How to Hack a Heartbreak

by Kristin Rockaway

  I envisioned attendance by a whole range of techies: coders, testers, engineers, founders, angel investors, even help desk analysts. All of them shaking hands, exchanging business cards, forming connections that could benefit them in their present situations, as well as far into their unknown futures. It would be respectful and uplifting and entirely devoid of dick pics.

  At Whit’s suggestion, I posted notices on Meetup, Craigslist, EventBrite, and about a dozen other forums frequented by New York City techies. Advertised as a “low-key, informal networking event to connect like-minded individuals in the tech sphere,” the inaugural New York Techie Support Network meetup was held at 6:00 p.m., on Thursday, May tenth, at that unpopular FiDi watering hole, The Barley House.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking: I picked The Barley House for its proximity to Alex’s apartment, and the fact that he told me he hung out there all the time.

  And you’re right. I did.

  While I’d been tremendously preoccupied these past couple of weeks with developing inPerson and planning a tech meetup, I’d also experienced silent moments of sadness for everything that happened with Alex. They were fleeting, but still painful, knowing I’d wrecked what could’ve been wonderful because I’d chosen internet rumors over an honest conversation.

  He still hadn’t responded to my text message apology, and since I didn’t want to seem like a pathetic loser, I never sent another one. Running into him in person was my only hope of a reconciliation.

  But the venue had other perks, too. Like the fact that it was always half-empty, and therefore easily able to accommodate an influx of networking techies. Also, Alex said the Hatchlings never came here, so even if nobody showed, I’d at least be able to avoid an unpleasant encounter with one of my ex-coworkers.

  Ten minutes before six, I installed myself on a barstool—the same one I’d sat in that night Brandon from Brooklyn stood me up, actually—and waited for the first guests to arrive.

  At 6:15, I was still sitting alone, overcome with a sickly sense of déjà vu. Perhaps this barstool was cursed, sentencing whoever sat on it to an evening of humiliation and abandonment. A ridiculous notion, but at this point, I wasn’t willing to take any chances. As casually as possible, I slid over to the next seat. And like magic, my curse was lifted.

  “Melanie?”

  A young woman was standing behind me, her big brown eyes shining with both excitement and trepidation.

  “Hi there.” I smiled and held out my hand. She shook it firmly.

  “I’m Priya,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Have a seat.” I pointed to the barstool beside me—the noncursed one.

  “Thanks for organizing this. When I saw you were the one hosting this meetup, I knew I had to come. What you did with JerkAlert was so awesome. You’re, like, my role model.”

  The idea that someone I’d never met looked to my sad little life as an example to be emulated was enough to make me burst out into a fit of giggles. Priya seemed crestfallen, though, so I quickly swallowed my laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You don’t understand how crazy that sounds to me. I’m not exactly cut out to be anyone’s role model.”

  “Are you kidding me? You started your own website, by yourself, from your bedroom, and impacted thousands of people from all over the world in the span of a few short weeks. That’s the kind of achievement I can only dream about.”

  When she said it like that, I guess it did sound sort of impressive.

  “That’s really nice of you to say,” I said. “I assure you, though, it’s something you can most definitely achieve. If I can do it, so can you. What’s your story, Priya? Where do you work?”

  “Right now, I’m a full-time student. I’m a comp sci major at NYU, and I just finished up my junior year. I came here hoping to make some connections in the industry. Ultimately, I’d love to find an internship to help build my résumé and gain some real-world experience before graduation.”

  “I’m so glad you came,” I said, thinking that if I had attended a meetup like this when I was still an undergrad, maybe I wouldn’t have settled for the first job offer I got. Maybe I’d have built a network that would’ve helped me chase my dreams from the very start.

  Just then, a gaggle of women walked into the bar. They approached Priya and me with open smiles and extended hands, and as we exchanged introductions, even more people began to file in. Mostly women, but a few men, too. As the hours passed, the crowd continued to grow, slowly and steadily. Alex never did show, but it was hard to become too disheartened when I was surrounded by so much positive energy.

  The focus of the event was networking, getting to know people and sharing contact information. But it also provided an excellent opportunity for me to perfect my inPerson elevator pitch. People kept coming up to me and asking me what the app was like, how it worked, or when it would be available, so there was plenty of time for me to practice what I’d already prepared and retool what wasn’t really working. By the end of the night, I had all my talking points down pat. Which would come in handy when it was time to seek funding from investors.

  I just hadn’t been expecting that time to come so soon.

  It was almost eight o’clock. The crowd was thinning and people were wrapping up, exchanging business cards and entering new numbers into their phones. I was paying my tab at the bar, credit card in hand, when I heard someone say my name.

  “Ms. Strickland?”

  I turned around to see a tall woman with a chic, short afro and striking red lips. She was a bit older than most of the other attendees, and a bit more sophisticated, too. From the tailored fit of her suit jacket, I could tell she was someone important.

  “Yes, I’m Melanie Strickland.”

  “My name is Tisha Cole. I’m a managing director at FirstBrand Capital.”

  It took every last ounce of my strength to keep from collapsing in a fit of squeals. FirstBrand was a huge venture capital firm, famous for funding early stage start-ups, which they then ushered to untold heights of success. One of their first ventures recently secured an additional hundred-million-dollar round of funding, with a valuation of over a billion dollars.

  A billion dollars.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m here tonight because I’ve read a lot about you and your work. I appreciate what you’re doing with this meetup, and I’m interested in hearing more about inPerson. Can you tell me a little bit about where you got the idea from and how it functions?”

  This was it. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. The chance to pitch one-on-one to a big-time investor who could change my life as I knew it.

  I was not going to freak out.

  Instead, I was going to knock this pitch out of the park.

  “Well, I designed inPerson to solve a problem. Namely, the search for true human connection in a digitally disconnected world. Currently, internet dating reduces us to data points—single photographs, pithy taglines, labels to be categorized and filtered and parsed.

  “But in real life, dating is more complex than a few pieces of data. It’s about interaction and nuance and feeling. Body language is key in conveying our intentions. Eye contact is crucial in building empathy. Yet we think it’s okay to begin a new relationship with an indifferent and hasty swipe of a finger.

  “Now, we live in a world dominated by the internet and ruled by Big Data. And sometimes, that can be a good thing. In so many ways, access to all this information makes our lives better, fuller, easier, more convenient. So, I thought, why not harness that power to allow people to make more meaningful, personal connections?

  “That’s how I came up with inPerson. With inPerson, there are no pictures, no profiles, and no swiping. There are no direct messages, so there’s no chance of targeted anonymous harassment. There’s on
ly a map, one that guides you to a secret location to a singles mixer organized and supervised by the inPerson team. When you get there, you’ll be introduced to other single people who are in your age range, who share some similar interests, and who live in your general location. And you’ll also be forced to give up your phone.”

  “Give up your phone?” Tisha raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Yes. The whole point of inPerson is to encourage face-to-face interaction. We use technology to facilitate that, but when it comes down to the actual event, we want the focus to be on humans, not on screens—to really take the spirit of #GetOffTheInternet to heart. The phones are kept safe by members of our team, and at the end of the night, you get them back. And hopefully, you’ll also get a new number or two to add to your contacts.”

  Tisha nodded, slowly. From the way her lips curled down in the corners, though, I wasn’t sure if she was disgusted or intrigued.

  “It’s an interesting concept,” she said. “But how do you intend to generate revenue? By selling the data you collect?”

  “No. We’re not interested in selling people’s data. That’s what all the big companies do—Fluttr, Twitter, Facebook—but we’d like to take a different approach, one that’s more respectful of our users’ privacy. To start, I envision a tiered membership model. Subscribers can pay more money to attend more events, and also to access special perks, like exclusive meetups in smaller venues. As we grow, I anticipate corporate sponsorships for our events, as well—I’ve already spoken with a rep at PointBreak PR who’s expressed an interest in approaching some of her clients with this opportunity.”

  Actually, that was a little white lie; the idea for corporate sponsorships had only just occurred to me, so I hadn’t yet cleared that idea with Whit. But I was certain she’d be proud of me for name-dropping her PR firm. Especially when Tisha’s face morphed from skeptical to impressed.

  “I’d like to see it in action,” she said. “Do you have any events currently planned?”

  “Yes.” The word fell out of my mouth before I could even think about what I was saying. I just knew that whatever Tisha Cole was asking me for, the answer needed to be “Yes.”

  “When is it taking place?”

  “Um...next week? It’s a free event, since we’re still in beta.”

  “I’d love to attend.” Tisha plucked a business card from the front pouch of her Kate Spade and presented it to me. “Please let me know the where and the when.”

  “Of course. Absolutely.”

  As she walked away, I turned her card over in my hands, feeling the heft of the thick cardstock, running my fingers over the embossed lettering. Tisha Cole, Managing Director and Partner at FirstBrand Capital, would be coming to my first inPerson event.

  Which meant I should probably plan it.

  29

  I arrived home to find Ray standing on a ladder in the middle of our living room, hanging a funky spherical light fixture from the ceiling. Vanessa stood at his feet, steadying his legs. When I opened the door, she turned to me, beaming.

  “Isn’t this lamp the cutest? I found it on Etsy.”

  “It’s great.”

  Vanessa’s face fell at the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. “You hate it.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s adorable. I just have other stuff on my mind.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “I saw the article on BuzzFeed today. How was your meetup?”

  “It was interesting. And kind of terrifying. A big investor wants to see inPerson in action.”

  “That’s so exciting!” She clapped her hands together rapidly, releasing Ray’s legs, causing him to wobble precariously on the thin metal ladder.

  “Vee, I need help!”

  Instantly, she returned to spotting him, and his body steadied. “Sorry, honey.”

  “It is exciting,” I said, “but I told her our first mixer was next week and I don’t have a venue. I need a private space with a place to store cell phones securely and check IDs at the door. This is New York—nothing’s gonna be available on such short notice. Not to mention, I have about a million bugs to fix before the app can go live and I do not have the time to plan a party, too.”

  “Let me do it,” Vanessa said, eyes shining.

  “I can’t ask you to take that on. It’s way too much work.”

  “What are you talking about? You know I live for this kind of thing. I was hoping you’d ask me, anyway. I already started a Pinterest board specifically for inPerson parties.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at Vanessa’s generosity. “Thank you. That would be a huge help. But it doesn’t solve the problem of the venue.”

  “We’ll do it on the roof.”

  “Oh, no.” Ray descended from the ladder, already shaking his head. “After what happened last time? No way.”

  “Everything was going fine until that hipster set his beard on fire,” she said. “This time, we just won’t have a fire pit.”

  “I can’t do it, Vee. It’s too risky. I don’t wanna lose my job.”

  “Then stay home that night. Say you had no idea it was happening. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them I did it without your permission.”

  Ray looked at me. “How many people you expecting at this thing?”

  “We’re capping the guest list at fifty, plus there’ll be a few other people working the event.”

  He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, probably doing mental math to calculate how many people could safely fit on that tiny rooftop.

  “There were definitely more than fifty people at the last party,” Vanessa said. “I’ll be super careful.”

  She squeezed his arm and he looked from her hand to her eyes, his mouth softening into a grin. “You better.”

  “I promise I will.” She raised up onto her tiptoes, planting a kiss on Ray’s lips.

  With that problem solved, I still had about a thousand others to address. Like getting the mapping feature in working condition so people could find the venue the night of the party. Not to mention, testing out my algorithm to make sure I sent the right invites to the right people and kept an accurate count of RSVPs.

  There was no way I was going to finish this all in a week.

  I texted the girls: I’m fucked.

  WHIT:

  You say this shit so often the words have lost all their meaning.

  MEL:

  No, this time it’s true. Big time investor showed up tonight. Wants to see inPerson in action. I lied and told her there was a party planned next week. Now she wants to come. So I have to actually put one on.

  WHIT:

  Oh, you’re right. You’re fucked.

  LIA:

  Stop. You’ll get it done, you always do.

  MEL:

  There’s too much to fix, though. Even if I stayed up all night, I’d never get it all finished.

  DANI:

  Can you enlist help?

  LIA:

  Yeah, did you meet any other coders at that networking event?

  MEL:

  Good call. I totally did.

  I scrolled through my contacts and pulled up Priya’s number, then sent her a text:

  Hi Priya, it’s Mel Strickland. I have an opportunity for an internship that I think you might find interesting. Give me a call whenever you’re free to discuss.

  Since it was ten o’clock on a Thursday night, and Priya was in the prime of her college life, I assumed she was out drinking somewhere on MacDougal Street and I’d hear from her tomorrow, after the worst of her hangover had worn off. To my surprise, though, she called me back almost immediately.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  “Thank you so much for contacting me,” she said. “I want first dibs on whatever it is you’ve got to offer.”

  “Well, as it turns out, we’re goi
ng to be holding our first inPerson event next week. The problem is, the app isn’t quite where it needs to be.” Translation: it’s a broken POS. “So, I was wondering if you’d be interested in taking on some extra work over the next few days, helping out with bug fixes and testing and stuff. I can pay you by the hour, and—”

  “Yes!” Priya didn’t bother to wait until I finished my sentence. “I would love to. Thank you!”

  “Great. Right now, I don’t have an office, but I feel like it would be beneficial for us to work in the same space. Would you be okay with coming to my place in Brooklyn tomorrow to get started? I’ll provide food.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be there bright and early.”

  I hung up, wishing I’d been as ambitious as Priya when I was in college. If I had, who knew how much I’d have accomplished by now?

  But playing what-if wouldn’t get inPerson off the ground. I flipped open my laptop and got to work testing the algorithm for sending out those invites. I decided our first event would focus on straight couples, with dedicated safe-space events for queer users taking place at later dates. For now, that meant the algorithm would need to ensure a balanced selection of men and women, while keeping in mind similar age ranges, interests, and general locations.

  After a few tweaks to the code, I found the perfect way to pick the guest list from the names on our waiting list. Then I composed the email:

  * * *

  To: inPerson Guest

  From: Melanie Strickland

  Subject: You’re Invited to the First inPerson Singles Mixer!

  Congratulations!

  You’ve been invited to participate in the first ever inPerson Singles Mixer.

  The event will be held in Downtown Brooklyn on Thursday, May 17 at 6:00 PM. An hour before it begins, you’ll be provided with a map to the venue. Just open your inPerson app and let your GPS be your guide to love!

  RSVP at the link below no later than Monday, May 14.

  Can’t wait to see you there!

  xo

  Mel

  * * *

  With a shaky finger, I hit Send.