then he waited, treading cold water. A cloud moved across the moon. Bill tried to find a star, to make a wish, but the sky was a uniform dark blue. The water stung his eyes, and he closed them. There was a splashing sound—the sound of waves, or maybe the smooth strokes of someone swimming toward him. In the twilight, one loon sang out. The cry was beautiful and lonely.
Shakespeare.com
Raul was talking to me about the Hamlet product. The bathroom was full, the parking lot under the ramp to the Bay Bridge was full, every damn cubicle was occupied. I was drinking tea like it was going out of style. In the kitchen area there were two giant coffeemakers, an espresso machine that no one knew how to use, and some chocolate-covered coffee beans. Shakespeare.com was all about caffeine, and yet I sipped decaf, as Dr. Zhong had ordered.
Raul was using words like focus group and unit sales . We were Editorial. We should have been using words like semicolon but here we were, on the verge of our next round of funding, everything strained to the breaking point (we had switched to Airborne Express when FedEx had cut us off, then to bike messenger, and finally back to FedEx but using our own personal credit cards), and even in Editorial we were talking about Sales.
My period was ten days late, and I was beginning to get excited.
The artists were upstairs. They were mashed in like sardines and wore cat-eye glasses and faux-fur coats, most of them stoned most of the time. I had to tell Jesus that his drawing of Curious George dressed like King Lear was not going to fly.
“But it's Curious George,” he said, sliding his earphones from his ears. “Kids like Curious George.”
“I'm not trying to be difficult,” I said, “but what does a monkey have to do with the theme of the play? Not to mention copyright issues …”
Jesus stared at me levelly. I touched my hair.
“Dude,” said the woman next to Jesus, “what about a giant fucking milk shake, with, like, a talking straw? ‘I'm King Lear, I'm King Lear!’”
Jesus and the woman cracked up. “You got it,” said Jesus. “You fucking said it.” He laughed until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Well, get back to me on that.” I saw a temp in a halter top leave the bathroom door open and I ran for it.
Between my legs, a white expanse of cotton. I closed my eyes and breathed out, then stood and washed my hands with the Softsoap on the counter. There was a Hustler magazine next to the toilet, and a half-empty bottle of red wine. The bathroom window was open—I could hear the yelling. Next door to our office (which used to be a tai chi studio) was a garage. Outside the garage, men yelled at each other in Russian. Periodically, they discarded scraps of metal on the sidewalk—car doors, hubcaps. Once a month or so, a brand-new car for sale appeared outside the shop. The garage was a front for something, but we weren't sure what.
I dried my hands and saw Ben the Tech Guy walking up to our office door leading a puppy on a piece of string. By the time I got downstairs to my cubicle, Ben the Tech Guy was wandering around, telling everyone he had found the puppy at the bus stop and could it live in someone's cube for a while? It could eat pretzels, he insisted.
We had the Monday Editorial Meeting at ten. All of us rose from our cubicles and tramped purposefully up the stairs: Betty, in a flowered dress; Raul and Edward, who had just fallen in love and begun to wear each other's clothing; Linda the yoga queen; and Joni the Othello expert, in a see-through leopard-print dress from Express.
When we opened the door, strange faces stared at us: adults, real adults, in suits. The meeting room was full of the venture capitalists who wrote our paychecks. I whispered, “We're supposed to have ten o'clock!” and Brendan grabbed my arm from behind. Brendan was the founder of Shakespeare.com . He was also the CEO, CFO, and Editor-in-Chief. He wore
Shakespeare.com
Raul was talking to me about the Hamlet product. The bathroom was full, the parking lot under the ramp to the Bay Bridge was full, every damn cubicle was occupied. I was drinking tea like it was going out of style. In the kitchen area there were two giant coffeemakers, an espresso machine that no one knew how to use, and some chocolate-covered coffee beans. Shakespeare.com was all about caffeine, and yet I sipped decaf, as Dr. Zhong had ordered.
Raul was using words like focus group and unit sales . We were Editorial. We should have been using words like semicolon but here we were, on the verge of our next round of funding, everything strained to the breaking point (we had switched to Airborne Express when FedEx had cut us off, then to bike messenger, and finally back to FedEx but using our own personal credit cards), and even in Editorial we were talking about Sales.
My period was ten days late, and I was beginning to get excited.
The artists were upstairs. They were mashed in like sardines and wore cat-eye glasses and faux-fur coats, most of them stoned most of the time. I had to tell Jesus that his drawing of Curious George dressed like King Lear was not going to fly.
“But it's Curious George,” he said, sliding his earphones from his ears. “Kids like Curious George.”
“I'm not trying to be difficult,” I said, “but what does a monkey have to do with the theme of the play? Not to mention copyright issues …”
Jesus stared at me levelly. I touched my hair.
“Dude,” said the woman next to Jesus, “what about a giant fucking milk shake, with, like, a talking straw? ‘I'm King Lear, I'm King Lear!’”
Jesus and the woman cracked up. “You got it,” said Jesus. “You fucking said it.” He laughed until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Well, get back to me on that.” I saw a temp in a halter top leave the bathroom door open and I ran for it.
Between my legs, a white expanse of cotton. I closed my eyes and breathed out, then stood and washed my hands with the Softsoap on the counter. There was a Hustler magazine next to the toilet, and a half-empty bottle of red wine. The bathroom window was open—I could hear the yelling. Next door to our office (which used to be a tai chi studio) was a garage. Outside the garage, men yelled at each other in Russian. Periodically, they discarded scraps of metal on the sidewalk—car doors, hubcaps. Once a month or so, a brand-new car for sale appeared outside the shop. The garage was a front for something, but we weren't sure what.
I dried my hands and saw Ben the Tech Guy walking up to our office door leading a puppy on a piece of string. By the time I got downstairs to my cubicle, Ben the Tech Guy was wandering around, telling everyone he had found the puppy at the bus stop and could it live in someone's cube for a while? It could eat pretzels, he insisted.
We had the Monday Editorial Meeting at ten. All of us rose from our cubicles and tramped purposefully up the stairs: Betty, in a flowered dress; Raul and Edward, who had just fallen in love and begun to wear each other's clothing; Linda the yoga queen; and Joni the Othello expert, in a see-through leopard-print dress from Express.
When we opened the door, strange faces stared at us: adults, real adults, in suits. The meeting room was full of the venture capitalists who wrote our paychecks. I whispered, “We're supposed to have ten o'clock!” and Brendan grabbed my arm from behind. Brendan was the founder of Shakespeare.com . He was also the CEO, CFO, and Editor-in-Chief. He wore
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