1
After fruitless circling of the Purple, Coral, and Lime
parking lots, Hope surrenders. She drives underground, winding four levels down
into the bowels of Palo Alto’s small Civic Center garage. She surrenders, but
not before considering several vacant red, blue, and yellow spots, as tempting
to her as any gooey dessert. Employees only, Electric vehicles only, and
Disabled sat empty as a tossed Starbucks cup. It was tempting. But not today.
Anything can happen in the five minutes it takes to run into CVS, including a
beat cop under pressure to get his numbers up. When did parking in downtown
Palo Alto at three P.M. become an Olympic event? Did the student population at Stanford
just increase by a factor of ten? WTF?
Leaving the underground lot, Hope steps into daylight as
harsh as the brightness after a matinee; a brutal transition from fantasy to
reality. Today is very real. Today, Hope’s fantasies are about work, even if FearToShred
is its own movie.
Today there are questions to answer: Does the young company have
legs? Why did Arthur turn down an eighty million dollar offer to sell it to
Datex, his former company?
FearToShred hasn’t gone public yet. That’s a good thing for
her as a potential employee, but a fact which had blocked Hope from getting the
boatload of intelligence she wanted for the interview. Crunchbase was little
help. She could call around, but sleuthing would sound an alarm that she’s
leaving Manuserve.
Hope squints. The sun is bright, but that’s nothing new; the
sun has been bright all year. She slips on Ray Bans, as integral to her outfit as
her Apple watch or Blahniks. All of California has been steamy, smoky, and
stuck in an endless summer. Is it November? August? January? Who can tell?
University Avenue and the surrounding roads are an obstacle
course rife with a nonstop parade of joggers, cyclists, and mothers and nannies
pushing baby strollers.
The fires have been creepy. Hope’s yard has deteriorated to
a dusty grey; her showers are bullet short. One dry winter has turned into three.
The water company’s banned watering of lawns; abusers are
ridiculed on the front pages of the press. Northern California blames Southern California.
Tony golf courses of the wealthy are under civic scrutiny. All while
California’s economy shoots into the stratosphere.
With Google and Facebook gobbling up tech veterans, startups
were desperate for talent. Which was why Hope wasn’t surprised when Arthur
called. Though never as successful as she may have hoped to be, her name was
one of the ones raised when recruiters, hiring managers, and CEO’s played the
“who’s innovating” game at meetings and cocktail parties. While Hope had been
hiding out at Manuserve, collecting a fat paycheck and doing banal B2B, her
reputation was still out there, reaching far and wide. What she and Doug had
pulled off at Topia had been the stuff of urban legend. Topia was one of the very
first companies to break through from geeky to a global audience. Yes, Arthur
knew who she was even if she’d been heads down the past year.
Despite the severe lack of rain, today the world was fresh
and new. Gardenia and jasmine scent the air; the breeze whispers ‘possibility.’
Through the glass doors and up the wide aisle at CVS, Hope heads for the
cosmetics to suss out a chintzy replacement lipstick for the MAC she
accidentally left on her desk.
A wall of options waits like a chorus line of Vegas dancers.
Hope checks her watch: thirteen minutes to pick out a shade that says,
‘serious, smart, perky.’ She assesses the check-out line - decent. Two cashiers,
one auto pay, and only a few customers standing in line. Hope sets her phone
alarm for ten minutes.
Five foot eight, Hope weighed in this morning at 136; not
her best weight ever but she’s been busy. A thick lock of auburn hair stretches
midway down her back. Her legs are long and slim. She woke up feeling good in
her skin. A sexy wake-up call from James in bed this morning didn’t hurt.
She’ll get back to 129, her fighting weight, soon. Lipsticks. Maybelline, Cover
Girl. Hope frets. Her go-to shade is Diva by MAC, but CVS doesn’t carry the
upmarket brand. Firecracker. Too wild. Ruby Woo. Milf. Hot Passion. Not for
work. Ah, wait. Monte Carlo. Rich. Smart looking. She rubs a sample on the back
of her hand. Possible. With a clean Q-tip she swipes her lips. Deep. But wait.
There’s American Doll. Looks like Diva’s poor sister. Same shade, cheaper
packaging. She wipes off the Monte Carlo with a moistened towel from a handy
dispenser, swipes a fresh Q-tip.
With a hint of Monte Carlo adhered to her lip she creates an
impromptu blend of the two shades. Perfect. Pursing her lips in the small makeup
mirror mounted on the wall, wondering if her cheeks have flushed or if it’s the
lighting, she catches sight of Doug Wiser.
Hope swings her hair in front of her face, kneels down low
to fumble with her Coach slouch bag. She’s searching for her credit card when
his warm hand alights on her shoulder.
“Hope!”
Hope looks up guiltily, her head uncomfortably level with
Doug’s crotch. Unfolding herself to full height, the single button on her
pencil skirt pops.
Doug throws his arms around her in a cozy bear hug.
This is Doug? Doug Wiser? In skinny jeans and Nikes? This is
Doug, clean shaven, bed hair and cheekbones? This is Doug in CVS at 3:10 P.M.
holding a pregnancy kit and a bottle of vitamins? This is Doug who asked Hope
(kindly) not to call because he ‘was lost?’ A whirligig of thoughts spin. Her
phone alarm buzzes. How is she? She’s tense. And worse, she’s ruffled by
running smack into her ex in CVS a half an hour before an interview.
“I’m great!” Hope half smiles. “I’m just on my way—I’m late
actually!” Hope nervously juggles the two lipsticks.
Doug’s gaze lingers on her torso, taking in the whole of
her. When her eyes finally meet his, he’s looking at her the way a parent looks
at a child accomplishing a new feat—a climb up the monkey bars, a ball caught.
Or was that condescension? He, calm. She, frazzled.
“Go. We’ll talk later.”
“Totally,” Hope promises, proffering a fingertip touch to
Doug’s exposed forearm. “Sorry to rush off.”
At the check-out counter, she grabs a package of safety
pins. It’s been over a year. She’s missed him. She thinks about Doug almost every
day. Ahead of her on the line, a small woman with dark glasses holds the leash
of a service dog, a beautiful short-haired golden that reminds her of Gracie,
the first and last dog she owned. She peeks in her makeup mirror, checking the
aisle behind her.
He’s gone.
Hope exits the automatic doors, hurries toward High Street.
Did she really just crash into Doug in CVS holding a pregnancy test? In all of
her fantasies, in all the past year of secret dreams and fears, the last place
she would meet Doug Wiser was in the lipstick aisle of the University Avenue CVS.
Now, she’s got to rock that interview. Her nerves are
jangled, and her button is popped. She suddenly tumbles a notch from
Ninja-warrior Hope down to disheveled working woman. She checks her Apple watch—3:25
P.M.
Slipping into Philz, Hope orders a green tea and scoots into
the restroom to replace the popped button with a safety pin.
Perfunctorily repaired, she snags a tiny table. Creating
lists, a habit she developed in college when she was juggling a late shift at
Oscar’s Burgers at night, parts modeling when she got the gigs, five classes, and
an endless parade of reading and homework assignments, calms her. It’s a habit
she’s never bothered to break.
She taps out a list of questions on her tablet: Arthur
rejected an eighty million offer from Datex. Why? Was there a back-up offer?
Was he hoping to create more value? Was Arthur passionate about FTS, or was he
just in it for the money? She scratches out the last question; too forward.
At 3:35, her pre-Doug equilibrium nominally restored, Hope
walks the two blocks to High and Homer. Past Serenity Yoga, Brew News Beer pub,
Bucca di Beppo, and the Party Store: Yes, she really did just see Doug for the
first time in a year. But it wasn’t a reunion, was it? Reunions are planned.
Hope erases the interlude like she’d erased the lipstick on the back of her
hand.
Halfway across High Street, her iPhone rings. “Doll?”
“James?”
“That was sweet this morning. You good?”
“Yes. Listen, I’m running late,” Hope’s stomach churns.
“Catch you later?”
“No prob. See you tonight?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure. I’ll call.”
“Hope . . . we have that dinner tonight. Remember? John’s
out from New York?”
“Yup.”
Three forty-six. She hadn’t told James about the interview
because she did not want to listen to a lecture on the fallibility of startups.
Outside FearToShred’s frosted glass doors, she sneaks a peek
in her tiny makeup mirror. Gone is the high cheek color of this morning; she
looks pale, spooked.
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