new wireless standard was quite precocious. He kept silent. He took notice of his placement in the group. The words
cordoned off
occurred to him. Although the eight of them were gathered in a perfect circle—broken only now and then by someone leaning over the table to pick up a Brio—he felt exiled, a physical disengagement. This was not mere disinterest made into a palpable thing; Lucky possessed a zone of power. The computer entrepreneur and his Help Tourists were separated from him by invisible barbed wire that maintained a border. There is within, and there is without.
“It was such a quick ride down from the airport,” observed a young Latino woman. CFO of some fledgling e-commerce outfit. Router of arcane information. Repetitive stress injury candidate, fiddling with the levers on her office chair. She said, “I didn’t realize we were so close.”
Lucky smiled. “No traffic, you can make it in an hour. Some people even commute from the city. We don’t recommend it, but it’s an option.” He took a sip of Brio. “I know some of you are worried that you’ll miss all that a big city has to offer. It’s a huge fucking thing to move out here, I know that. It’s a big idea, but if you were afraid of big ideas, I wouldn’t have asked you here.”
He noticed that he was the only one drinking beer. Follow the leader. He wondered exactly what percentage of life came down to good marketing skills. He settled on 90 percent. The other ten was an antacid, to help settle things.
Lucky said, “Gimme 2.0, my friends, give me 2.0. One thing you’re going to learn this weekend is that I’m always looking for Version 2.0. One of our teams finishes a project—they’ve been busting their asses day and night—they finish it, show it to me, and what do I say? ‘Good job—but what’s Version 2.0?’ Because whatever it is, it’s not good enough. You can always tweak it, there are always ways to make it better. So I say: I love this town, but what’s the next thing? Where’s 2.0? I’ll tell you.
You’re
2.0,
we’re
2.0, my friend the consultant standing right here, looking like the Sphinx come to town,
he’s
2.0.” Lucky squinted at him. “What do you think of that, friend?”
He said, “Hmm.”
Lucky slapped him on the back and turned to his audience. “He’s working! He’s taking it all in! That’s the burden of genius! Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lucky looked at the can in his hand. “God, I love this stuff!”
Somebody said, “I’ve never had it before, but it’s really good!” and the rest of them agreed heartily.
He quickly finished off his beer and limped upstairs. When he got back safely to his room, he stepped on the note that had been slipped under the door. It was written in a maniac scrawl, what happened when the right-handed switch it up and use their left. It read, “I have honored your request for PRIVACY but will admit to ownership of a rising anger at your refusal to allow ME entrance. This HEAVY FEELING sits on my chest. WHO do you think you are?”
He looked around. His mess was as it had been. Nothing had been touched.
. . . . . . . .
The number-six adhesive bandage in the country wanted to re-create itself as the number-two adhesive bandage in the country. There was no use trying to overtake Band-Aid, the number-one adhesive bandage. Band-Aid had recognition and fidelity across generations and generations. Generations and generations of accidents and the scars to remind people of what Band-Aids had helped them through. The name was the thing itself, and that was Holy Grail territory. But you could try to catch up with that, become number two, by claiming a certain percentage of future accidents as your own. So men schemed.
Enter the whiz kid consultant. “Not me,” he always joked when he told the tale, “although I’m flattered, really. I’m referring to the hypothetical bespectacled whiz kid who thought up multicultural adhesive
cordoned off
occurred to him. Although the eight of them were gathered in a perfect circle—broken only now and then by someone leaning over the table to pick up a Brio—he felt exiled, a physical disengagement. This was not mere disinterest made into a palpable thing; Lucky possessed a zone of power. The computer entrepreneur and his Help Tourists were separated from him by invisible barbed wire that maintained a border. There is within, and there is without.
“It was such a quick ride down from the airport,” observed a young Latino woman. CFO of some fledgling e-commerce outfit. Router of arcane information. Repetitive stress injury candidate, fiddling with the levers on her office chair. She said, “I didn’t realize we were so close.”
Lucky smiled. “No traffic, you can make it in an hour. Some people even commute from the city. We don’t recommend it, but it’s an option.” He took a sip of Brio. “I know some of you are worried that you’ll miss all that a big city has to offer. It’s a huge fucking thing to move out here, I know that. It’s a big idea, but if you were afraid of big ideas, I wouldn’t have asked you here.”
He noticed that he was the only one drinking beer. Follow the leader. He wondered exactly what percentage of life came down to good marketing skills. He settled on 90 percent. The other ten was an antacid, to help settle things.
Lucky said, “Gimme 2.0, my friends, give me 2.0. One thing you’re going to learn this weekend is that I’m always looking for Version 2.0. One of our teams finishes a project—they’ve been busting their asses day and night—they finish it, show it to me, and what do I say? ‘Good job—but what’s Version 2.0?’ Because whatever it is, it’s not good enough. You can always tweak it, there are always ways to make it better. So I say: I love this town, but what’s the next thing? Where’s 2.0? I’ll tell you.
You’re
2.0,
we’re
2.0, my friend the consultant standing right here, looking like the Sphinx come to town,
he’s
2.0.” Lucky squinted at him. “What do you think of that, friend?”
He said, “Hmm.”
Lucky slapped him on the back and turned to his audience. “He’s working! He’s taking it all in! That’s the burden of genius! Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lucky looked at the can in his hand. “God, I love this stuff!”
Somebody said, “I’ve never had it before, but it’s really good!” and the rest of them agreed heartily.
He quickly finished off his beer and limped upstairs. When he got back safely to his room, he stepped on the note that had been slipped under the door. It was written in a maniac scrawl, what happened when the right-handed switch it up and use their left. It read, “I have honored your request for PRIVACY but will admit to ownership of a rising anger at your refusal to allow ME entrance. This HEAVY FEELING sits on my chest. WHO do you think you are?”
He looked around. His mess was as it had been. Nothing had been touched.
. . . . . . . .
The number-six adhesive bandage in the country wanted to re-create itself as the number-two adhesive bandage in the country. There was no use trying to overtake Band-Aid, the number-one adhesive bandage. Band-Aid had recognition and fidelity across generations and generations. Generations and generations of accidents and the scars to remind people of what Band-Aids had helped them through. The name was the thing itself, and that was Holy Grail territory. But you could try to catch up with that, become number two, by claiming a certain percentage of future accidents as your own. So men schemed.
Enter the whiz kid consultant. “Not me,” he always joked when he told the tale, “although I’m flattered, really. I’m referring to the hypothetical bespectacled whiz kid who thought up multicultural adhesive