by David Yoon
“Cal Peers gave me stank eye on the way out,” said Max into the wind.
“Damn,” said Shane. He added, “Who’s Cal Peers again?”
“Honey bear, seriously?” said Akiko.
Good old Shane, thought Max. He lived far outside the peculiar orbit of tech and could not possibly know all there was to know about a man like Cal Peers.
Max introduced Akiko to Shane long ago, during high school. He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t ever done that. It was an absurd thought, and ungenerous: for all the many times he thought it, it had given him nothing.
Besides Akiko, Shane was Max’s other best friend.
“It’s like I was doomed the second I walked into the Helix,” said Max.
“So what are you gonna do?” said Shane.
“Be a rock star somewhere new,” said Akiko. “I heard Airlift’s looking to expand Product. And Knowned would hire you like that.”
“Fully,” said Shane, nodding.
Below them a surfer caught a wave, bailed out, and paddled back for more.
“I was just trying to do the right thing,” said Max. “But I’m starting to think there is no right thing. Airlift, Knowned, it’s all the same.”
“I heard the Knowned office is pretty chill,” said Akiko.
“I mean, it’s all the same stupid game,” said Max. “Make an app, get lots of users, to hell with laws or privacy or just basic-ass ethics. Whatever it takes to impress investors so they can valuate the shit out of you. Investors give zero fucks what the actual business is. The thing-thing is never the thing.”
“It’s a user-based circle jerk,” said Akiko.
“Wren’s not profitable,” said Max. “They’ve never made a dime.”
“Shit,” drawled Shane. “Even I’m profitable.” He thumped the van.
“I could’ve gotten good at teaching or medicine or art,” said Max. “But no, I had to get good at tech.”
“That’s ’cause tech is cool,” said Shane. “I mean, our phones do everything.”
Max took out his Quartz Milc 9 and regarded its black glass. Everyone had a Milc. Max’s Milc knew where he was, where he came from, and could guess where he was going. It knew who he was with. It could be taking video or audio right now, for all he knew.
Milcs were made by Quartz, the world’s biggest computer and phone maker. Quartz was down the street from Wren. Did they have a Soul Project, too?
Akiko hopped down from the Poolwhip and gave him a quick hug from behind—a shoulder hug, a friend hug—that left Max wanting. He gazed at the setting sun.
“You’ll bounce back, duncie,” said Akiko. “You got this.”
It was nice of her to say. But Max had no idea what she meant by this.
0.8
Max did not bounce back.
Over the next few months Max did what Akiko assured him was his due diligence: updated his public resume profile, called a recruiter, and scored choice interviews. Interviews anyone in tech would kill to get. Interviews at four of the Big Five, excluding Wren:
Quartz, the world’s largest computer and phone maker
Knowned, the world’s largest news discussion forum
A2Z, the world’s largest online retail store
Airlift, the world’s largest crowdsourced taxi and hotel service
In the year 2018, the word crowdsourced meant dirt-cheap labor. Tech companies crowdsourced many things, like getting people to drive their own personal cars as taxis, rent their own houses to strangers, provide photos of everything, research and write articles, give product reviews, and so on.
And as strange as it sounds, people—the crowd—willingly performed all this labor for a pittance. Or often for absolutely no money at all.
In 2018, this was called the gig economy, perhaps inspired by the image of a rock star touring venue after venue. Previous generations had classified this type of work as minimum wage.
Max’s first interview was at Quartz HQ—a huge edifice that indeed resembled a giant outcrop of crystal growing from a vertical seaside bluff. In its glowing interior, he received his plastic visitor badge that also doubled as a biometrically authenticated nondisclosure agreement, location tracker, and photo identification.
He met with a young Whitewoman (Marketing), a tall Whiteman (Product), and an older Brown (Engineering). On a red table before them sat a black smartphone, the likes of which Max had never seen before, marked with the word beta.
“We’ve heard such amazing things about you,” said Marketing.
“We need help with our upcoming next big thing, and would love if you could come hang out with us here at Quartz,” said Product.
“I would absolutely love to hear more,” said Max, nodding and smiling.
“Behold,” said Engineering, waving a hand over the black phone.
The screen illuminated, and on it were headshots of Max and his interviewers. The phone screen had almost no bezel; it looked like a rectangle of light superimposed upon reality. Some designer’s ideal vision of technology: a window of pure information without anything resembling a body.
Under Max’s photo, Max’s words had been transcribed:
I would absolutely love to hear more.
The words of his interviewers had been transcribed, too.
Their location was marked. Their job titles were noted. They were automatically connected in the Quartz corporate user database.
“We’ve acquired and implemented new chip technology with huge potential,” said Engineering. “Future iterations of our Milc flagship phone can now feature an extremely low-power active idle state for up to forty-eight hours, even in sleep mode.”
“You mean it can hear, transcribe, and upload everything even if it’s turned off,” said Max. “I bet it captures video, too.”
Product looked at Engineering. Engineering looked at Marketing. Marketing looked at Product.
“He gets it,” said Product.
And then Max said this: “It’d be cool to sell this kind of ambient data through real-time bidding in a back channel, especially if you opt users in by default.”
Why did Max say that?
Max said that out of career habit. He said that to impress them, to get the job. And right after he said it, he became instantly confounded by his own self.
“He really gets it,” said Marketing.
“I told you,” said Engineering.
“Screw the interview process,” said Product, grinning. “Let’s just do this.”
And Product slid a piece of paper with a number before Max. It was a large sum, with bonuses and instantly vested stock options.
“This is amazing,” said Max, smiling and nodding. But all he wanted to do was cinch his hoodie down tight so that only the tip of his nose showed.
I had to get good at tech.
Product’s phone buzzed, and when he glanced at it he suddenly became transfixed. Engineering’s phone buzzed, too, as well as Marketing’s. All three of them studied their phones with increasing concern.
Engineering looked up at Marketing. Marketing looked at Product. Product looked at Engineering. They seemed to make some tacit decision with simple nods of their heads, and stood in unison.
“So great to meet you,” said Marketing, and Max found himself in a group hug.
Product took back the sheet of paper with the number on it and folded it into his pocket. Max was confused. Did that mean the deal was done?
They released. “Best of luck,” said Engineering.
“Best of luck,” said Product.
Best of luck?
The following day Max went along to his next interview.
At Knowned, a rust-brown fortress of a building, Max found himself saying:
“It’d be cool to automatically w
rite news headlines that match what users already know and want. No one actually reads full articles anyway.”
“Mister Max gets it,” they said.
And then that thing happened again: phones buzzed, the interviewers grew concerned, and the whole thing was cut short with a group hug and a Best of luck.
Max wondered what was going on. Could it be? It couldn’t be. That would be crazy.
So Max went along again.
At the super-generic cube farm of A2Z, he was in the middle of saying, “It’d be cool to work around the local retail problem by sending shoppers at brick-and-mortar stores cheaper prices for the same goods they’re looking at,” when the buzzing phones interrupted him and the interview stopped.
It couldn’t be. Could it?
Max went along, and he went along.
His interview at Airlift HQ—housed in a row of renovated pastel Victorian houses—ended before it even began, in the reception area.
“We are so sorry,” said Reception, “but we have to reschedule. We will be in touch.”
Airlift never rescheduled.
By the end of the week Max’s interviews were all done. He felt like a snail in a salt maze with no exit. He said so from his seat in the Poolwhip. Shane had driven Max to each of his interviews, and each in-van debrief session grew more and more trepidatious.
Finally Max ripped off his hoodie and said: “I’m being blackballed.”
“That’s kinda paranoid, holmes,” said Shane. “You’ll find the right company, it’s just a matter of time.”
“That must be what’s happening,” said Max. “Cal Peers has the whole world on speed dial.”
“You don’t know that,” said Shane. But when Max looked at him, he could see the wheels turning in his head. He could see him wondering if such a conspiracy could be for real.
Shane wrenched about in his seat. “If this shit winds up being true, what you’re saying about this Cal Peers asshole, I’ll fucking kick his fucking ass.”
Max found this endearing. But kicking the asshole of Cal Peers would be about as easy as putting out the sun with a garden hose.
“I’m okay, everything’s okay,” said Max, breathing in and out slowly.
Shane watched Max do this five times.
“This is some kind of warning from the universe,” said Max finally.
“Fucking fuck with my friend, man,” said Shane, shaking his head.
“Because why should I even go for these jobs in the first place?” said Max. “Why work for the forces of evil?”
“Because you’re really good at it,” said Shane.
“I don’t want to be good at being evil,” said Max.
“You’re just doing what you gotta do to get paid,” said Shane. “It can’t always be a hundred percent the right thing.”
“Everywhere I interviewed,” said Max. “Evil.”
“Dude, come on,” said Shane. He shook Max by the shoulder.
Max sighed as he wobbled under Shane’s power. “The user experience design at all those companies is optimized for addiction and surveillance,” he said. “Evil.”
“Max,” said Shane.
Max only continued. “They hook people in with low prices subsidized by private venture capital. It’s this bizarre corporate socialistic trickle-down redistribution-of-wealth thing that starves out honest businesses through brute force. Evil.”
“I don’t entirely get what you’re saying?” said Shane with a brilliant smile. “But I’m telling you, you will get in somewhere, I promise.”
The fact that Max’s ranting was over Shane’s head filled him with a guilty pride, because it was exactly the sort of thing that he talked about all the time with Akiko—an Akiko Shane never got to see.
But Max did.
Because Shane never worked late nights at Wren, huddled over a blue-green screen and tossing profundities back and forth like a ball.
“Akiko always did say evil was baked into the tech industry,” said Max.
“She did?” said Shane. He glanced at Max, then at the road, then back at Max, as if wondering: What else do you guys talk about?
“Baked right in,” said Max.
Shane draped a wrist over the steering wheel. “Listen, just find a way to love what you do,” he said. “Cleaning pools ain’t exactly sexy, but like, for me, I get to work on my tan, I’m not stuck behind a laptop, and plus they ain’t nothing evil about pools. There’s no Cal Peers in pools.”
These straightforward, prebulent truths sounded like Dad talking. Do something you love. Keep it simple. It irked Max, because he would not be happy doing something simple. His desires were complex. His ambitions were complex.
He was incapable of pretending otherwise.
“Like, kids love pools?” said Shane, counting reasons on his fingers. “They’re good for exercise? Hot-ass girls in thong bikinis like to lay out by ’em?”
Max finally allowed himself a laugh. “Nice.”
The van came to a stop at a red light.
“Get yourself back in the game, and fuckin’ get yourself a hot-ass girl, too,” said Shane. “Before you know it we’re both gonna be chillin’ by a pool with our respective hot-ass girls in fuckin’ thong bikinis like, What the fuck were we even stressing about?”
Max snorted at the comical image of Akiko in a thong bikini—she always wore rash guards to the beach—and grinned at his friend Shane. Shane grinned back, his face bathed in red light. It was the light of the womb, of warmth, of protection. It was the same light Shane had wrapped Akiko in during her Trouble Time, and now he was sharing it with Max.
“Green light,” said Max.
More like blue-green, he thought. The light meant it was time to go, to accelerate, to proceed forward. Blue-green like aqua. Max was quietly struck with inspiration.
The van moved.
“So, dude,” said Max. “You still want to make that YouPool app of yours?”
Max looked at Shane. Shane looked at Max.
“Aw shit,” said Shane with a smile.
0.9
They dove in to YouPool.
Pun intended.
“Every tech company you go to,” Max had said, “you have to leave your soul at the door. Let’s create the first company that lets you keep it.”
With Shane’s blessing, Max appointed himself His Benevolence, CEO Maximilian Portillo. Shane was COO (chief operating officer). Akiko was CTO (chief technical officer). The YouPool app would let users schedule pool cleanings.
“We’re gonna make millions,” said Shane, thumping a pec.
“Making millions makes men evil,” said Max. “How about we make enough?”
Shane nodded at this, intrigued by Max’s concept of Enough.
Max would run YouPool with fairness first. Customers would pay standard prices, but now have convenience, à la carte ordering, and pool cleaner ratings.
On the other side, pool cleaners signed up with YouPool could expect the same rates, but now have higher volume and YouPool’s built-in marketing tools.
No one would get undercut.
This would not be about crowdsourcing.
Akiko worked early mornings and late nights on top of her regular Wren workday to get version one of the app built. It took her only a week, because Akiko was brilliant like no other. Max stayed with her these late nights over at her and Shane’s place. No sound but the sound of her keyboard typing.
It was a magical sound.
In brief flashes, Max would fool himself into thinking this was his apartment. But never for long. Because there was Shane, asleep on the couch. His couch. There was the dresser overflowing with his and her clothing. Hiding amid the clutter atop the dresser was a heavy coffee mug, a relic from the Trouble Time.
It was not his apartment. Max took his leave every night, with a
respect neither Shane nor Akiko realized. Which was okay.
While Max and Akiko worked on the tech, Shane rallied pool cleaners out in the field, even though they were technically competitors.
“Tell them a rising tide lifts all boats,” said Max.
“I’m gonna say it my way, though,” said Shane. And he did, and pool cleaners signed up, because Shane had his strange rough-cut charm.
And for a while, things worked okay. They made some money. People liked the service. But it wasn’t quite Enough, and Akiko still had to work at Wren while improving YouPool in the wee hours, and Shane (and now Max) still had to drive around in the Poolwhip to clean pools themselves.
The only way Max could reach the goal of Enough was to hire programmers, a few salespeople, and so on. This meant money. This meant funding.
So Max took Shane and Akiko to all the big tech investors everyone knew, investors with crazy names like Burning Bush and Angels & Devils and Faust.
“So it’s pool tables?” they would ask.
“On-demand pool cleaning, like, swimming pools,” Max would say.
“Whatever,” they would say. “What are your five-year revenue targets?”
“$600,000 per year,” Max would say. “That’s a $200,000 salary for each of us, which seems pretty damn decent if you ask me.”
“$600,000 isn’t exactly crushing it,” they would say. “We were hoping you would say more like $600,000,000.”
“Oh, we’re not making millions,” Max would say. “We just want a good living.”
“I respect that, Mister Max,” they would say, and they’d smile weird little smiles.
This was their way of saying, Max doesn’t get it.
Three months later, Max shut YouPool down. Akiko was burned out from working two jobs. Shane was burned out from trying to clean pools and manage a needy workforce at the same time. And Max had run out of ideas for growth.
Max stood knee-deep in a shallow pool in the sparkling Californian sunlight, waving a pole net around, lost in thought under his big straw sunhat. A cherub pippled water from its tiny concrete penis.
He had told his dad: “YouPool is doing great.”
