Hooked

by Matt Richtel

  “Nat,” Erin said, when she sat back up. “Look.”

  We were just around the corner from Andy’s house. I didn’t see anything unusual. I said so.

  “That’s what I mean,” she said.

  She was right. There was a complete absence of everything. No fire trucks, emergency vehicles, or smoke. No chaos.

  We dropped into a moment of silence.

  “What are we doing, Erin?”

  She didn’t immediately offer an answer. There probably wasn’t one.

  Or, rather, there were probably too many possible interpretations of the question. We had just flown across San Francisco in six thousand pounds of seething gas guzzler. Why? Was I overreacting? Was there any real danger? What about our own safety?

  “You’re a little high-strung,” Erin said.

  Should we leave this all to the police?

  Perhaps this last question was born of subliminal observation. Pulled up behind us was a member of the San Francisco Police Department.

  This was not going to be a friendly law enforcement encounter.

  16

  License and registration please.”

  “Officer,” Erin said. “We were the ones who called in a report about a possible fire.”

  I extricated my driver’s license. I tried to remember where I had put my registration. Don’t cops know that no one actually has any idea where they put their registration?

  “You called in about a fire?” said the officer, whose name-tag read Sampson. “You called the San Francisco police?”

  “Nine-one-one,” Erin said.

  I held my driver’s license up to the open window. The patrolwoman took it and scrutinized my height, weight, and picture like it could tell her everything anyone could ever need to know about me.

  “Mr. Idle, can you please step out of the car,” she said.

  I tried to remember if I’d done something wrong. The answer dawned on me just as Officer Sampson said it.

  “You nearly killed a skateboarder,” she said.

  She got points for hyperbole.

  “We got two calls about a Toyota sport utility vehicle tearing through Cole Valley,” she said.

  She seemed to take pains to enunciate when she said “sport utility vehicle,” like my car of choice would cost me points when we came to the me-making-excuses portion of our program.

  “I didn’t see the incident,” she continued. “But I could hear the screeching of brakes and tires from around the corner. I could have heard it in the Castro.”

  It was kind of funny. She didn’t smile. Still, the way she said it, it sounded like good news. Like maybe she wasn’t going to dig into my bank account for something she hadn’t personally borne witness to. I decided to go for the jugular. I began begging.

  “I’m sorry, Officer. I’ve had an unbelievably bad couple of days,” I said.

  She glanced at me without commitment. “Let’s see what the box has to say.”

  She walked to the squad car. She sat. She started entering my information into her onboard computer.

  “Underpants,” Erin said.

  She leaned closer.

  “The one and only time I got in trouble with the law. The one and only thing I ever stole.”

  “Underpants?”

  “A racy little pink number,” Erin explained. “I was fourteen. I had some friends who were going through a theft phase. I wanted to prove myself, but I was terrified.”

  “By stealing big-girl undies.”

  She curled a strand of hair behind her right ear and trailed a graceful index finger along her jaw, letting it rest on her chin. I’d always found the great challenge of rock climbing to be deciding which jagged outcroppings were solid and secure enough to make reliable hand- or toeholds. I still couldn’t decide whether to grasp on to Erin.

  “Oh, no. My theory was much more flawed than that,” she continued. “I figured that I would steal something that I could readily conceal. I would simply try on a pair of panties, then walk out of Kmart undetected. Not only did I get caught, I had to undress in front of the manager. She was a nice older woman. But still . . . I was stripped right down to my thong, which fortunately I was wearing over two pairs of my own regular underwear and a pair of shorts. My father nearly disowned me. He was strict, capital S. I think it was a year before he let me out of the house for a non-church function.”

  The cop exited her car and started heading in our direction.

  “Anything short of a strip search, and I think you’re having an all right kind of afternoon,” Erin said.

  “Mr. Idle,” the officer said.

  She was using honorifics. That didn’t bode well.

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘reckless endangerment,’” she asked. “We got two calls from possible eyewitnesses, including the mother of a boy who claims you nicked the tail end of his scooter.”

  “What about the call to 911?”

  It was Erin. She wasn’t letting go. The officer took a deep breath. She seemed like someone to whom patience came naturally. The uniform had weaned it out of her.

  “A call was placed,” Officer Sampson said. “And responded to.”

  She explained that a patrolman had been in the vicinity. Officer Sampson looked at the notepad in her hand. “Officer Eldridge reported no smoke or fire.”

  She looked up.

  “It’s not all bad news, Mr. Idle,” Officer Sampson said. She told me she was going to let me off in exchange for a favor.

  “I’d like you to drive down to the station,” Officer Sampson said. “Lieutenant Aravelo would like to have a word.”

  I said good-bye to Erin, and we headed downtown.

  The only time I’d been in a police car prior to that was on career day in junior high. My friend and I pestered the stoic cop for exciting stories, but he wasn’t biting. Finally, he drove us to a cemetery and said, “Make something of your lives. Make sure you get good grades.” We laughed about it for years, but it was eerie and mysterious and we weren’t sure if he was suggesting life was short, or that he might kill us if we didn’t get straight A’s.

  Andy’s death, his life, Erin’s too, mine, all bubbling with uncertainty, and begging for interpretation. Maybe every life, and death, is its own unsolved mystery. Certainly, I was realizing, that was the case with Annie.

  As we drove to the station, I found my thoughts turn distant—to another time when confusion and anger had visited in its purest form. Only to be followed by death.

  17

  Thightanic.”

  “Gross,” Annie said.

  I was trying to engage Annie in a word game we invented: making up stupid pornographic titles for popular mainstream movies.

  “What about Forrest Rump?”

  We were about to enter the Marin Boat Club. Annie put her head on my shoulder. It was a spectacular day—the late fall gala of the yacht club, and a turning point for me and Annie. After much cajoling, she’d agreed to let me meet her family. In their natural habitat.

  Annie surveyed the scene. “The fancy cars and boats, the newspaper accolades, the self-congratulatory bullshit—it’s infectious.”

  “We’re not talking disease here.”

  “Make sure you hose down after shaking anyone’s hand.”

  The joint was hopping. We were making a beeline for the bar when a joyful voice exclaimed over the din. “Princess.” The people around us parted to reveal Annie’s father. He looked younger than I expected; his hair was not yet gray, and he was dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved button-down shirt—the uniform of the high-tech titan.

  “Daddy,” she said warmly.

  His arms were open. “May I have a quick word in private?”

  “We’ll be right back, Turtle,” she whispered.

  I watched her give him a hug, and the assembled parted back around them. I parked at the bar. I wasn’t sure I saw the problem with the lifestyle. Alcohol and bite-sized snacks were free. I was one complimentary Swedish massage away from co
untry club heaven.

  “What’s up, doc?”

  I turned to face an alarmingly good-looking man. Or maybe I was just alarmed by the way he addressed me. It seemed strangely coincidental given my recent decision to abdicate a career in medicine. “So you came with Annie,” he said.

  “I’m the designated drinker.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” he said. “She’s got an amazing ass.”

  When he saw me flinch, he started laughing. “Dave Elliott,” he said, extending a hand. “Crass bastard.”

  Dave described himself as an old family friend of the Kindles. He had done a bunch of travel, most recently in Asia, and was finally settling down. He owned a house in Marin and worked as a lawyer in San Francisco, doing some work for Annie’s father. He said they’d spent the previous weekend playing golf in Pebble Beach.

  “Lucky man,” I said.

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to burn my putter, then run your car over the ashes.”

  We bantered for a while in guy-speak, the fidgety concise language of two men feeling each other out and seeking common ground. We finally got a rhythm and wound up discussing skiing, which he’d done his share of too—albeit in Switzerland.

  I took a big slug of my tonic.

  “Is she down with you getting loaded?”

  I shrugged.

  “She calls the shots, doesn’t she?” he said, like it was widely understood. “She picked out the last guy’s clothes. Wouldn’t let him wear plaid.”

  I saw Annie knifing through the crowd with a purposeful look. “Would you mind if we left a little early?” she said calmly.

  Given the intensity of her look, I knew better than to ask questions. Dave took a different tack. “Relax, Annie. Have a drink,” he said, then looked at me. “Solidarity, brother.”

  She responded, “Don’t you have a trollop to be outwitted by?”

  Outside, her face was flushed. She looked away from me, and started talking about problems the family was having with a start-up company in New York that they’d invested in. The problems stemmed from how to measure sales and projected revenue in an Internet start-up. She said she was trying to stay conservative but also move the company quickly to stay ahead of the market. He’d put her in charge, she said, but wouldn’t let her do her job. She had a cold look.

  “He can’t treat me like this. He’s obsessed with control.”

  I hadn’t realized she was in charge of anything or that her father could provoke such mercurial moods. But the truth was, I had a larger concern. “What’s the deal with Dave Elliott? Did you date him?”

  Annie turned her head to me, then laughed. Like it was the funniest—and most stupid—thing I’d said in weeks. “God, no,” she said. She shook her head. “He would have liked to.”

  We were in my car. From the passenger seat, Annie turned the key in the ignition, prompting a quick exit. “Dave and I used to be good friends. He was kind and a good listener. But he had designs on me the entire time. I trusted him. I confided in him. He felt sure we were developing a romantic relationship. The truth is, I never even considered it. He told me he loved me. He’s never forgiven me.”

  Two days later, I was standing outside Sam’s Deli, a couple of blocks from my apartment. I was a mouthful into a takeout turkey Reuben when a black BMW pulled up. I recognized it as the car that picked up Annie after our first date. The door opened.

  “Annie?”

  A male voice responded, “Hop in, Nathaniel. I’ll give you a lift home.”

  The situation didn’t particularly set off alarm bells. I couldn’t imagine I’d be a kidnap victim. Particularly since (1) I was standing on a public corner on a bright San Francisco day, and (2) neither I, nor my family, could possibly have anything anyone could want. I peered in the car.

  “Glenn Kindle,” he said. “Annie’s dad.”

  He sat in the back, separated by a dark glass window from whoever was driving. On his lap sat a magazine, the SkyMall catalog.

  “The secrets to happiness herein.” He held up the catalog. “You think this stuff is complete garbage, right? A vibrating putting green whose frequencies purportedly promote natural healing. I mean, give me a break. But see the bigger picture here. The SkyMall is the cutting edge of the capitalist dream. People love the hunt for something amazing. The sellers of this junk aren’t cheating people, they are giving us a reason for hope. Consumers are knowingly swept up in the illusion. A transaction is its own mutual emotional success.”

  “Are you here to help me with personal philosophy or Christmas shopping?” I asked, smiling.

  “I’d hoped to meet you last weekend—at the party.” He set down the magazine. “I was in the neighborhood so I figured I’d make amends.”

  Amends for what? And how the hell did he know the location of my neighborhood?

  I figured there was one decent way to get answers. I climbed in the car and we shook hands. I looked down at the half-eaten Reuben sandwich starting to sweat through the napkin.

  “I didn’t bring enough for everybody,” I said.

  He laughed and hit a button on his door. “Let’s go,” he said to the driver.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have more time to get to spend together. Those events are always more fun in theory than reality.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to come upstairs. I’ve got a chilled six-pack of Anchor Steam. I might actually only have five left . . . ” I said. I wasn’t trying to be smart-ass. Not entirely.

  “Listen, I’ll speak frankly. Do I need to be worried?”

  I considered his question as the car came to a halt. I looked out the darkened window. We were already at my apartment.

  “I’m just wondering what you and Annie are up to.”

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “Nothing. Really. No weird X-Files voodoo stuff. You know, if we become in-laws, we’re going to look back at this and really laugh.”

  His smile was strained.

  “Forgive me. I’ve grown careful, and maybe a little too protective.”

  “Nothing to forgive.”

  “You’ve got a lot of debt, you had a run-in with a superior when you were in medical school. Now you’ve given all your training up to make ends meet as a journalist. It doesn’t quite add up.”

  “Well, we don’t all need to make enough to spend the GNP of a small African nation on a car,” I suddenly counterpunched.

  He chuckled.

  “She’s right. You are funny. Forgive me. Let’s just call this a mix-up. We can start over next time.”

  Just then, the car door popped open. It was being held by the driver. Glenn’s last comment hadn’t sounded much like a real apology. I lingered.

  “Trust me, I know Annie is incredible.”

  He nodded blankly and then cruised way.

  I immediately called Annie, told her what happened, and said I was going to Palo Alto to finish the conversation.

  “Please. Please don’t go see him,” she pleaded. “It will just make things worse.”

  “Tell me right now. What is going on? Who does your father think he is? Who does he think I am?”

  She said her father was just egomaniacal, overprotective, and feeling threatened by our relationship. He was also worried the dot-com boom might be petering out. They had to move fast.

  Instead of confronting him, Annie suggested I join her on an upcoming business trip to New York. She promised that she would show me her world firsthand, tell me about her family, introduce me to Kindle Investment Partners.

  I hoped the next few weeks would give me my desperately needed clarity.

  They gave me the opposite.

  18

  Kiss me.”

  Annie and I stood on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and I found myself thinking of the bird that my father claimed attacked him as a boy. The attack happened as my father walked across a span bridge, which, my father said, explained his fear of both birds and heights. Then
, when I was a boy, my father passed down his acrophobia by pressing my brother and me tight against the chairlift whenever we went skiing.

  Standing on the observation deck with Annie, I felt no fear. I think it was because I had my arms wrapped around her, imagining I was responsible for saving her from whatever tragedy might befall. Being with her had become such a rush it crowded out everything else.

  It was two-thirds of a day I’d wish on anyone. We woke up in a midtown hotel, fed each other continental breakfast in bed, and then spent the morning at the Bronx Zoo. Annie looked at the monkeys, baby elephant, and tigers and seemed to feel unbridled joy, and I looked at Annie looking at the animals and felt the same thing.

  My education began on the airplane, in the first-class cabin. En route, she showed me a bunch of documents relating to her work as an investor, which seemed as scintillating as organic chemistry.

  “How the hell do you know what this means?” I said.

  “I thought you might know,” she said.

  She explained that she and her father had reached a kind of a détente. He demanded she do things a certain way. She either obliged or did it her own way and risked his recriminations. But often, she would surmount his challenges and exceed his expectations. She earned respect—from herself.

  The company we were going to visit was called Vestige Technologies. It made supply chain management software, which Annie translated as “automated inventory tracking.”

  She gave me her sales pitch and I understood why mom-and-pop investors were sinking their retirement funds into Internet companies, and why many of them were making a big mistake. Annie said that the companies that most investors understood, or could envision as breakthroughs, met consumer needs, like allowing people to go online to buy books or groceries. Some of these would succeed, most would implode.

  The real money and market power, Annie said, was in infrastructure, and in serving corporate customers. To thrive, companies had to do things more cheaply. That meant cutting expenses, the biggest of which is often labor. Capitalism’s next great leap forward was computer automation. Economic studies were showing it not only made companies more efficient overall, it made individual workers more productive. Long-accepted economic principles stood challenged. Profit per worker could soar.