On The Ground Floor

I can’t stop laughing. It’s that laughter you keep inside; it wiggles my stomach and tries to squeak out of my throat, but I don’t let it. I just look up at Ben’s face and nod along, hoping he will mistake my barely stifled grin and reddening face for signs of support. He says something about “scalability” and I grunt involuntarily, the corners of my mouth finally turning upward, defying my attempt at decorum. When he’s finished, I’ll apologize for the tickle in my throat, or maybe conjure up something about adult-onset Tourette’s.

“Computer lessons,” Ben says, “are a $700-million-per-year industry.”

His folks are doctors, but he’s convinced he has the business gene.

He stands in front of the projector so the hot-pink lettering of his slideshow is superimposed over his white dress shirt and blue tie. It isn’t conventional to buy a projection system for one’s home. I had told him this while he entered his dad’s card number into the Best Buy website, but he retorted that PowerPoint was the essential tool of any businessman. If a man could make a top-notch PowerPoint presentation, he could run any business in the world.

“What’s your business model?” I ask, taking a gulp of the hazardously hot coffee I was given upon my arrival. The quicker I choke it down, the sooner I can stop pretending to like it.

“The business practically runs itself. Think of all the old folks out there who don’t even know how to open a web browser. Did you know that one in four homes in this country still don’t have Internet?”

“Okay, but that’s a nationwide statistic. You live in one of the most affluent neighborhoods there is,” I say.

Out the balcony window of Ben’s eighth-floor apartment, you can see lobbyists and attorneys making their way toward food trucks and Korean delis.

“That’s why we have the shuttles, the vans. We’ll bus the old folks right to our offices. And who knows, maybe we could even make house calls.”

“Right, because liability isn’t really something you need to worry about at all.”

“Exactly. So I’m thinking we’ll have one of those commercials, with the phone number and the jingle. ‘1–800-GIZMO-GO, give us a call, and soon you will know!’”

“What will I know?”

“What?”

“‘Give us a call, and soon you will know.’ Know what?”

“How to use computer programs. eBay, MS Office, Tripod. The big ones.”

Ben’s smile shows his big, white front teeth, and his eyes widen, looking almost as big as golf balls under his thick glasses.

“Right. You do know plenty of senior centers and libraries offer free lessons, no?”

Ben shifts his hands around in his pockets.

“True. But those lessons don’t come with the Gizmo guarantee: free coffee and donuts with every session!”

“Scalding beverages, the elderly, and computers. What could go wrong?”

“So, are you in? For just $5,000, ten percent of Gizmo could be yours.”

“What are you going to use the money for?”

“Well, I’ve been working hard on this idea for months. I figure I can use some of it to buy a cheap van, and use the rest to cut myself a salary.”

“I am most definitely not in.”

“But this is my best idea yet!”

Ben may have been right about that. Compared to the Pakistani bistro, the petting zoo, and the clay-surface ping-pong tables (“We’ll get Nadal for the commercials!”), this idea was a relative winner.

“Tell you what,” I offer, “I’m in if you can give me the correct answer to one question: how many lambs do you have in your dad’s backyard?”

“None.”

Ben’s eyes shift toward the ground, his interest suddenly captured by a scuff on his brown shoes.

“Let me ask again: how many lambs is your dad keeping out back?”

“Three. But we got the people to take the goats back.”

“I’ve heard all I need to hear.”

I rise from the couch and shake Ben’s hand.

“We’re shaking on it? You’re in?”

“Nice try, Captain Cunning. I gotta get back to work.”

He switches off the projector, and the bulb’s bright light fades out against the smooth screen. The bright fonts and the big mechanical gears of the Gizmo logo are gone, leaving only Ben, struggling to retract the screen into the top of the wall. Not since junior high had the kid we called The Gentle Giant looked so small.

I can’t stop going over there. With the pillow hugged tight against my head, I have to admit to myself that it’s a decent way to spend a lunch break. The coffee tastes like grass, and I can still feel the burn it left on my tongue this afternoon. But it’s nice to see the guy who stood between me and a John Soriano ass-kicking in the fourth grade. It’s nice to see the guy who would go to the movies when all of my other friends were “busy.” It’s nice to see the guy who let me sleep on his sofa while I looked for a place. I remember waking up on that thing each morning, my clammy skin clinging to the leather. I suppose a part of me will always be on that couch.

To the left of me I see a bright green rectangle of light on my ceiling, and my phone jiggles back and forth as the vibrations begin. I look at the screen and see those familiar three letters on the caller ID.

“Ben, it’s late.”

“I’ve got it — disposable umbrellas!”

“I’m listening.”