by Ben Mezrich
“This looks promising,” he said as Dustin parked the car next to a pile of trash that seemed to swallow a good portion of the curb. The homeless men nearby didn’t give their car a second glance. “A lot more girls in line than guys. That’s a good sign.”
They got out of the car and approached the front door to the club. As usual, Mark kind of hung back, so Eduardo took the initiative and walked up to the large man with the headset. The man eyed him—taking in his jacket and tie—and then glanced at Mark and Dustin, dressed like computer programmers, standing a few feet behind. The look on the man’s face said it all. These kids think they’re getting in here? It was San Francisco, sure, but even here there had to be standards. Eduardo gave him their names, and the man dutifully parroted them into his headset. Then he shrugged, surprised, and held open the door.
The place was dark and throbbing. Two floors with low ceilings, plenty of flashing strobe lights, and a Lucite stairway that curved above the bar to a raised VIP section, complete with velvet ropes and circular, leather-lined booths. The music was blaring—a mix of alternative and dance—and there were waitresses in tiny skirts and midriff-baring tops prancing through the crowd, carrying trays stacked with foofy-looking, brightly colored martinis. The place was really packed, and the waitresses were having a hell of a time keeping the martinis from toppling over.
Eduardo and his friends had made it barely ten feet into the crowd when he heard a voice over the music, from the direction of the stairs. He caught sight of Sean Parker standing midway up to the VIP section, excitedly waving at them.
“Over here!”
It took almost five minutes to work their way to the bottom of the stairs, where they had to tell another headsetted bouncer their names. Then they followed Sean up into the VIP, and joined him at one of the circular, leather-lined tables. He poured them shots from a bottle of ridiculously expensive vodka.
When they were seated and drinking, Sean launched right into a story about the last time he was in this club—with the founders of PayPal, after some awards ceremony. He talked really fast, in his usual eccentric manner, and he was so jittery—spilling his drink on the table, tapping the floor with his little, bootlike leather shoes; but Sean was always like that, Eduardo knew, his brain just ran on a faster setting than everyone else’s.
While Sean talked, Eduardo couldn’t help noticing the table next to theirs—because it was filled with a group of the hottest girls he’d ever seen. Four of them, to be exact, each one hotter than the next. Two blondes, in black cocktail dresses, their bare legs so long they seemed almost alien. And two brunettes, both of indeterminate ethnic origin, one bulging out of a leather bustier while the other was barely wearing a wispy summer dress that could easily have doubled for lingerie.
It took Eduardo a moment to realize that he recognized the girls—and that they were, in fact, quite literally the best-looking girls he’d ever seen, because they were Victoria’s Secret models, right from the catalog. And then he saw something that stunned him even more: while Sean frittered on about God only knew what, one of the girls had leaned over the space connecting the two tables and was talking to Mark.
Eduardo stared in disbelief. The girl was now leaning so far forward that her ample breasts were barely contained by her bustier. Her tan skin had sparkles on it and her bare shoulders were glowing under the strobing lights. She was gorgeous. And she was talking to Mark.
He couldn’t imagine what the conversation could possibly be about. Or how it had begun. But the girl seemed to be really enjoying herself. Mark, for his part, looked like a terrified animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But what glorious headlights they were. He barely responded, barely spoke at all—but she didn’t seem to mind. She was smiling, and then she reached forward and touched Mark’s leg.
Eduardo gasped. Parker was going on and on next to him. Now the entrepreneur was retelling the story of his battle with Sequoia Capital—how he believed that that crazy Welshman had forced him out of Plaxo, hired a private eye, tortured him into resigning from the company. Who knew if it was true or not, but obviously, there was really bad blood there. Sean had vowed that he was going to get back at them, someday, somehow. Then he was talking about thefacebook, how it was such an incredible thing, how he believed it was going to be the biggest thing in the world. And he seemed to really believe in it. In fact, the only thing that really bothered him about the site was the the in the name. It wasn’t necessary. He hated unnecessary things.
On and on and on and Eduardo just sat there and listened while he kept watching Mark and the girl—
And the next thing he knew, Mark was suddenly getting up and the Victoria’s Secret model had him by the hand. She led him out of the VIP area and down the Lucite stairs. And then Mark was gone.
Eduardo’s head was spinning. Had he really just seen what he thought he’d seen? Could Mark really have just left the club? And wasn’t he still dating that Asian girl from Harvard?
Holy shit. Eduardo was pretty sure he’d just watched Mark Zuckerberg go home with a Victoria’s Secret model.
In Eduardo’s mind, it was the clearest sign yet that Sean Parker was right: thefacebook was going to be the biggest thing in the world.
Four days later, Eduardo was back in that window seat on the same damn American Airlines 757, his head pressed against the circular window to his right. This time there was no rain outside, but the sheets of gray were still there, vicious and violent and fierce, except this time they were in Eduardo’s head, behind his eyes, grinding his thoughts like a blender on high.
Everything hurt. His body ached almost as much as his head—and he had no one to blame but himself. The past few days had been a whirlwind of business, strategizing—and drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. Beginning with that damn party, which had gone on until well past four, hours after the club had closed. Eduardo hadn’t seen Mark until the next day, and Mark had been very evasive about the Victoria’s Secret model. But Eduardo was certain something had happened. The harder he pressed, the more closed off Mark got—to him, a sure sign that there was something there. Eduardo could only be impressed. It felt like the world had turned upside down, and now they were deep in the rabbit hole.
Things only got crazier after that. Sean had set up a number of dinners, meetings, and cocktail outings for the time that Eduardo was there, with VCs, software reps, anyone with deep pockets who seemed interested in thefacebook. It turned out, there were a lot of people interested. In fact, they were being ferociously courted by all the major players in town. Something had certainly changed, and now there were real offers being bandied about, numbers in the many millions being whispered in their ears.
And the wining and dining was beyond excessive. They were brought to the nicest, most expensive restaurants in San Francisco; often, the interested parties sent limos for them, or had them picked up in gleaming SUVs. When Mark couldn’t get his Craigslist car to start one morning, and ended up making them late for a breakfast meeting, the VC whom they were supposed to meet had offered to buy him an SUV. Eduardo knew the man was serious—the next time he came out, he fully expected to see Mark in a new car.
But the weirdest meeting had to have been the one just the night before Eduardo’s flight back to New York. He and Mark had been invited onto the yacht of one of the original founders of Sun Microsystems. It turned out, the man was an exotic eater—known for his tastes in bizarre, exotic foods. After they’d talked business for a few hours, one of the boat’s staff had brought out a gleaming silver tray. On the tray was a piece of fibrous-looking meat. Eduardo had been afraid to ask—but the man had volunteered the information right away. The meat was koala—which wasn’t just exotic, but, he believed, illegal. Still, it would have been rude to turn the dish away.
Sitting on the plane, waiting for the engines to come on, Eduardo still couldn’t believe it all. He’d eaten koala on a yacht. He’d gotten drunk in some of the poshest places in Northern California. And he’d be
en whispered numbers that would make him and Mark rich, really rich.
Whatever the numbers were, though, Eduardo knew that they weren’t going to sell thefacebook. In his mind, it was way too early for that. He knew that thefacebook was going to be worth a lot more in the future; hell, they were closing in on five hundred thousand members, and it was growing every day. So what if they weren’t making any money? So what if, in fact, they were getting into some serious debt, barely kept alive by the eighteen thousand he’d invested into the bank account? He didn’t want to sell. Mark didn’t want to sell. Sean Parker—well, who cared what Sean Parker wanted? He wasn’t a member of the management team. He was an adviser. He wasn’t involved. He was nobody.
Eduardo grimaced, as a new wave of gray moved through his head. Then he felt a familiar vibration, and realized that once again, he’d forgotten about his damn phone.
He yanked the thing out of his pocket. He saw that he had an incoming call—from Kelly, of course, whom he’d pretty much avoided talking to since he’d been in California.
He thought about putting the phone back in his pocket, but he knew he had a few minutes before takeoff, so he figured now was as good a time as any.
He hit the receive button and put the phone to his ear.
She was sobbing on the other end of the line, and there were loud sirens in the background. Eduardo’s eyes widened, and he perked up in his seat.
“What the hell is going on?”
She spoke quickly, through her sobs. When he hadn’t called her after a couple days in California, she’d done what he’d told her to do—she’d found the present he’d left for her in the closet of her dorm room. Then she’d lit the fucking thing on fire. Along with most of his clothes, which he’d left behind in her drawers. Her entire dorm room had nearly gone up. The fire department had been called, and they had sprayed the place down with fire extinguishers. Now they were even talking about arresting her.
Eduardo closed his eyes, shaking his head. Wonderful. It was just one of the joys of having a crazy girlfriend.
You never knew what she was going to do next.
Two seconds.
The difference between being a champion and being forgotten, between etching your name on a plaque and a trophy and a wall—and going home with nothing but a ribbon and some memories.
Two seconds.
Tyler felt his body sagging as he leaned forward, exhausted, his callused hands loosening against the now impotent oars. The eight-man scull was still skimming the water, still moving forward at almost racing pace—but the race was already over. Even if he hadn’t seen it himself—the Dutch boat nosing them out by those bare two seconds—he would have known the results from the cheers coming from the banks of the river on either side. Those were Dutch voices shouting out to their friends and teammates, not the small contingent of Americans who had traveled halfway around the world to watch Tyler and his brother row.
Deep down, he knew that just participating in the Henley Royal Regatta was an honor, and an experience he would carry with him for the rest of his life. The event had been running annually since 1839, and took place on the longest natural straight stretch of water in England—a one mile, 550-yard section of the Thames, located in the quaint, medieval town of Henley, which dated all the way back to 1526.
The town itself was something right out of a fairy tale. Some of the original buildings still stood, and Tyler and his brother had spent much of the five-day event wandering the narrow streets with their host families, hitting the pubs, churches, shops—well, mostly the pubs.
But despite the culture they’d experienced during the week, they’d come to Henley for one reason: to race in the Grand Challenge Cup, against the best crew in the world. And despite their best efforts, they’d come up short.
Two lousy seconds short.
By the time they’d climbed out of the scull and onto the dock for the award ceremony, much of the high-profile audience had streamed out of the Stewards’ Enclosure—a sprawling, overly prestigious viewing area that you had to be a member or a member’s guest to enter—and were milling about, waiting for Prince Albert to do the honors. The prince seemed much shorter in person, but Tyler was quite impressed when the royal shook his hand and seemed to know his name from memory. The mere fact that Albert was there was a bit of good luck; usually, it was a lesser royal doing the award duties, but Albert had made the trip from Monaco in honor of his grandfather, who had been one of the premier rowers of his day—although Jack Kelly had, ironically, been banned from competing in Henley because of his bricklayer background, which Albert now made up for by hosting the event itself.
But a handshake was all Tyler and Cameron received from the dashing prince; the real trophy went to the Dutch team, who took the honor graciously. It was a bit bitter, watching the other crew hefting the trophy above their heads, but Tyler was a good sport, and he applauded along with the rest of the crowd.
Afterward, he and Cameron wandered into the Stewards’ Enclosure—they had been given badges by their host family, who were members—and spent the next few minutes admiring the sometimes bizarre fashions of the British rowing fans; the brightly colored jackets and ties, the long, flowing dresses, the summer hats—the works. It was the first week of July, and the sun was beaming down, but nobody seemed to notice the heat. Maybe that was because there were four bars in the Enclosure, as well as a covered luncheon area and tea tent.
“Can’t win ’em all. Nice job, boys. Down by just a nose.”
Tyler forced a smile as he spotted their host father near the back of the Enclosure, who was separating himself from a group of his friends and hobbling toward them. The man was pudgy, midfifties, and had bright red cheeks set off from a pug nose and deep-set blue eyes. The amiable man made his living as a barrister in London—just a thirty-five-mile commute away—but had been a rower himself for Oxford twenty-five years earlier. He hadn’t missed a Henley since, and had been hosting crew members from across the pond for nearly a decade.
“Thanks,” Tyler responded, trying to sound upbeat. “It was a tough one. But they deserved it. They worked harder.”
And Tyler was pretty sure he meant it as he said it. Crew races weren’t usually that close, and for the Dutch team to pull it out by two seconds—as clichéd as it sounded, it was simply a matter of who had wanted it more.
“Well, my daughter took some wonderful pictures,” the barrister said. “But she’s gone home now, unfortunately.”
“Maybe she can e-mail them to us,” Cameron chimed in. Someone they didn’t know handed each of them a smoked-glass mug filled with warm beer. It was a tough tradition to get used to—but Tyler and Cameron had been working at it since they’d arrived in Henley.
“Well, are you boys on thefacebook?”
Tyler froze, the mug of beer pressed against his lips. He wasn’t certain he’d heard the man right. Sure, he’d heard a lot of people talking about that damn Web site over the past couple of months—but never in an English accent. He would never have expected to hear it mentioned in a medieval British town on the banks of the Thames.
“Sorry?” he stammered, hoping he really had just misheard.
“You know, the Web site. My daughter tells me all the college kids in America are using it. She’s just returned from a year abroad, you know, at Amherst. And she’s on that Web site all the time. I’m sure you can find her there, whenever you want, and she’ll e-mail you the pictures.”
Tyler glanced at his brother. He could see his own feelings reflected in Cameron’s eyes. Even here, across the ocean, thousands of miles from Harvard—they were talking about thefacebook. Even though it was still only available to college kids in the United States—and how many colleges? Thirty? Forty? Fifty? It was exploding in ways none of them could have foreseen.
And meanwhile, ConnectU had pretty much stalled at the gate. Despite the fact that ConnectU was chock-full of features, had launched in a number of schools at the same time—it simply couldn’t comp
ete with the viral nature of thefacebook. Whether it was the curse of first-mover advantage, or simply that people liked thefacebook better, ConnectU was nothing but a little blip on the social networking radar.
Thefacebook was a relative monster. Godzilla, crushing everything in its path.
Tyler forced a smile back on his lips, and made some small talk with the barrister, pushing the subject of thefacebook aside—but all the while, his mind was churning through thoughts that he’d been fighting for the past four weeks.
He, Cameron, and Divya had tried to get beyond the anger and frustration—had tried to make the best of a bad situation. And it had gotten them nowhere. They’d launched their site, they’d gone after thefacebook’s audience in a number of ways—and they simply couldn’t compete. College kids were going to join the social network that their friends were already on, not something new they’d never heard of. Thefacebook was stomping all competitors into the ground.
The truth was, they’d been beat. Harvard had washed its hands of the situation. Mark had ignored their e-mails and their cease-and-desist letter. There was really only one option left. Larry Summers had practically spelled it out for them—and yet, so far, it was something they had resisted.
Tyler and Cameron knew a bit about lawsuits from their father’s business; Wall Street was brimming with lawyers, and they had heard many war stories from the world of the corporate courts. They knew that a lawsuit was an ugly thing, no matter how it eventually panned out. It was an act of last resort—but wasn’t that exactly where they were? The last resort? Beaten by two seconds by a kid with a computer—a kid who showed no remorse, who had left them no choice.
Tyler also knew that it wasn’t just the legal process that was going to get ugly; he could imagine how things were going to play out in the press. He had always been pretty self-aware—and he could guess what people were going to say, picturing him and his brother next to Mark Zuckerberg. Hell, the Crimson had already attacked them in a number of editorials; in fact, one writer had even called them “Neanderthals.” The writer of that piece, it had turned out, had been a girl who had once dated one of Tyler’s Porc brothers and had spent their entire relationship nagging the poor kid about the “evil” nature of the Final Clubs. But she was indicative of what they would face if they launched a lawsuit against Mark Zuckerberg.
