corduroy pants and used hair gel.
“Carry on,” Brendan said to the adults, who looked mildly uncomfortable in our meeting room, which we had painted neon green. Brendan closed the door. “Let's meet in the alternate area,” he said.
The alternate area was Sombrero's, the Mexican restaurant across the street. We sat around a Formica table shaped like a jalapeno. Betty sat next to me. She smelled of baby powder. “Are you sick?” she asked me, tucking into her breakfast—three tacos, refried beans, and a large Coke.
“What?” I said. “Do I look sick?”
“You're pale,” said Raul.
“And your hair is flat,” said Edward. They laughed cattily.
Brendan called the meeting to order. “Let's start with the new marketing campaign,” he said. He drew envelopes on his place mat with a ballpoint pen. Then, he drew a row of circles. Lastly, another row of envelopes. “We have a three-pronged attack,” he said.
I said, “This is the Monday Editorial Meeting.”
“Oh,” said Brendan. He sipped his Mr. Pibb. “Does anyone have any Editorial issues?”
There was silence. I tried to decide if I should give voice to my concerns about the King Lear monkey/milk shake concept. Betty cleared her throat and asked, “Any news on funding?” I noticed that her hand was in a fist in her lap.
“Very soon,” said Brendan. “Very soon there should be some news.”
“Payday is Thursday,” said Edward. “Are we going to get paid?” Raul put his hand on Edward's shoulder and squeezed.
Brendan cleared his throat. “Why don't I fill you in on the new marketing campaign?” he said expectantly. We nodded.
He went on and on. Basically, the new marketing campaign was to mail a bunch of stuff. My head was pounding from lack of caffeine. Everyone around me slurped happily, and with verve. Their eyes lit up as the wondrous drug hit their nervous systems. They began making comments about the new strategy, seasoned comments about target customers and data spreads. Linda the yoga queen stretched her arms toward the fluorescent light on the ceiling: Sitting Mountain Pose.
Shakespeare.com had a chance. We'd gone through two rounds of funding already, and we were waiting for our third. The first six months had been heady: Free Barbecue Wednesdays, Beer Fridays, and pizza everywhere. We had a snack shelf then, filled with Gummi Bears and granola bars. There had been a soda machine with the coin part turned off: just punch a soda and there you go. Sprite? Sure! Diet Coke? Why not? I had gotten up to seven sodas a day.
By the second round, we were more careful. The office had begun to fill up with employees, and we stopped getting kegs for everybody's birthdays. People started going into the bathroom to do drugs. No more X in the office place. We had investors checking up on us now, parking their Benzes in front of the office, “stopping by.” (One investor's license plate said “4TH IPO.”) We got benefits and our first employee over thirty—a platinum blond human resources director who wore denim miniskirts. At the last birthday party, which was mine, Brendan bought a cake from Costco and offered everyone ice water. We knew then that we were in trouble.
Let's be frank. Shakespeare.com had started as a good idea: bring Shakespeare to the masses. But it was headed nowhere fast: Shakespeare for idiots. We were actually talking to the “For Idiots” franchise about a possible crossover deal.
I had five hundred thousand stock options. My car was an ‘83 Civic, my house in Bernal Heights had termites, we slept on a mattress on the floor, and we drank whatever beer was on sale. My husband, Leo, taught first grade. Most weekends, we'd load up the car with camping gear and take Moxie, our lab, to Tahoe or the Santa Cruz mountains. As I made noodles on the camp stove and Moxie ran around in circles, Leo read me New Yorker short stories or articles from the Bay Guardian . After dinner, we played cards with headlamps on, and I
“Carry on,” Brendan said to the adults, who looked mildly uncomfortable in our meeting room, which we had painted neon green. Brendan closed the door. “Let's meet in the alternate area,” he said.
The alternate area was Sombrero's, the Mexican restaurant across the street. We sat around a Formica table shaped like a jalapeno. Betty sat next to me. She smelled of baby powder. “Are you sick?” she asked me, tucking into her breakfast—three tacos, refried beans, and a large Coke.
“What?” I said. “Do I look sick?”
“You're pale,” said Raul.
“And your hair is flat,” said Edward. They laughed cattily.
Brendan called the meeting to order. “Let's start with the new marketing campaign,” he said. He drew envelopes on his place mat with a ballpoint pen. Then, he drew a row of circles. Lastly, another row of envelopes. “We have a three-pronged attack,” he said.
I said, “This is the Monday Editorial Meeting.”
“Oh,” said Brendan. He sipped his Mr. Pibb. “Does anyone have any Editorial issues?”
There was silence. I tried to decide if I should give voice to my concerns about the King Lear monkey/milk shake concept. Betty cleared her throat and asked, “Any news on funding?” I noticed that her hand was in a fist in her lap.
“Very soon,” said Brendan. “Very soon there should be some news.”
“Payday is Thursday,” said Edward. “Are we going to get paid?” Raul put his hand on Edward's shoulder and squeezed.
Brendan cleared his throat. “Why don't I fill you in on the new marketing campaign?” he said expectantly. We nodded.
He went on and on. Basically, the new marketing campaign was to mail a bunch of stuff. My head was pounding from lack of caffeine. Everyone around me slurped happily, and with verve. Their eyes lit up as the wondrous drug hit their nervous systems. They began making comments about the new strategy, seasoned comments about target customers and data spreads. Linda the yoga queen stretched her arms toward the fluorescent light on the ceiling: Sitting Mountain Pose.
Shakespeare.com had a chance. We'd gone through two rounds of funding already, and we were waiting for our third. The first six months had been heady: Free Barbecue Wednesdays, Beer Fridays, and pizza everywhere. We had a snack shelf then, filled with Gummi Bears and granola bars. There had been a soda machine with the coin part turned off: just punch a soda and there you go. Sprite? Sure! Diet Coke? Why not? I had gotten up to seven sodas a day.
By the second round, we were more careful. The office had begun to fill up with employees, and we stopped getting kegs for everybody's birthdays. People started going into the bathroom to do drugs. No more X in the office place. We had investors checking up on us now, parking their Benzes in front of the office, “stopping by.” (One investor's license plate said “4TH IPO.”) We got benefits and our first employee over thirty—a platinum blond human resources director who wore denim miniskirts. At the last birthday party, which was mine, Brendan bought a cake from Costco and offered everyone ice water. We knew then that we were in trouble.
Let's be frank. Shakespeare.com had started as a good idea: bring Shakespeare to the masses. But it was headed nowhere fast: Shakespeare for idiots. We were actually talking to the “For Idiots” franchise about a possible crossover deal.
I had five hundred thousand stock options. My car was an ‘83 Civic, my house in Bernal Heights had termites, we slept on a mattress on the floor, and we drank whatever beer was on sale. My husband, Leo, taught first grade. Most weekends, we'd load up the car with camping gear and take Moxie, our lab, to Tahoe or the Santa Cruz mountains. As I made noodles on the camp stove and Moxie ran around in circles, Leo read me New Yorker short stories or articles from the Bay Guardian . After dinner, we played cards with headlamps on, and I
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