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THE BIG DISRUPTION
The Big Disruption
A Totally Fictional But Essentially True Silicon Valley Story
Jessica Powell
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Oct 2
T he only animal left standing was a one-eyed sea lion named Fred.
The northwest wall of the Palo Alto Sea Park shark tank broke at four a.m. on a hot August night, releasing into the park 780,000 gallons of water and fourteen angry sharks. They rode the wave in one sharp-toothed tsunami, penetrating the dolphin tank with open mouths, chasing the dolphins into new parts of the park.
Down came the manatee tank, the penguin’s pen, and the piglet squid viewing room. The flamingo hut and the snake house withstood the pressure but flooded with water, the animals’ terrestrial enclosures suddenly transformed into muddy aquariums. Noah’s ark was now subject to a Darwinian reorganization in which for a few breathless seconds, snakes became exotic fish, tails dropping vertically like flutes bobbing in the water until they finally sank to the floor. Nearby, the flamingos honked in terror, their pink necks popping up above the waves like unfastened hooks, tangling in each other until they dropped below the surface.
As the water from the tanks expanded to the edges of the park, the depths once housing the sea’s greatest creatures were now reduced to mere puddles. Fish were left flapping against the asphalt; the beluga whale flattened seahorses and starfish as it barreled its way through the park in search of arctic water. No longer traveling forward with carnivorous glee, the sharks came to a stop near the snack bar and began rolling about on their dolphin-stuffed bellies, emitting wimpy cries that would have delighted fish lower on the totem pole were they too not gasping in their newly parched environment. Within minutes, self-pity transformed to anger, and in their final moments, the sharks turned on each other in a cannibalistic bloodbath.
It all happened so quickly that by the time the rescue crews arrived, there was little left to salvage. The crew moved swiftly from one section of the park to the next, their faces increasingly grim. The manta rays spread flat like leathery carpets, the snakes roping above them in a bloated tangle. Colorful fish lay on their sides, mouths gaping, scales shifting like crystals in the slowly rising sun.
Word quickly spread of the catastrophe, and television news helicopters soon circled above. Everyone was looking for Belbo, Palo Alto’s beloved walrus and official mascot. The rescue crew finally discovered the aquarium’s prized pinniped underneath one of the felled walls, her death exacted by a slab of heavy concrete.
As the leader of the rescue crew turned to declare the end of their efforts, a loud croak bellowed from the northwest corner of the park. The crew ran toward the sound, which now repeated, like a foghorn, over and over. It was coming from the marine-themed jungle gym, one of the few structures that had survived the flood, thanks to its distance from the shark and dolphin tanks. As the crew approached, they saw a gray mass swaying atop the slide, partially blocking the sun. The rescuers shielded their eyes for a better view, and soon its form grew clearer. It was a one-eyed sea lion with a patch on its left eye.
At the sight of the rescue team, the sea lion barked again and clapped its hands. It balanced a ball on its nose, then put its weight on its front flippers and lifted its tail up behind its head. Without thinking, the rescue crew laughed and clapped.
Then the sea lion jumped onto its belly and sailed down the slide, landing on its stomach, flappers out to its side and a smile on its face. The crew rushed to hug the sea lion, to applaud its survival skills, to hail the new mascot of Palo Alto. The animal clapped its hands again and croaked three times, and across Silicon Valley, the sea lion’s bark dried the tears of the children watching the live news broadcasts. The sea lion showed them hope amid this sea of destruction.
One of the newscasters named it Fred.
A few months later, when the ground had finally dried and the bitter memories of the lost aquarium had faded for all but lawyers and insurance companies, the lot was purchased by a young internet company called Anahata. The founder of the company demanded that Fred be included as part of the property deal.
Fred was given his own wading pool next to the founder’s office but spent most of his time waddling about the company’s halls, pooping in the cubicles and barking at employees he didn’t like, forcing Anahata’s engineers to purchase sound-reduction headphones so they could work undisturbed. Fred did as he pleased and, in doing so, impressed everyone with his stubborn refusal to change his ways.
When Fred died of old age a few years later, all the employees gathered to pay their respects. During the dedication of a commemorative aquarium in the company’s main building, the founder of Anahata, a man named Bobby Bonilo, told his employees that it was Fred who had taught him how to run his company. Fred, he said, had proven that it was fine to have one eye and waddle if you were better than anyone else at doing those things.
No one understood the metaphor, but all the employees committed it to memory as important career advice.
The commemorative aquarium was soon filled with brightly colored fish and crustaceans, as well as a giant squid the founder flew back from a remote island in the Pacific. The squid wowed the crowd with its undulating arms, which extended almost the full length of the tank, and its chomping mouth, which tore apart most of the fish the moment they were dropped in the water.
Nearly a decade on, the squid is nearly the size of a school bus and the aquarium’s only remaining inhabitant. It floats in the central building of Anahata, today the world’s largest and most powerful technology company.
To interview at Anahata was a privilege. And the next, nearly inevitable step — to be rejected from Anahata — was a great honor. Just making it into the company’s lobby already indicated that one was superior to 99.39 percent of the world’s population. To be accepted, of course, required passing an even higher bar.
One by one, the gobsmacked Rejects filed past the Hopefuls sitting in the lobby, as unsure of their steps as they now were of their qualifications. They turned back to catch a final glimpse of Anahata’s collection of gleaming white buildings, and smiled then, just briefly, knowing that despite their failure — a failure from which they might never recover — at least they were among the few to have glimpsed the world hidden behind the company’s doors.
Arsyen Aimo surveyed his surroundings. It couldn’t have been a friendlier place: wide green sofas, a gigantic refrigerator full of fresh juices, and a flight simulator to help pass the time in the unlikely event of a delay.
Sitting on the very edge of the first couch was a young man, hair uncombed, T-shirt wrinkled, emitting a faint odor of sweat. Crumbs of breakfast cereal cast a pebbled road across his chest. A thin folder jittered in his hand, its transparency revealing a document whose tidy bullet points and blurbs belied the man’s unkempt appearance. His knees bounced lightly up and down, and he rocked as he sat, lips moving silently as though he were counting to himself.
On the second couch was another man, this one in his mid-thirties and wearing a suit, his cologne the essence of a crisp morning in the mountains. His back was against the sofa, one ankle thrown across the opposite knee, an arm thrown over the cushion as if he were there to watch Sunday football. He kept checking his watch, darting glances both anxious and dismissive at the female receptionists.
Arsyen immediately recognized their types. The first was an engineer, the second a salesman. And there was no reason for Arsyen to think any more of either of them — or the other fifteen iterations also waiting in the lobby — as he had seen enough of both during his time
in the Valley to identify their species by smell alone.
Arsyen had other things on his mind; he was there to conquer his job interview. For he was Arsyen, Prince of Pyrrhia.
Or rather, a former prince who due to unfortunate circumstances had been reduced to working as a janitor in Silicon Valley.
Or, as he preferred to refer to it, a sanitation engineer.
Not that he liked cleaning. He hated it. Prince Arsyen had not been raised in the Order of the Red Woodpecker — buffed and preened and rubbed and polished to perfection by handmaidens each morning — with the idea that he would leave the royal palace and clean people’s toilets in America. (As a child, Arsyen didn’t even know how to use a toilet, thanks to the service of his royal wipers.)
But like most everything he undertook in life, Arsyen excelled at janitorial work — he was so good, in fact, that he usually finished his work in half the time of other janitors. Previous employers had occasionally misinterpreted his skill as laziness and accused him of not having logged sufficient time with the mop. But Arsyen knew that a truly exceptional company would see it differently.
Anahata was that company, and this was no ordinary janitorial job. It paid better than any other Silicon Valley company by a full $3 an hour. If all went according to plan, in a few decades, Arsyen would save enough money to raise an army and reverse the unfortunate circumstances that had driven him from his country. His future, and the future of his adoring minions, depended on the outcome of this interview.
A recruiter entered the room, and the crowd of hopefuls looked his way. His casual good looks and affable demeanor struck Arsyen as an effective ambassador for a company whose public image was one of approachable superiority.
“Arsyen Aimo?” the recruiter read from a sheet of paper.
Prince Arsyen, Arsyen silently corrected him.
The recruiter used a badge to push past the security doors, and Arsyen’s mouth moved in a silent Wow as he entered the building. The cheerful but simple lobby area had not prepared him for this. The recruiter stopped — a seemingly well-rehearsed pause of ten seconds — to let Arsyen take it all in.
The building was a light-filled air hangar with expansive skylights and shoulder-height cubicles of varying geometric configurations. One could see across the entire building in a glance. Colorful beanbags were sprinkled here and there, and sleep capsules lined the walls, emitting the faint lullaby of snoring engineers. Each corner and space was maximized to project a sense of possibility, and employees seemed to congregate wherever the mood struck — a beanbag suddenly the appropriate place for a conference call; a foosball or pingpong table a surface to plop one’s computer.
“Extra. Ordinary,” said Arsyen, the English emerging from his tongue like an insult rather than a superlative.
The recruiter didn’t respond — his smile was stretched too far across his face to allow any spillage of words. He simply nodded and then motioned for Arsyen to follow. They made their way toward the opposite end of the building, then exited into a sunny courtyard and an immense stretch of pert, healthy grass that should never have been able to grow in California’s desert landscape but seemed the natural complement to the bright, white buildings encircling the lawn. Palm trees swayed to an invisible breeze, casting the image of an island paradise in the expansive windows of each structure. For a brief moment, as they walked across a glass bridge over a small creek, Anahata’s green, watery visions of itself surrounding them on all sides, Arsyen wondered which way was up. Legs and sand suddenly joined to palm trees in the reflections, and Arsyen turned, scanning the lawn for their origin. After a few seconds, he found them: a group of tanned girls in their early twenties playing volleyball on a sand court.
Arsyen studied their long limbs and sun-bleached ponytails. They leaped across the sand like lip-glossed gazelles. I love America, he thought to himself. But he wasn’t the only one watching. Amid the palm and water reflections on the windows, Arsyen could spot a face here and there, male onlookers with cheeks pressed up against the glass.
They entered a new building, similar to the previous one, and Arsyen was ushered into a small, white room. It looked like a normal office, except all the walls were made of glass — a familiar layout in Silicon Valley. For most employees, these spaces were a symbol of transparency and openness. For sanitation engineers like Arsyen, they were just an invitation for dirty fingerprints.
The recruiter sat Arsyen at a table in the center of the room.
“We’ve found that it’s most efficient for everyone to take a test before we invest in a conversation,” he said.
“Sorry?” said Arsyen, perpetually annoyed that the English language required him to apologize when it was others who were unclear.
“You’re going to take a test now. If you pass, then someone will come interview you,” the recruiter said.
“And then I meet Bobby Bonilo?” Arsyen asked.
“The founder of Anahata? At your interview? Uh—”
“I give great interview,” said Arsyen, rising to his feet. He placed his hands on his hips and raised his chin as his father, the king, used to do.
The recruiter’s smile collapsed for a split second before rebounding.
“How about we first see if you can find the error on this page.” He pulled a paper from the top of his stack and handed it to Arsyen.
Arsyen looked down and gasped at the dark incantations before him: nonsensical numbers and letters enclosed in < >.
It wasn’t that Arsyen had never seen computer code before. It was inescapable in the Valley — on buses and billboards, hats and T-shirts. Valley people spoke of code like it was an act of progress, on par with a social movement. Over the years, as he mopped and scrubbed in the background, Arsyen had overheard more than a few hallway conversations in which scrawny men talked about using their code to change the world.
But knowing how to recognize code and knowing how to code were two very different things. Surely there was no way he could be expected to perform such a task. Arsyen grunted. It was in moments like this that he particularly missed his home country of Pyrrhia. There he would have had any number of servants who could have learned computer programming on his behalf.
Perhaps this was the right moment to inform the recruiter of his royal lineage. There had been no applicable dropdown box in the online application; no way for Arsyen to signal that he was not simply a great janitor, but someone whose very greatness had once been written into his country’s constitution.
But such a direct declaration struck Arsyen as rather crass — royalty was to be recognized, not announced.
Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t help things along with a discreet nod toward his heritage. Arsyen ignored the recruiter’s prompt to find the coding error — he had no clue, and in any case, such details were for clerks and commoners. Instead, he sketched a crude outline of a pointy crown across the length of the page.
“Done,” announced Arsyen, pushing the paper across the table.
The recruiter glanced at Arsyen’s paper and did a double take. “Well, that’s a bold statement,” he said finally, then excused himself and left the room.
Minutes later, a slightly balding man in his thirties entered carrying a brown paper bag. He was wearing a purple T-shirt with an orange cartoon character on the front; the sandals on his feet were made of red plastic. Arsyen was surprised by the ensemble. From what he had seen during his time in America, most sanitation engineers dressed inconspicuously, their very livelihood dependent on being able to make dirt — and themselves — as invisible as possible to the general population.
This man looked more like a court jester.
“Hi, I’m Roni,” he said, setting Arsyen’s test on the table and extending his hand. “You got a résumé?”
Arsyen shook his head. No one had ever asked him for a résumé before.
“I get it, I get it,” Roni said. “I think they’re dumb, too. I mean,
a piece of paper — it’s like, so corporate, you know? We don’t need ’em. Let’s just talk like equals, like regular guys who went to Stanford together.”
He sat down in the chair opposite Arsyen.
“So, how long have you been an engineer?”
Arsyen felt his heart jump. It was the first time someone had properly called him an “engineer.”
“Four years,” he answered, and then paused. Now was the time. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice, consciously making it as booming and sonorous as the Aimo name deserved. “I am also…prince.”
Roni chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Actually, most of the engineers here think they are kings.”
“But there only one king,” said Arsyen, making the sign of the red-breasted woodpecker.
“So true, so true,” Roni said. “And what a king we have here at Anahata.”
Roni’s gaze floated skyward, as if communicating with an otherworldly being. Arsyen also looked up but saw nothing more than a halogen lamp with a sticker touting its energy efficiency.
Roni snapped back to life.
“Now, where were you before this?”
“Galt.”
Roni’s eyebrows leaped up in a flash, but then, equally quickly, were dragged downward — a clear attempt by their owner to anchor his admiration. Galt was one of the Valley’s hottest startups, famous for having created a bunch of apps and tools that eliminated the tedium of journalism, research, essays, and speeches by reducing all thought and opinion to easily shareable, bite-sized chunks. Everything they did was about minimization — making the world “easier to digest.” Some people predicted Galt was the next Anahata, though personally, Arsyen had found the company lacked any creativity or vision and was always asking him to take a second pass at the men’s stalls.
“Galt, eh? Well, that explains this,” said Roni, pointing at the crown Arsyen had sketched across his test, lassoing most of the page’s code.
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