photos from Caltech, hoping to find either Chris or Asher in the background. The closest I get is a series of photos from their Caltech Ditch Day—an annual tradition there, in which seniors ditch their classes, but just to make sure their now unprotected dorm rooms are safe from marauding underclassmen, the seniors set up a series of “stacks”—booby traps, puzzles, and challenges—to keep their dorm rooms secured until their return.
Chris and Asher were part of a group that set up a series of stacks that ensnared a pack of underclassmen who were trying to break into their dorm room. As they entered the dorm room, the underclassmen were hit with a cringe-worthy film festival of all of the porn each of the underclassmen had downloaded just that week. But, that wasn’t the worst of it. In a little video posted by one of the team members, Chris talks about how it’s not about the content, it’s about the user. So, as the grainy porn played on one screen, the other screen live-streamed the underclassmen watching this porn.
I can’t imagine the social scars that Chris and Asher’s little prank left on those underclassmen. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as another stack that ended with the now breached dorm room being filled to capacity with a giant, inflatable USS Enterprise.
As the sun comes up, I take a quick shower and then send a flurry of texts to my friends filling them in on the last couple of days in a feeble attempt to keep them in the loop. I’m trying to avoid getting another stern talking-to in a taco line on Sunset Boulevard. It’s early yet, so the only response I get is from Hugo.
“As an accountant, I can verify that people their age aren’t thinking about this stuff yet.” I wait as another text bubble zooms in. “And, may I remind you, neither did we at that age.”
I text back, “You’re right, of course.”
To which Hugo sends back a series of baby head emojis and then an entire line of old man emojis.
I send back the requisite “hahahahahaha” and head out to a now full kitchen in an outfit I hope is cool enough for my meeting with Chris and Asher. A pair of caramel-colored corduroy pants, a shirt with dogs on it, and an oversized gray cardigan. My hair is still wet, but the three bus rides and almost half-mile-long walk to work will take care of that.
As I fill my travel mug with not enough coff
ee in the world, I watch as Mom and Dad seamlessly thread into each other’s morning routine—here’s your coffee, here are your vitamins, did you make that appointment, I added something to the grocery list, where are my glasses, right where you left them—and the ballet ends with a handing over of those lost glasses with an affectionate peck on the cheek.
The other side of the kitchen is not quite so lyrical. Billy is trying to put on Poppy’s tiny shoe as she kicks and squirms, giggling and reaching for another apple slice while Anne tries to hide the healthier vegetables deep in the blender of Poppy’s breakfast. Baby food is everywhere, tiny socks are everywhere, the shoe is not going on, and Billy wasn’t fast enough with the bib, so the shirt he just finagled onto her tiny body is already stained.
I venture over to the refrigerator and pour a glug of creamer into my coffee.
“What’s with all the notes?” Billy asks, scanning the pad of paper next to Mom and Dad’s computer.
“I’m not going to tell you,” I say.
“What? Why not?”
“Because you’re going to either make fun of me or do some weird I-told-you-so thing about something you don’t know anything about,” I say, taking a sip and immediately burning my entire mouth. Billy shoves Poppy’s shoe on, tightens the Velcro, and stands in a victorious swoop. He wipes the sweat off his brow and turns to face me.
“Seeing as how you write in—” Billy picks up the pad of paper, tries to decipher my coded shorthand.
“It’s so people can’t read what I write,” I say, feeling pretty good about myself.
“Oh, leave her alone. You’re just early morning fuzzpicking,” Anne says to Billy. She sits down in front of Poppy with a bowl full of baby food that definitely doesn’t contain vegetables.
“Well, well, well … look who’s fuzzpicking now,” I say.
“I was gently floating some questions is all,” Billy says, picking up his coffee mug and taking a long swig.
“Okay, then. Let me ask you a question,” I say, turning to Billy.
“Yes, you look like a retired wizard,” Billy says.
“Oh, shit—” I realize I still have to get sorted into my Hogwarts house. Everyone looks from me to Poppy. It’s then that I realize I’ve said a bad word. Which, of course, makes me want to say five more bad words.
“You gotta say words that rhyme with it so she doesn’t think that bad word is special in any way,” Billy says.
“Bit, wit—”
“Just don’t say tit,” Billy whispers, laughing.
“Bit, wit, lit, mitt,” I say.
“That was a close one,” Mom says, with a sigh.
“God forbid a two-year-old hears a word she has no idea is a bad word,” Dad says, flipping open his newspaper.
“What was the question, sweetheart?” Mom asks, setting down a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Just next to the bread, she sets down a little stack of printed papers. Mom pats my arm. “For when you’re ready.” I scan the papers and see that Mom has printed out the entire ‘About’ section for a local school that accepts “life experience” toward a college degree. Mom’s circled the phone number of the school with hot-pink highlighter. I neatly restack the papers and smile at her as warmly as I can. Dad reaches past the little stack of papers to cut himself a slice of bread and starts slathering on butter.
“What do you think could be the reason why someone won’t give you a straight answer?” I ask.
“Like hypothetically?” Billy asks.
“Are you … are you doing it now or—”
“Oh, no!” Billy laughs. “But, I mean yeah!”
“I don’t give someone a straight answer when I think it will hurt their feelings in some way,” Anne says, looping a scoop of baby food into Poppy’s mouth.
“I would be more general if it’s not my information to tell or it’s above your pay grade,” Dad adds from behind his newspaper.
“Maybe I don’t know the answer and I’m trying to hide it,” Billy says.
“I’m lying,” Mom says, spreading butter on a steaming slice of bread.
“Who’s not giving you a straight answer?” Billy asks.
“Anyone at Bloom. Everything they say is shrouded in all this feel-good doublespeak and, I don’t know, how they infantilize their workforce … it just feels like they’re hiding something,” I say, sitting down at the table.
“What do you think they’re hiding?” Anne asks.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“What doesn’t work? The whole company?” Dad asks.
“The whole company only does one thing. It’s an actual one-trick pony. It stores your computer stuff.” I stand up, go get my pad of paper, and read from my notes. “Bloom runs on this CAM algorithm. CAM scrunches down all the stuff you save on your computer and is able to store it without a server farm. Server farms aren’t as secure, cost money to run, and you have to rent or buy the land. CAM will essentially bring about the extinction of server farms.”
“No one here knows what a server farm is, right? Not just me?” Billy asks. Everyone nods in agreement. “Thank god. I thought it was some kind of new farm that would put us out of business.”
“It’s like a data center.” I walk over to Mom and Dad’s computer and point to their dusty external hard drive. Even Poppy turns around. “Imagine whole city blocks filled up with these. But way bigger. Like as big as Billy.” Everyone looks from the tiny, dusty hard drive to my bear of a brother. Blank faces. “But see? This is my point. Tech stuff? Is boring. It’s tedious and no one cares. It’s the perfect question not to give a straight answer to, because no one actually wants a straight answer. In fact, if someone did give me a straight answer, I’d think they were being a tedious windbag and super condescending.” I flip the pad of paper over to the next sheet of notes. “It’s the timing. Rumors about them going public, maybe getting acquired … Billions of dollars in play if Bloom just does what it says it does and holds on long enough.” I look up from my fugue state to see my entire family just staring at me. I clear my throat, flip the pages back, smooth out the crinkles in the paper, and set it down on the table. “I haven’t slept.”
“No shit.” Billy says. Everyone looks at him. “Bit, lit, zit, fit.”
“If CAM doesn’t work…” Anne says, trailing off.
“They’re trucked,” Billy says.
11
I Got It
Without The Golden Notebook to distract me on my morning commute, I am forced to sit with my thoughts as the bus labors on toward work. The talking points I’ve prepared for my meeting with Chris and Asher recede as I board the second bus. I’ve done the research. I know what I’m going to say. Or not say.
I find a seat in the back of the second bus. My travel mug full of scalding coffee is still too hot to drink. I take a deep breath that doesn’t quite catch at the top. I take another long inhalation, the breath finally expanding in my lungs. I open the lid of the travel mug and let myself smell the wafting, calming aromas of the coffee.
As my stop nears, I stand and wobble up the aisle. The bus jerks to a stop and we all climb off. I find an unpopulated corner of the bus stop and wait for my third and final bus. I wonder if I’m going to just forget—happily forget, once again—all I’ve been confronted with over the last couple of days.
But all of this brainwork makes me feel like some whiny fainting couch flopper who can’t just walk this off. Back toward all of the same goals I had before the slump.
The third bus smokes and coughs to a stop in front of the bus stop and we all climb in. This bus is usually the most crowded, so I find a little pocket of humanity to stand in, easing my hand around the steadying bar just overhead.
I realize I need to find my own internal backpack. But does that mean I have to keep dismantling myself and challenging every aspect of why I think certain things? How do I know when it’s over? I’ve dissected the slump, had a good cry, and talked to people about it—so there’s got to be an end to all this introspecti
on. Otherwise what’s it all for?
I’m finally able to take a blessed sip of my coffee. We get to my final stop and I shuffle to the exit along with everyone else, lost in our morning thoughts. Once on the sidewalk, I hitch my workbag higher up my shoulder and walk the half a mile or so to Bloom.
I’m walking along when I realize that a car has slowed down next to me. I flick my eyes over. It’s an old 1980s rumbling, diesel-exhaling orange Volvo station wagon. I pick up my pace, but quickly come to grips with the fact that me fast-walking anywhere just isn’t in the cards. Just as I’m about to step down from the curb and cross the street, the ancient Volvo pulls in front of me.
“Hey,” Thornton says, stretching across the passenger’s side to roll down the window.
“Hey,” I say.
“You want a ride?” He pulls on the door latch and pushes the door open.
“Sure,” I say, unable to come up with a reason why not. I get in the rickety car that was definitely Thornton’s parents’ old car. It’s immaculate. The old leather seats creak under me as I pull the seat belt taut across my body, my workbag still tight around my neck.
“Why don’t you put your bag down before you put your seat belt on?” Thornton asks, putting the car into gear.
“Oh, I don’t know. Never thought about it, I guess.” Thornton’s left arm hangs on the steering wheel as he lazily shifts the car into second gear. He has that clean early morning smell. I look over at his hand as it rests on the gearshift and see that he still has a crease on his arm from where his bed sheet left an imprint last night.
“So, where’d you go after Field last night?” Thornton rumbles the old Volvo to a stop at a red light. He turns to look at me. His slightly damp black hair is tied back at the nape of his neck, the wetness leaving little droplet stains on his plain white T-shirt.
“I just went home,” I say.
“I thought about what we talked about a lot last night,” he says, inching forward in traffic.
“And?” Thornton speeds into third gear as he zooms through a yellow light. I keep sneaking looks over at him. He turns onto Melrose and we roll to a stop behind a wall of traffic.
