complaints of a rich man.
The average human being doesn't understand the burdens of a rich man.
The average human being would happily accept those burdens without realizing just how heavy they are.
When he was twenty-four, Steven attended a birthday party for Alexander Sharpe. Steven was invited to the party by the chief technology officer from Google. I hate parties like this, the woman had confessed to Steven. They make me nervous.
Steven had sensed a kindred spirit in her, but disliked people so much that he found it impossible to follow that perception up with an actual friendship.
The Sharpe party was the beginning of Steven's disengagement from society. Steven was relatively unknown in 2012. Most of the partygoers did not know him, and would not have pegged him as the most important person in the room. Nobody knew that in just three years, he would change the course of human interaction forever.
Not that anybody would have cared. It was 2012. Facebook had recently gone public. Apple had survived the loss of its mentor. Sharpe had turned a failed social experiment into the year's next big technology explosion.
But Steven had met another young tech fellow named Cerrano Badeh, who had seen in Steven a wet, quivering lump of dough that, perhaps, he could form into something notable.
The women here, Cerrano had said to him, are attracted to the smell of ink and paper. They want money. Do you see that man over there?
Steven followed Cerrano's pointing finger and saw a man with thinning hair and a considerable gut leaning against the bar. The man was sipping a tumbler of something golden-colored. His back was to Steven.
That man, Cerrano said, could have any woman here he likes. Any woman! Can you imagine that power?
Steven shook his head. He must be rich?
Rich is too easy a word, Cerrano said. The man is money itself. He owns three islands. Islands, my friend. Islands make the women glisten with anticipation.
Steven had never seen a woman glisten with anticipation.
The man at the bar hefted himself off of his elbows and straightened his jacket. A woman, previously hidden by the man's bulk, was suddenly revealed at his side. She wore a dress smaller than Steven had ever seen, with tasteful heels, and her dark hair spun down from a pile in ringlets.
Cerrano noticed Steven looking. She is beautiful, right?
She is, Steven agreed.
Her name is Lyn, with one N. She went to high school with me, in a little town called Weed, in the far north of California. Nobody lives in Weed, man. People pass through Weed and laugh about its name. Then she came to the Bay, like I did. But while I came with ideas, she came to meet men with ideas. She does well for herself. What she is wearing, those men paid for. What she drives, the same.
She's a prostitute? Steven asked.
She would slap you for that, Cerrano answered. No, she is an accessory. That's what she calls herself. An accessory.
Like an escort?
Perhaps, Cerrano said. She will never tell. She signs personal confidentiality agreements for every man she is with. The things she must know, my friend. One day, she could probably start a company that will be better than every other one, ever. She is smart enough.
I guess, Steven said. What are you saying?
That women like Lyn say something about the men they are attached to, Cerrano said. If there is a Lyn on your arm, you are a big deal in this town. If there is a Lyn on your arm, the investors will want to talk to you the next morning. You won't have to lift a finger.
Huh, Steven said.
• • •
Steven had reluctantly allowed Cerrano to arrange an accessory for him for the next event he attended. He had watched the fat man and Lyn all night. Lyn was a tasteful plus one. The fat man was not groping her mindlessly, was not pushing her out the door to get back to his apartment. Whatever happened after they left the party was not teased for all to observe.
The event was a
The average human being doesn't understand the burdens of a rich man.
The average human being would happily accept those burdens without realizing just how heavy they are.
When he was twenty-four, Steven attended a birthday party for Alexander Sharpe. Steven was invited to the party by the chief technology officer from Google. I hate parties like this, the woman had confessed to Steven. They make me nervous.
Steven had sensed a kindred spirit in her, but disliked people so much that he found it impossible to follow that perception up with an actual friendship.
The Sharpe party was the beginning of Steven's disengagement from society. Steven was relatively unknown in 2012. Most of the partygoers did not know him, and would not have pegged him as the most important person in the room. Nobody knew that in just three years, he would change the course of human interaction forever.
Not that anybody would have cared. It was 2012. Facebook had recently gone public. Apple had survived the loss of its mentor. Sharpe had turned a failed social experiment into the year's next big technology explosion.
But Steven had met another young tech fellow named Cerrano Badeh, who had seen in Steven a wet, quivering lump of dough that, perhaps, he could form into something notable.
The women here, Cerrano had said to him, are attracted to the smell of ink and paper. They want money. Do you see that man over there?
Steven followed Cerrano's pointing finger and saw a man with thinning hair and a considerable gut leaning against the bar. The man was sipping a tumbler of something golden-colored. His back was to Steven.
That man, Cerrano said, could have any woman here he likes. Any woman! Can you imagine that power?
Steven shook his head. He must be rich?
Rich is too easy a word, Cerrano said. The man is money itself. He owns three islands. Islands, my friend. Islands make the women glisten with anticipation.
Steven had never seen a woman glisten with anticipation.
The man at the bar hefted himself off of his elbows and straightened his jacket. A woman, previously hidden by the man's bulk, was suddenly revealed at his side. She wore a dress smaller than Steven had ever seen, with tasteful heels, and her dark hair spun down from a pile in ringlets.
Cerrano noticed Steven looking. She is beautiful, right?
She is, Steven agreed.
Her name is Lyn, with one N. She went to high school with me, in a little town called Weed, in the far north of California. Nobody lives in Weed, man. People pass through Weed and laugh about its name. Then she came to the Bay, like I did. But while I came with ideas, she came to meet men with ideas. She does well for herself. What she is wearing, those men paid for. What she drives, the same.
She's a prostitute? Steven asked.
She would slap you for that, Cerrano answered. No, she is an accessory. That's what she calls herself. An accessory.
Like an escort?
Perhaps, Cerrano said. She will never tell. She signs personal confidentiality agreements for every man she is with. The things she must know, my friend. One day, she could probably start a company that will be better than every other one, ever. She is smart enough.
I guess, Steven said. What are you saying?
That women like Lyn say something about the men they are attached to, Cerrano said. If there is a Lyn on your arm, you are a big deal in this town. If there is a Lyn on your arm, the investors will want to talk to you the next morning. You won't have to lift a finger.
Huh, Steven said.
• • •
Steven had reluctantly allowed Cerrano to arrange an accessory for him for the next event he attended. He had watched the fat man and Lyn all night. Lyn was a tasteful plus one. The fat man was not groping her mindlessly, was not pushing her out the door to get back to his apartment. Whatever happened after they left the party was not teased for all to observe.
The event was a
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