“Your Major Presentation?”
“That’s the one.”
“In front of hundreds of really smart people?”
“Maybe thousands.”
“With the whole future of the company—our company—at stake?”
“I am very important.”
“Are you nervous?”
“More and more.”
“Jeez, Sam,” said Meredith. “You should really be getting some sleep.”
When Sam drew the blinds not very much later, he found his room wasn’t much lighter than it had been when they were closed. An hour later, he met Jamie in the lobby. Jamie was from London. He’d come to Seattle at the direct behest of BB to run Sam’s department a year ago. Jamie claimed it was because of his superior leadership talent and technological know-how. Sam suspected BB was lulled into liking Jamie by his British accent, which made him sound smart and worldly as he gently explained the practical impossibilities of BB’s pompous, overblown ideas. He’d trained as a Shakespearean actor before he turned to computers, and so he voiced the minutiae of everyday business ins and outs with a drama, cadence, and gravitas BB found appropriate to his own sense of importance. On this trip, Jamie was playing both boss and tour guide. And defender of the queen.
“Your weather’s shite, dude,” Sam greeted him in his best Monty Python accent.
“Your weather’s shite, mate,” Jamie corrected. “And what do you know? You live in Seattle. Your weather’s just as shite as ours.”
“But we deal with it better.”
“Pray tell how so.”
“Coffee shops,” said Sam.
“Pubs,” Jamie countered.
“Right, because what you need on top of all the rain is cold beer and depressant.”
“Beer’s not cold here,” said Jamie.
“I rest my case,” said Sam.
“We can get you a coffee,” said Jamie as they walked toward the tube stop.
“Yeah, a shite coffee.”
Jamie shoved him into a puddle, and Sam had to give his Major Presentation in sodden shoes. Despite this fact, Sam and his algorithm were greeted with raucous applause and Q & A that had to be cut off after an hour and a half because someone else (to whom Sam was eternally grateful) needed the room.
Jamie took him out for a celebratory lunch at a gastropub near St. Paul’s where Sam drank a room-temp pint of what he had to admit was the best beer he’d ever had in his life. Then they walked across the bridge to the Tate Modern to have a look at the exhibit filling its giant-size entry hall: a scale model of the city of London. It was made from foam, so if you found yourself accidentally tempted to tread on the National Theatre or literally tripped up by Big Ben, you wouldn’t hurt the art or yourself. It was about waist-high and so exquisitely detailed that they could see the scale model of London through the windows of the Turbine Hall of the mini-Tate. They wandered its city streets, much drier than the ones outside, until Jamie found the flat he’d grown up in and accidentally snagged his jacket on a restaurant he’d forgotten about entirely but was now convinced he had to take Sam to for dinner.
“Aren’t I a good boss?” he noted.
“You are.”
“You gave a great presentation, Sam. Very smart. Genius, even.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Jamie.
“I will?”
“Oh yes, you’ll be just fine.” Then he wandered over to check out the Tower of London.
In an upstairs gallery, Sam got a text from Meredith that read, “You’re busted. I looked down during the morning meeting this a.m. and saw that I was wearing one navy shoe and one black shoe.”
“How is that my fault?” wrote Sam.
“Absence makes you insane,” wrote Meredith.
It was about like that for the rest of the trip. Conference in the morning. Bumming around London in the afternoon with Jamie. Waiting for Meredith to wake up back home and call/text/chat/e-mail/otherwise reassure him that she was alive and well and thinking of him too. She was sending him a running list of ways she was being made insane by his absence.
3) Accidentally called the barista “Mom.”
4) Neglected to bring baggies to the dog park and had to pick up dog poop with a leaf.
5) Picked up dog poop with a leaf even though no one was watching and it wasn’t like it was the middle of the sidewalk or anything, and really people should just be a little careful where they walk and save all those plastic bags from filling up landfills though okay, yes, mine are biodegradable, not that that helps when I leave them at home.
6) Failed utterly to write up the user specs for May/June or finish the storyboard for the Wilson-Abbot thing or meet with Erin re: the kickoff next month or convincingly pay attention during morning meeting so as not to get scolded (!) (as if I am his four-year-old!) by Edmondson but rather thought of you, thought of you, thought of you, and … thought of you.
7) Failed utterly to keep #6 to myself and thereby play it cool and chill and nonchalant and take-it-or-leave-it and interested but not overly and just a little bit hard to get. In. Sane.
Sam’s remaining lung absconded. He couldn’t wait to get home.
Finally, the last session of the last meeting of the last day of the conference was wrapping up. Sam was breathing a sigh of relief that no more tech would malfunction and no more meetings would demand his attention and no more events would require his attendance, and in nineteen hours, he’d be on a plane on his way back to the rest of his life. He met Jamie back at the gastropub. Aside from Meredith, that pint had been the other thing his mind returned to again and again all week long.
Jamie arrived late, wet, and exasperated. He slid down across the table from Sam with a pint in each hand.
“I’ve barely touched mine yet.” Sam nodded toward his mostly still full glass. He was savoring it.
“They’re both for me,” said Jamie. And then, “You want the good news or the bad news?”
In Sam’s work experience, the good news never outweighed the bad news. It never came close. If it did, it didn’t begin this way.
“The good news,” said Jamie, “is that BB is just thrilled with how the whole conference has gone. The tech has been smooth. Our events have looked glitch-free. You blew away everyone in the room with the algorithm and your presentation. The company looks great. The investors are thrilled. We’ve made BB a very rich man.”
“Exactly my goal,” said Sam. “What’s the bad news?”
Jamie made a face. “The bad news is he’s making me fire you.”
Sam thought he must be joking. “You must be joking,” he said.
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Your algorithm is costing them a fortune. It’s brilliant, Sam. You should win a prize or something. BB thinks you’re a genius. But it works way too well.”
“How can it work too well?”
“Turns out fixing people up is not how we make money. It’s failing to fix people up while still giving them hope that soon we might. It works too quickly. Revenue from sign-up fees is through the roof, but revenue from monthly fees is in the toilet. It’s costing BB a fortune.”