The Third Door

by Alex Banayan

  Elliott put his fork down. “Hold on. You’re telling me that we’ve been together for over two hours now and you never told me that you funded your entire adventure by hacking a game show?”

  I shrugged.

  “You idiot!” he said.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice, enunciating each word. “Never again will you sit in a meeting with someone and not tell them that. Your mission is nice, but this story tells me more about who you are than anything else you could possibly say. This story commands attention.

  “Everybody has experiences in their lives,” he added. “Some choose to make them into stories.”

  I was so transfixed by Elliott’s words I barely noticed that his guests had sat back down.

  “Alex, tell them what you just told me,” Elliott said. “Tell them how you funded your mission.”

  I stumbled through the story. Despite my stutters, by the end the dynamic of the table had changed. The cofounder of Groupon cut me off. “That’s…incredible.” He spoke to me for the rest of breakfast, sharing his stories and advice, then giving me his email address and telling me to stay in touch.

  I snuck another look at my watch. If I didn’t leave in a few minutes, I was dead.

  Excusing myself from the table, I stepped to the side and looked up the number for the USC business school office. As the dial tone rang in my ear, I looked over my shoulder at all the CEOs and billionaires I’d dreamed of learning from.

  A secretary picked up, and with an overwhelming sense of urgency I blurted, “Patch me through to the dean.” For some reason, she did. The business school’s associate dean—not the film school dean who had stopped me with Spielberg—answered the phone.

  “It’s Alex Banayan. I need to explain to you where I’m standing right now. Within ten feet of me is…” and I went on to list everyone in my vicinity. “I don’t need to explain to you how rare of an opportunity this is. Now, I have an accounting final in an hour, and I would have to leave right this second to get to campus on time. I can’t make this decision—you have to make this decision. And I need an answer within thirty seconds.”

  She didn’t respond.

  After thirty seconds, I asked if she was still there.

  “You didn’t hear this from me,” she said, “but email your professor tomorrow morning saying your flight from San Francisco to LA was delayed, you had no control over the matter, and that’s why you missed the final.”

  Click. She hung up.

  To this day, it’s hard to fully express how grateful I am for what the associate dean did for me that morning.

  When I returned to the table, breakfast continued and the energy kept building. The cofounder of Groupon invited me to visit him in Chicago. Then Reid Hoffman stopped by our table. Eventually, Elliott’s two guests left and I sat there, looking around the restaurant, taking it all in.

  “Hey, big shot,” Elliott whispered. “You want to interview a tech mogul, don’t you? There’s the CEO of Google, twenty feet away from you. This is your chance. Go talk to him. Let’s see what you got.”

  A wave of panic washed over me.

  “If you want it,” Elliott said, “there it is.”

  “I usually prepare for weeks before I ask someone for an interview. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “Do it.”

  It was almost as if Elliott could smell The Flinch.

  “Come on, tough guy,” he went on. “Let’s see what you got.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Come on. Do it,” he said, sounding like a drug dealer. With each sentence, his shoulders rose higher and chest grew broader, as if he was fueling off my discomfort. He bore into me with his panther-like eyes.

  “When it’s in front of you,” Elliott said, “make your move.”

  Larry Page, the CEO of Google, pushed his seat back. I could barely feel my legs. Page began walking away. I stood up.

  I shadowed him out of the restaurant and down some stairs. He entered a restroom. I cringed…Not again. I stepped in and saw six urinals. Larry Page was at one end. The other five were empty. Without thinking, I chose the one farthest from him. As I stood there, I tried to come up with something clever to say. But all I could hear in my head was Elliott’s voice: When it’s in front of you, make your move.

  Page stepped over to wash his hands. I followed, again choosing the farthest sink. The more I thought about failing, the more I failed.

  Page was drying his hands. I had to say something.

  “Uh, you’re Larry Page, right?”

  “Yes.”

  My face went blank. Page looked at me, confused, and then walked out. And that was that.

  I dragged my feet back to the breakfast table where Elliott was waiting. I slumped in my seat.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Uh…well…”

  “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Adventures Only Happen to the Adventurous

  Bill Gates’ Chief of Staff had said I needed a publishing deal, so I set out to get one. I began Googling and it didn’t take long to learn the basics. First you write a book proposal, which you use to attract a literary agent, who then secures a publisher. Every blog post I read stressed that you can’t land a deal with a major publisher without a literary agent, so the way I saw it was: no agent, no Bill Gates.

  I bought more than a dozen books about the process—How to Write a Book Proposal, Bestselling Book Proposals, Bulletproof Book Proposals—and stacked them in a gigantic tower on my desk. As I plowed through them and started my proposal, I used the Tim Ferriss cold-email template to reach out to dozens of bestselling authors for advice, and miraculously, the guidance flooded in. They answered my questions over email, spoke with me on the phone, and some even met me in person. Their kindness blew me away and they helped me understand the obstacles I was up against. I was a young, unknown writer, with no prior experience, entering the publishing industry at a time when it was shrinking and difficult for even successful writers to get deals.

  Because of that, the authors I spoke to stressed how important it was to focus on marketing ideas, both in my proposal and when I spoke to agents. They told me to use every fact and statistic I could to prove the book would sell, because without proof, why would an agent waste his or her time? But first, I needed to figure out exactly which agents to approach.

  One author told me how.

  He said to buy twenty books similar to the one I wanted to write, study the acknowledgments, and make notes of whom the authors thanked as their agents. I spent weeks compiling my list, researching what other books the agents represented and determining which agents might be best.

  Then one night in the storage closet, I grabbed a sheet of white printer paper, uncapped a thick black marker, and wrote across the top: NO AGENT, NO BILL GATES.

  One by one, I scrawled the names of twenty agents, starting with my favorite and working my way down. I taped the list on the wall. After I finished my proposal, I began reaching out to them, a few at a time. As sophomore year ended and summer began, their responses trickled in.

  “Books like this don’t sell,” one told me. I drew a line through her name.

  “I don’t think we’re a right fit,” another said. I crossed him off too.

  “I’m not taking on any additional clients.”

  Each rejection stung more than the last. One day, as I racked my mind wondering what I was doing wrong, my phone buzzed on my desk. It was a text from Elliott. Just seeing his name made me immediately grab my phone.

  I’m in LA…come hang for a bit

  Desperate for a break, I headed straight to Elliott’s Santa Monica apartment. When I got there, I found him and his twenty-four-year-old brother, Austin, on a couch, each with a laptop in hand.
/>   “Yo!” I said.

  Elliott shot down my enthusiasm with a dismissive stare. He turned his attention back to his laptop.

  “We’re going to Europe tonight,” he said.

  “Oh, cool. What time are you going?”

  “We don’t know yet. We just decided to go a minute ago. We’re looking for tickets.”

  How did he live like this? When my parents traveled, they planned six months in advance. My dad would give thick packets with photocopies of his passport, emergency contact numbers, and itinerary to three different people.

  “You should come with us,” Elliott said.

  I assumed he was joking.

  “You have any big plans this weekend?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Good. Come with us.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Book your ticket right now.”

  “There’s no way my parents will let me go.”

  “You’re nineteen. Why do you need to ask your parents?”

  Clearly, Elliott had never met my mom.

  “Are you in?” he pressed.

  “I can’t. I have a…a family thing tonight.”

  “Okay, fly out tomorrow morning. Meet us there.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Are you in?” he repeated.

  “My Price Is Right money is low. I don’t have enough cash for flights and hotels and all that.”

  “Get your plane tickets and I’ll cover the rest.”

  I ran out of excuses.

  “Great,” he said. “You’re coming with us.”

  I hadn’t made up my mind, but I didn’t want to close off the possibility, so I nodded.

  “Perfect. Get on a flight tomorrow morning and meet us in London.”

  “How am I going to find you?”

  “Just text me when you land. I’ll send you the address. It’s easy. Just get on the Tube from the airport and I’ll tell you which stop to get off.”

  “What’s the Tube?”

  Elliott sneered.

  He turned to Austin. “Oh my God, how funny would it be if we tell him to meet us in London, but instead of being there we leave him a note with a riddle that tells him we’re now in Amsterdam, then he goes there and finds another riddle that tells him we’re in Berlin, and then another, and another!”

  My face went flush.

  “We’re kidding, we’re kidding,” Elliott said.

  He looked at Austin and they laughed hysterically.

  * * *

  I headed to Shabbat dinner at my grandma’s house, which is far from a calm family gathering. It’s thirty cousins, uncles, and aunts all around a table, shouting on top of each other, which is why I knew better than to tell my mom about Europe during dinner.

  After our meal, I asked my mom if we could talk in a side room. We closed the door and I told her about Elliott, why I so desperately wanted to learn from him, and how our first meeting went.

  “Wow,” she said, “that’s so nice.”

  Then I told her I was meeting him in London the next day.

  “What do you mean you’re going to London? You’re pulling my leg. You don’t even know this guy.”

  “I do know him. And he’s not just some guy. He’s well known in the business world.”

  She Googled Elliott on her phone, which I quickly remembered was a bad idea.

  “What are all these pictures?”

  “Well…”

  “Where’s his home? Why doesn’t his website say what he does?”

  “Mom, you don’t understand. Mystery makes history.”

  “Mystery makes history? Are you insane? What if you fly to London and Mr. Mystery isn’t there? Where are you even going to stay?”

  “Elliott said he’d text me when I land.”

  “He’ll text you when you land? You are insane! I don’t have the energy for this. You’re not going.”

  “Mom, I’ve thought it through. Worst-case scenario is he ditches me. I’ll just book a return ticket and I’ll have wasted my Price Is Right money. But the best-case scenario is maybe he’ll become my mentor.”

  “No. The worst-case is he doesn’t ditch you, and once you’re with him, you don’t know what he pressures you to do, you don’t know where he takes you, you don’t know what kind of people he hangs out with—”

  “Mom, listen—”

  “No, you listen! Look at yourself. You met some guy and he told you to meet him in London the next day—and you said yes? Have we taught you nothing? Where is your common sense? Did you ever stop and ask yourself why Elliott never stays put in any one city? Why does he buy his plane ticket only a few hours in advance? What is he running away from? And why does he want a nineteen-year-old to come with him? What’s his agenda?”

  I didn’t have an answer. But something inside me said it didn’t matter. “Mom, I won this money. It’s my decision. I’m going.”

  Her face flashed red. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Late that night, through my bedroom walls, I could hear my mom crying on the phone to my grandma. “I don’t know what to do with him anymore,” my mom said. “He’s out of control.”

  The next morning I found her in the kitchen. I showed her my laptop and told her, if I was going to make it to London, I had to buy my ticket in the next two hours. The time pressure didn’t persuade her.

  Our talk from the night before played out again, and as happens in many Persian families, it was only a matter of time before our one-on-one discussion turned into a circus: my sisters Talia and Briana appeared in their pajamas and immediately started arguing for both sides, yelling over each other; my dad walked in completely confused and started shouting, “WHO IS ELLIOTT? WHO IS ELLIOTT?”; the doorbell rang and it was my grandma, holding a Tupperware of peeled cucumbers, asking if we’d made a decision.

  Fifteen minutes before the cutoff, my mom still hadn’t budged. I told her that as much as I loved her, I had to make this decision for myself.

  Right as she began to respond, my grandma cut her off.

  “Enough,” she said. “He’s a good kid. Let him go.”

  The kitchen fell silent.

  My mom reached for my laptop. When I looked at the screen, she was helping me book my ticket.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bite Off More Than You Can Chew

  ONE DAY LATER, ROOFTOP IN LONDON

  I didn’t think places like this actually existed. There were dozens—no, hundreds—of tall, beautiful women in bikinis, with the kind of curves that melt the mind of a kid who can’t even get into a frat party. They were shoulder to shoulder in the swimming pool, overflowing onto the deck, bathing in the bright summer sun. All I heard were the sounds of giggling and splashing and popping champagne bottles. Elliott reclined in a pool chair to my right, his hair dripping wet from a recent dip. Austin sat beside him, strumming a guitar.

  “So,” I said to Elliott, “this is what it’s like being an entrepreneur?”

  “Not in the slightest,” he replied.

  He told me he barely knew what the word “entrepreneur” meant when he started college. The concept first clicked during his freshman year. Elliott was walking down his dorm room hall when he saw steam creeping out from under a doorway. He stumbled in and saw that his friend had converted his room into a makeshift T-shirt factory.

  “What are you doing?” Elliott asked.

  His friend explained how screen printing worked.

  “Cool,” Elliott said. “Who do you work for?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What do you mean ‘nobody’? What company hires you?”

  “No company.”

  “You can’t just work for nobody. Then who pays you?”

  “The people I sell the shirts to pay m
e.”

  “I literally don’t understand. You don’t have a boss or an office? How can you—”

  “Dude, it’s called being an entrepreneur. You can do that.”

  It seemed so simple: here’s this kid, he made a T-shirt, and then somebody bought it for twenty bucks. Plus, no boss? To Elliott, that was a dream. But he didn’t have any ideas of his own, so Elliott figured he should just make T-shirts too.

  He asked his friend if they could partner, and boxes of unsold T-shirts later, they gave up. The following year, they created a marketing consulting company for stores neighboring their campus. After nine months of pitching every shop, no one hired them.

  When he went back home to Washington, D.C., for the summer, he learned that his dad had started an email newsletter on local real estate. “Why don’t I sell ads for it?” Elliott wondered. His dad said no. At the time, Elliott was just a college kid with two failed businesses to his name. But after some convincing, his dad finally gave in and Elliott got to work. He picked up the local newspaper, turned to the real estate section, saw which companies were buying ads, and called the first one.

  “Hi! I’d like to sell you some advertising. Who should I talk to?”

  “Sorry, we’re not interested.” Click.

  He dialed the next one. “Hi, who buys your advertising?”

  “Oh, our marketing director.”

  “Oh, great! I’d love to talk to them.”

  “Sorry, not interested.” Click.

  Elliott called another. “Hi, who’s your marketing director?”

  “Sarah Smith.”

  “Oh, can I talk to her?”

  “No.” Click. Elliott made a note to call her back.

  A week later, he called again in his most professional voice and said, “Hello, this is Elliott Bisnow for Sarah Smith, please.”

  “One second,” and he was patched right through.

  After three weeks of cold calls, Elliott finally booked his first sales meeting at the D.C. office of Jones Lang LaSalle, a large real estate firm. Elliott had once heard that if you present three pricing options and make the first option too expensive and the third unappealing, people often choose the middle one. So he made a gold, silver, and bronze package, with silver being ten ads for $6,000. There was no science behind his pricing. It just sounded right.