by A. C. Fuller
"In 2012, when Mr. Colton built the campus, he wanted to provide everything his employees would need on site. Free food. Gyms. Child care. Bus service to and from San Francisco, Oakland and all the cities within ninety minutes. By 2014, enough people had relocated to the surrounding area that a small town popped up almost overnight. Other than the old post office, and a bank building that's now a yoga studio, every structure you see was built in the last five years."
"Wasn't that the plot of a Simpsons episode?" I ask.
"Yes it was, and I can't promise that's not where he got the idea."
Most of these baby buildings are modern, square structures of wood and glass, all between two and four stories. On the ground floors are a mix of juice shops, boutique clothing stores, and restaurants. On the upper floors are apartments and offices, most of which have wide balconies covered in plants and small trees. Taken as a whole, Santa Clarissa looks like a new section of Disneyland designed for rich Californians. Main Street USA, Silicon Valley style.
Not that I have anything against the opulence. Most Friday evenings I'm arranging last-minute weekend travel for Alex Vane, my boss at The Barker, or arguing with our web host about why the site is running slowly. If I'm lucky, by eight o'clock I'm on my couch, eating macaroni and cheese out of a plastic container while watching Netflix. Spending an evening shopping on Peter Colton's dime is a notable improvement.
Malcolm parks and we pass a couple clothing stores and a boutique cellphone shop before stopping at the window of a store called Mama Mia, which displays a variety of heels and flats, and even the occasional pair of designer boots. In the back, they appear to have at least a dozen racks of dresses.
"This is the largest store in town," Malcolm says. "Good mix of stuff, from what I hear."
Before he can finish his sentence, I'm inside the store, practically salivating. I'm not a clothes-hound. Not exactly, anyway. Would I spend lots of money on clothes if I had lots of money? Maybe, and I hope to find out someday. But I do love nice clothes, even if I can't afford to wear them.
"Mr. Colton said that it's on us," Malcolm says, finding me at a rack of cocktail dresses.
"Thank you."
It takes a good twenty minutes, but I find three possible dresses and Malcolm follows me to the dressing rooms in the back, where I step behind a curtain and he takes a seat on a round velvet bench.
As I squeeze myself into an emerald green, A-line, princess-style dress, I call through the curtain, "So if you can't tell me anything more about what he said, tell me more about Peter Colton."
"You read the blogs, don't you?"
"And yet, I asked you anyway. What's not on the blogs?"
"I've only worked for him for two years and, honestly, I don't know him that well. I was just starting to make a living with my music when YouTube changed their advertising rates. Then the club gigs dried up. I took this job as a temporary thing and, well…"
He trails off, the way everyone does when they're talking about dreams deferred.
"So what are these parties like?" I ask, worried the dress I'm trying on makes me look like a teenager at a junior prom.
"Kinda crazy. We work hard all week, often twelve or fourteen-hour days. Well, I don't, but the engineers and coders and managers do. Every Friday, Mr. Colton throws a party with a different theme."
This is important data. "What's the theme tonight?"
"Western."
I poke my head out from behind the curtain. "Seriously?"
Malcolm looks away awkwardly, probably because he thinks I'm naked behind the curtain, or is at least imagining that I could be. "Western," he says again, eyes glued to the floor.
"Western? And formal?"
"We leave things pretty open to interpretation. Like I said, Mr. Colton is a libertarian about these things. I wear the same black slacks and blue blazer every day, just swapping out t-shirts. But some people go all-out for these parties."
"Can you elaborate?"
"It's a mix. Some go super formal, some get all kinds of crazy with their outfits, some just show up in their work clothes."
"So you really can't help me figure out what kind of outfit I should get?"
"Sorry."
Thinking quickly, I say, "There were a pair of red leather cowgirl boots up front. Can you ask if they have those in a seven and a half?"
I duck my head back behind the curtain as Malcolm heads to the front of the store. I try on a black crepe sheath dress that makes me feel like Jackie O, but it's too formal for a western theme. By the time Malcolm returns, I'm in a cream flare dress with three-quarter sleeves. It's not exactly a line-dancing dress, but it has a similar shape. It ends just above my knees and is the closest I'll come to a western look on short notice.
Malcolm hands me the boots, which are hand-stained and covered in fine decorative stitching. "Too informal?" I ask, doing a little twirl before sitting on the round bench and trying on the boots.
"You look great."
I walk a couple loops around the store, checking myself in the mirror as I pass. The boots are a little tight, but they accent my reddish-brown hair, and will break in over time. Also, they look really nice on me. I decide I can get through a night in them.
I gather my clothes and follow Malcolm to the counter. "If you can't tell me much more about Peter, tell me about you."
"Not much to tell. Grew up in Oakland. Still live there. All I ever loved was music, but I can type fast and be pretty organized when I need to be. Applied for this job when the music dried up and, for some reason, I got it. Now I take the Colton Industries electric bus out and back five days a week."
He pays for the dress and boots, the clerk bags up my business attire, and we step onto the sidewalk. It's past six now, but still hot since it's the middle of July, so we head straight to the car.
"What about you?" he asks as we drive back toward the campus. "What's your story?"
"I assume you Googled me."
"I did, but not much came up. I know you manage the offices at The Barker, and that you started Ameritocracy a couple years ago. Seems like such a cool idea. Why aren't more people signing up?"
"Why aren't you signing up?"
He goes quiet for a moment, and I think I've said something to offend him. Then he laughs. "I would be a terrible politician. Plus, I'm only thirty-one."
"Maybe in 2024?"
"Maybe. But seriously, I'm so sick of politics."
We're bonding a little, and I turn to him as he eases into the long driveway that leads into the campus. When he shifts his eyes from the road to me, I ask, "Do you think Ameritocracy can work? I mean, get big?"
"With enough money behind it, over time, yeah."
"That's what I'm afraid of. I started on a whim, thinking I'd slowly build it into something. If I win the money, that'll…I don't know. I guess I never thought I'd win. Now I'm scared. Nervous. Something."
Malcolm slows the car and scans an ID card to open the entry gate. "Just because he invited you to the party doesn't mean you won."
"But you won't tell me what it does mean, so…"
"I won't," he says, pulling up alongside Building 7 and shutting off the car. "But I will tell you this. For the first five or six years, when I would DJ, I'd get hella nervous before every show. Every. Single. Show. Even when I knew I was prepared, knew I was gonna kill it. Then my mom told me something that helped. She said, 'Malcolm, nervousness is just excitement without the breathing.' It doesn't always work, but ever since then, when I'm feeling nervous, I take a few deep breaths. Turns out I'm usually just hyped."
"So you're saying I should be nervous?"
"I'm saying you should be hyped."
I laugh awkwardly, excited but not entirely sure what he's getting at. Before I can ask, his laugh fills the car and I hear it like I'm wearing fancy headphones—crisp and full of bass. But it's not just his laugh. The leaves on the trees are greener than they should be as they sway in the warm wind. I brush my hand on the leather seat and
it feels softer and smoother than before. I still don't know exactly what he's implying about Colton, but something about the moment feels significant.
Then, just like that, it's over.
"I gotta go finish some work things," Malcolm says, "but you can hang out in the lounge, just off Conference Room D, which is where the party is. Restrooms are there, snacks, whatever you need."
He opens the car door, but I grab his arm. "Can I ask you something?"
"No need for the preliminaries. Just ask."
"There's something that's been nagging at me. You said that Mr. Colton wanted to see how I'd do in an on-the-fly presentation, that he told you to lie about sending me an email. And you said you lied only to me."
"That's right."
"Why? I mean, if he wanted to test me—and only me—it means he'd already studied my proposal. Already knew about my project. One way or another, he'd already made up his mind, right?"
Malcolm smiles, and I meet his eyes, which are locked on mine with a slight look of concern. "He has."
3
An hour later, my face is washed, my makeup done with the touch-up kit I keep in my purse, and my hair tied up in a messy bun, a few stray curls dangling down to frame my round, freckled cheeks. I'm full of excitement, but as I walk into the party, I realize that I've misunderstood the western theme.
The hall is decked out in what I think of as traditional western items, but it also has a darker, dystopian feel. The walls are covered with wooden wagon wheels and even a few cowboy hats, but also old logic boards and antique keyboards. A mechanical bull sits in the center of the room, surrounded by a pit of foam balls. The bull itself is bright purple, modern-looking, and etched with the Colton Industries logo. To my right, hay bales surround a large bar area and emit a subtle blue glow, like they have tiny LED lights in them.
I expected music, but there is none. All I hear is the whizzing of the electronic bull and the chatter of a hundred people, most standing in small groups. A large group surrounds the bull, watching with rapt attention. Every so often, a shout of joy or terror fills the room as a rider flies off and lands in the ball pit. Then everyone turns at once, stares for a moment, and returns to their conversations.
I don't see Malcolm, but it turns out he was right about the outfits. Around twenty percent of the people are wearing jeans and t-shirts or other informal workplace attire. The rest are decked out in all manner of costume.
One man wears a tuxedo and a giant cowboy hat that appears to be made from wearable computer screen material. As he walks past me, it lights up and black lettering appears as it would in a word processing program: Hello, my name is Benjamin Singh. Can I buy you a drink?
The message isn't for me, but for the two women to my left. One is dressed in a black leather mini skirt with fringe made from earbud ends and a belt made of old cellphones hinged together end to end. The other wears what looks like a standard Sexy Cowgirl Halloween costume, complete with a suede vest, knee-high suede boots, and a fake gun in her holster.
I shuffle past them toward the bar and see that it's not a fake gun, but a toy laser gun. She pulls it out and points it at me as I pass. "Pew, pew," she says, ignoring Benjamin Singh, who now stands about ten feet away.
I put my hands up in the universal sign of surrender and smile. "You got me."
Before I can ask her where to find Peter Colton, Ms. Cellphone Belt says, "I like your outfit."
"Thanks," I say. In addition to the cellphone belt, she's wearing a stenciled western shirt that—miraculously—matches the cellphones. "I like yours, too. Are you sure I didn't take the 'western' thing a bit too literally? You guys look fantastic."
"Nah," Ms. Sexy Cowgirl says. "This is a come-as-you-are-or-imagine-yourself-to-be kind of party. But we do like to incorporate a bit of a techy, post-apocalyptic vibe into all our events."
A dozen other costumes confirm this. "Very cool. Can you tell me where Peter Colton is? I mean, do you know if he's here yet?"
Ms. Cellphone Belt looks around the room casually. "Haven't seen him. He usually comes late."
I nod toward Benjamin Singh, whose sign now reads: If you won't let me buy you a drink, at least let me fix your laptop. "What's his deal?"
The two women exchange glances.
"You wanna take this one?" Ms. Cellphone Belt says.
Ms. Sexy Cowgirl laughs. "He's a bit odd, but a genius, and basically harmless."
As we stare at him, his hat-screen runs through a series of increasingly-bad pickup lines.
Your name must be Google, because you have everything I've been searching for.
Your curves are like Windows Vista. They've got me feeling so unstable.
Is your name Server Maintenance? Because I'm not doing you, but I probably should be.
"Yuck," I say, turning my back to him.
Ms. Sexy Cowgirl pulls out her fake laser, points it at Benjamin, and scowls. He staggers back, pretending to be hit, then disappears into the crowd.
"I think you're new here," she says, placing the laser gun back in her holster. "I mean because I don't recognize you. Want a bit of free advice?"
"Sure."
"Benjamin's actually alright. One of Peter's top web architecture guys. He just plays a creepy stalker at parties. Around Silicon Valley, day-to-day sexism gets shrugged at, and creeps usually get away with a lot more than they should."
"As long as they're geniuses," Ms. Cellphone Belt adds.
"Right," Ms. Sexy Cowgirl says. "Benjamin doesn't talk much, and sometimes has a tough time discerning where the line is. But on the scale of Silicon Valley genius scumbags, he's like a two."
I offer up a weak smile. "On that note, I think I need a drink. Thanks for the tips."
"No problem," Ms. Sexy Cowgirl says.
"Have a good night," Ms. Cellphone Belt adds.
Across the room, I step into the hay bale bar and order the specialty cocktail, The Blade Runner Cowboy, watching in disbelief as the bartender pours a shot of top shelf tequila into a blue-tinted champagne flute, adds a splash of orange liqueur, then fills the glass with original Coors beer. He garnishes with orange rind and fresh mint, then hands it to me.
"What makes this drink Blade Runnery?" I ask.
"The glass," he says before turning to make a drink for someone behind me.
I sip the cocktail, which is a lot better than I expected, and scan the room. Dozens of interesting-looking people mill about, most in their twenties and thirties, some dressed up, some not. I'm about to take a seat on a blue-tinted hay bale and settle in for some serious people watching when Peter Colton walks through the door.
It's almost as though the crowd parts for him, too, because he moves easily from the door to the center of the hall, pauses at the mechanical bull, then glances at me as though he knew I'd be standing awkwardly near the hay bales.
Seconds later, he's at my side, his shoulder-length black hair parted in the center and tucked behind his ears. "Nice to see you again," he says.
Though he looks like he might have a captivating Spanish accent, he doesn't. He was born and raised in the U.S., and he speaks quickly and without as much charm as you might expect.
I take in his outfit, a vintage tuxedo the color of bone, embroidered with elaborate brown stitching down the lapels. "You're late to your own party."
"Thanks for coming."
"Thanks for the dress."
"Love the boots."
"Thanks." I sip my drink and look around the room, trying to think of something else to say, and I feel his eyes following me. To break the awkward silence, I say, "Do you want one?"
He smiles at me with that same quizzical smile he had plastered across his face for most of my presentation. "I don't drink."
I expect him to continue speaking, to explain why I'm here, why he didn't say anything during my presentation, and maybe even why he had Malcolm lie about the canceled PowerPoint. But he doesn't.
We're both quiet, staring at each other as shouts near the mech
anical bull fill the room. The look lasts long enough to be odd, but not long enough for my cheeks to get red, as they sometimes do when I'm out of my element. I can't tell whether he's trying to make this awkward, or if he just has an odd manner.
I can't take it anymore. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"
Without answering, he takes my hand and pulls me gently toward the back of the hall to a raised platform covered in straw and surrounded by a worn wooden fence. The four tables on the platform are unoccupied, lit from above by the same blue and silver light that pervades the space, and covered in large artificial candles, their LED flames somehow flickering realistically. We take the table in the corner, sitting side by side and looking out so we can survey the room.
I talk a lot when I'm nervous, and right now my stomach is doing somersaults. "Is this the VIP area?" I ask, half-joking.
"Actually, yes."
"You didn't say anything at my presentation."
"No."
"And you told Malcolm to lie to me about canceling the PowerPoint?"
"Yes."
"And now…here we are."
"Yes."
He still wears that damn smile, and I sip my Blade Runner Cowboy to keep my annoyance from showing, the flavor of the cocktail growing on me as its contents take effect. "Why am I here?"
"I'll tell you, but first, tell me why you started Ameritocracy? And I don't mean the rehearsed answer for the board of directors at the presentation. Tell me about the moment the idea struck."
As he says the word "struck," he claps his hands together, shaking free a lock of hair from behind his ear. He tucks it back and smiles, more like a person this time.
As I contemplate my answer, I finish my drink and Peter gets the attention of a waiter standing in the corner of the VIP section, who I hadn't even noticed when we sat. "Another drink for Ms. Rhodes, and I'd like a Red Bull with lime."
"Right away, Peter," the waiter says.
Peter smiles at him, then turns back to me. "So, tell me."
