by Anna Yen
Finally! Some fun!
“Rajesh is buying!” I shouted happily, trying to lighten up the mood. The roomful of men seemed to want to cheer, but no one could miss my boss’s daggered glare. Oops. Not funny?
Three weeks later, my phone rang at the end of the day. I considered not answering it because I was so tired. I could barely lift my chin to check the caller ID; when I saw Grant’s phone number flashing, I picked up the handset.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Good. I felt good today. I finally nailed the presentation and can proudly say that Andre has signed off,” I cheered, feeling a brief injection of energy. “What’s going on over there? Are you guys still trying to get that lease negotiated in Orange County?”
“It’s a living nightmare. Andre picked a real winner. The manufacturing site is riddled with environmental issues, permitting issues, and a landlord that is anything but cooperative. The joke of the year will be, ‘How many lawyers does it take to negotiate a lease?’”
“Rajesh is worse! That guy is so uptight that I think he may break,” I said.
“It’s a tough culture over there for sure. It doesn’t help that Rajesh is so green and that Andre is never there.”
“Yeah, so if Andre is never here, that means Rajesh is setting the culture, which, quite frankly, seems fear-based to me. I don’t know who I can trust here!”
“Trust no one,” Grant advised in a rather serious tone. “No one.”
I nodded in agreement and told myself to just get through the IPO, before changing the subject altogether. “Hey, do you know why our in-house counsel quit last week?” I asked. The timing of his departure was very sudden and suspect. “I liked that guy.”
“Only he and Andre know the reason, or reasons. I think it has something to do with this new facility, though. Andre isn’t a fan of lawyers.”
“No offense, but most people don’t like lawyers,” I said, defending Andre a little while delivering a friendly jab to my old mentor. I listened to Grant complain for a few more minutes about Andre and Rajesh, chiming in with my own “Oh I know! He did that to me” statements once in a while. I realized how lucky I was that he continued to watch out for me and hoped that Scott would, too. I wanted the same relationship with Andre that I had with Scott and Grant. But Rajesh? Not so much.
A call from Kate lifted my mood even more. She rang to tell me about her trip to Mexico.
“We had a great time. A really great time,” she said. I noticed how much more mature she sounded, more like a real adult than the echo of the crazy college roommate I always knew and loved.
“Yeah? What did you do?”
“Nothing! We snorkeled, slept a lot, ate a lot, and read books on the beach.”
“And drank margaritas, I hope!”
“Well, no. I wasn’t drinking.”
I thought to myself for a moment: Kate. Not drinking. Relaxing and sleeping. Doesn’t sound like her.
“You’re pregnant!” I shrieked.
“Yes! Can you believe it? We haven’t told anyone yet but I’m delighted, although it’s going to be rough raising a kid during law school.”
“You can do it. I know you can. And I call dibs on being the godmother!” I said, feeling genuinely happy and excited for her.
“Uh, no doubt! I’d force you to do it even if you didn’t want to.”
We both laughed and shared more details about our weeks. I told her about work and how Ji-yan and Roberto were the only two people I connected with.
“Roberto sounds cute,” Kate said. “Any jewelry?”
“Unfortunately, yes. A very cool silver ring. His wife is probably gorgeous, smart, and hip,” I responded.
In the late hours of the evening, I went through the same drills that I did at Treehouse: reviewing stock exchange proposals, revising Ion’s S-1 registration statement for our next filing with the SEC, and more. It was during those late hours, when the office had mostly cleared out and I was alone, that I wanted to call Peter the most. In my head I counted the exact number of days since Peter left me that “I’ll call you in three months” message—the fate of our relationship should be decided any day now—and I noticed that it felt like it had been way longer than three months. It felt as though it had been forever. I wanted to see Peter, to go out to dinner with him, to laugh with him, to feel his comforting embrace, but I could only assume the worst. I forced myself to think about something else, fearing I’d become sad. I reached for the phone to call my parents, but then stopped and grinned when I saw the email that had just arrived in my personal email inbox. It’s from Scott.
To: Sophia Young
From: Scott Kraft
Subj:
“Sophia Young reported directly to the world’s ‘penultimate’ marketer”? Did you write that? E.S.L.
SK
It was the first communication I’d had from Scott since I left Treehouse, and imagining his reaction to my bio that was posted on Ion’s website made me laugh. Roberto had pushed me for it when I first started the job, so I’d drafted it very quickly and sent it off before rushing to a meeting with investment bankers. I brought up the Company Management section of Ion’s website and read my bio to see if I’d made a mistake. Then I looked up the word penultimate.
Oops. I thought penultimate was like the supreme ultimate. Not “next to last.”
To: Scott Kraft
From: Sophia Young
Subj: Re:
Oops. Yes. Fixed. BTW, I win the “no talking” contest.
Congrats on the launch of the Q-phone. I want. If I buy twenty, may I have a discount?
S
To: Sophia Young
From: Scott Kraft
Subj: Re: Re:
You still can’t write.
No.
SK
Chapter 23
The holidays passed without anything close to a Viennese Waltz party . . . or a call from Peter that was now officially overdue. Instead Rajesh declared that Ion Palo Alto would be treated to a self-serve sushi platter in the kitchen downstairs, and thoughts of Peter gave way to the piles of work that should have been easy, but instead took twice as long to finish because of the amount of premeditating, planning, or straight-out changing of directions that needed to occur to get Andre’s approval. The graphics in PowerPoint weren’t good enough for him, so we had to change to a different graphic design program. He didn’t like how our logo’s color looked in the S-1, so we had to have a new one designed. And on and on. In addition, somehow I became the middleman between my CEO and his nemeses: the lawyers and bankers. Nearly every issue related to the roadshow required careful steering, and I seemed to be the only one who could handle Andre. Perhaps it was because of my gender, perhaps it was because Scott and my mother trained me well, but working with Andre wasn’t an issue for me—I knew his type. My trick—although I believed Ji-yan did the same—was to refrain from telling Andre what he couldn’t do. Instead, I spent an inordinate amount of time figuring out why he objected to something, then offered a solution I knew he would accept.
For example: the bankers strongly suggested that Andre wear a suit on the roadshow or else the investors, particularly in Boston, would find him disrespectful.
Andre said, “Fuck them. We don’t need them.” To which the bankers responded with a simple, “We’re not taking you out on the road then.”
Now, now. Let’s not be hasty.
My solution to steer Andre in the right direction was to identify a piece of acceptable clothing that I knew he loved (loved, loved) to wear. I said to my CEO, “Hey, how about that really cool blue suede sports jacket of yours—with an Ion T-shirt?”
Mission accomplished. Queen of compromise.
Or, the lawyer said the IPO would be put on hold if Andre stopped in the middle of the roadshow to make an appearance with Stephen Colbert on The Daily Show.
Andre, always one to fight for what he wanted, said stubbornly, “I’m doing it anyway.” To which I responded (knowing
it would take months to organize), “How about we get you a 60 Minutes interview instead? That’s more our target car buyer.”
As the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac at Los Angeles International Airport, I opened my eyes from my hour-long nap and looked at the watch Scott had given me. Nine o’clock. I stretched my arms upward and yawned before unbuckling my (economy class) seat belt (even though passengers were supposed to wait “until the plane comes to a complete stop”). As I groggily dragged my feet off the airplane, I realized my nap was the best sleep I’d had in weeks. I was thankful for the respite. It’s going to be a long day.
I stepped off the airport curbside and into the taxi, reminding myself there were only two weeks remaining before Ion’s roadshow kicked off. I should have been excited, elated even, just as I’d been before Treehouse’s IPO, but the only thing I felt was mentally exhausted—I was homesick for Treehouse, for Jonathan and Scott, and was hardly enjoying myself anymore.
The taxi ride to Ion’s Hawthorne office took only minutes—minutes that I used to psyche myself up for the day ahead. That afternoon I was to host a group of research analysts—the very same ones that were lined up to write public reports about Ion once the company went public. The timing for the event wasn’t great (there was still so much to do) and I’d already spent hours conducting “teach-ins” with them. But despite my efforts to get the analysts excited about our business and Andre’s vision and, more important, to get them to believe that we’d actually be able to do what we said we would do—build and sell luxury-level electric cars—they simply weren’t drinking the Ion Kool-Aid. Hence, the afternoon’s dog and pony show: Ion’s chief designer, VP of engineering, VP of manufacturing, and Roberto—after having been carefully scripted by me—would spend six hours boasting about their vision, their progress, and their experience. The analysts would be allowed to see, touch, feel, and actually test-drive our Model A prototypes before ending the day dining with Andre (at his steak house, a magnet for Hollywood’s Who’s Who, of course). Before their arrival, though, I was due to meet Andre for his final sign-off on the sizzle reel.
Fingers crossed!
Ion’s Hawthorne office—our design center—was extremely different from the company’s headquarters in Palo Alto. Instead of the Toyota Priuses, Volkswagen diesel Jettas, and other gas-efficient vehicles parked at headquarters, the latest Porsche, Maserati, and Ferrari models adorned Hawthorne’s lot. Our chief designer and VP of engineering each had access to generous budgets—budgets that would have paid for one thousand graphic designers (yet I had to kick, scratch, scream, then beg to get just one)—that were earmarked for these luxury brands under the guise of “competitive research” and “testing.” Testing, my ass.
Small square windows lined the entire perimeter of our remarkably white design center’s one-story building. Its skylight-dotted roof sent light streaming into the modern space, which was decorated with elegant gray and black Herman Miller workspace furniture. Each time I visited, I felt a twinge of office envy. Palo Alto was obviously the red-headed stepchild; even more appealing to me, however, was this office’s casual, inspired, creative culture. Most likely the culture differences were because Andre spent most of his time at Hawthorne; unfortunately Rajesh’s formal and strict personality had shaped Palo Alto.
I sat on one of the eight white leather chairs surrounding a long glass table inside a narrow, stark white conference room. The tasteful steel borders of the room’s five glass windows added a pop of contrast to the otherwise whitewashed setting. It all looked very L.A.
While waiting for Andre, I played the sizzle reel one last time.
Thank God he already signed off on the presentation.
And thirty minutes after we were scheduled to meet, Andre stormed in with a man in tow and said, “I’m really busy today. What do you need?”
I tilted my chin toward the strange man and mouthed the words, Who’s that?
“That’s my new bodyguard,” Andre said, as though having a bodyguard were a normal occurrence. “Now what’s up?”
“I need you to sign off on the sizzle reel. We need to get it finalized because the lawyers and bankers have to have time to review it.”
“Fuck them,” Andre said, still standing. He responded to my annoyed expression by adding, “Fine, just email it to me.”
“But—”
“I’m really busy, Sophia. I don’t have time for this. If we don’t make the launch this week, I’m not going on the roadshow,” Andre threatened.
He was referring to his other company, Stark Aerospace, and its first-ever rocket launch. A lot was riding on the launch’s success because if it worked, NASA would sign on as Stark Aerospace’s first customer, which meant the company would win the contract to manage all shipments to and from the International Space Station. The launch had been delayed for weeks, first because of bad weather, and then due to a technical issue. I tried to be sympathetic to the unbearable pressure Andre must have been feeling, but I resented the fact that his space company distracted him from what I needed him to do. He was making my life, and the lives of everyone else involved with the IPO, very difficult.
“Please just watch it once. It’s thirty seconds,” I begged while fumbling around on my laptop to bring up the video. In my opinion, the sizzle reel did exactly what I wanted it to do, and I was certain it would make investors sit forward in their chairs. As the video began, Andre, still standing, folded his arms and let out a frustrated sigh.
Four seconds into the reel, Andre said, “I don’t like the music.” His eyes were glued to the door and he started to pace back and forth like a caged animal, anxious to break free from the confines of me and the conference room.
“What type of music do you want?” I asked.
“Not that kind.”
That’s very, very helpful. Thank you.
“You’ve said that twice now,” I said patiently. “The film director and I have tried slow-paced music, fast-paced rock, and even a blend of rhythm and blues, but you don’t like any of them, so perhaps you could be more specific?”
Andre flashed a rabid look my way, stomped his foot, and shouted as he stormed out of the room, “I don’t have time for this! I have to launch the fucking rocket!”
Okay, then. That went well.
To: Ji-yan Chen
From: Sophia Young
Subj: Music
What music does Andre like?
To: Sophia Young
From: Ji-yan Chen
Subj: Re: Music
Ibiza disco house music.
When I received Ji-yan’s response, I immediately took to the Internet to figure out what she meant. As I searched for the term Ibiza, I wondered, What in the hell is that?
For the next three hours, I listened to Ibiza disco music while I waited for Miles and my six research analysts to arrive. When they finally did, I ushered them into our scheduled meetings, where our executives wowed them with computer-animated designs that simulated aerodynamics tests, detailed drawings of the Model A, and explanations about how those designs translated into the working prototypes of the car. Our visitors were also shown a PowerPoint presentation of the cars’ step-by-step manufacturing plans and schedule, and they were shown photos of the manufacturing facility we’d recently acquired, which, incidentally, was not the one Grant and his team had been trying to negotiate for months. Our new plant was purchased only one week ago—the day Andre and I toured the 5.3 million-square-foot former car manufacturing facility in Fremont, California, that had recently closed. The plant was so large that we took a trolley to get to the middle of it; we climbed out and walked around for only a few minutes before Andre turned to me and said, “I want it.” Satisfied, he’d climbed back into the trolley and driven off, leaving me standing alone and responsible for, what else—buying an entire factory. In a week.
At the end of the day, the whole group was caravanned off to Andre’s popular restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, where, upon arrival, I immediately noticed
the Kardashians dining in one booth while Reese Witherspoon and her husband sat at another. The analysts didn’t seem to care or notice the Hollywood stars, though—they were too starstruck by Andre. Three hours later, I signaled for Andre to wrap it up (which he ignored), and when the analysts were finally safe in their taxis, I grabbed Miles and raced to the airport. By the time we arrived, it was too late. The last flight to San Francisco had departed.
While Miles stood at the airline desk trying to find a different route home, I called Rajesh to let him know that his VP of finance and VP of IR would likely have to spend the night in L.A.
“We missed our flight. Dinner ran long,” I said, sounding exhausted and regretting my high heels.
“Oh no. That’s terrible. I feel very badly for Miles. He has a family at home,” Rajesh said.
“They’ll be okay. His wife is home,” I said, glancing over at Miles to see if there was any sign of progress.
“Yes, but he has children and, well, it’s always better for a man to be home with his family.”
I wanted to lie—to tell Rajesh that I had a family waiting for me at home, too. It was clear he didn’t care at all that I was stuck in L.A. with no toothbrush or change of clothes. Instead I passive-aggressively said, “Oh, don’t worry about me. I don’t have any of my insulin, but I’ll be fine.” Exhausted and homesick, I thought of Peter. I’d be spending the night in L.A. by myself, and no one would be missing me.
