Poor Chance

Writing Oblique Strategies #3

He never should have left Greenpoint.

The fear had been creeping into his stone gut since Ted suggested NoMad for lunch. They never went to NoMad. They went to the Bounty. He should have seen it coming when Ted asked him to come into the city for a change. But the certainty that smacked him across the face when the svelte blonde hostess greeted him, unprompted, as “Mr. Bickford” was still more bracing than expected.

“Mr. Carames is already seated. Ted hasn’t arrived yet. Let me take you to the table.”

Mr. Carames? Who the fuck was Mr. Carames? and why was Ted “Ted” instead of “Mr. Tillman”?

Because this was Ted’s place. And this was a setup.

Jesus. He wondered. Did he even fucking HAVE friends anymore? But he knew the answer. Friendships, he found, diminish when people realize that he “didn’t care about money.” It wasn’t true, of course. He cared about money — its influence, its energy — an awful lot. It’s why… Well. That’s why he was in this mess to begin with.

The blonde led him through the hotel lobby and into the gardened atrium of the main dining hall. He espied a bespoke besuited man sitting solo. Tanned and slightly redding, close cropped grey hair, his suit clothed a thin frame and a white James Perse standard shirt, size three.

“Hey. You must be Chance. Pablo. Good to meet you. Ted told me I should join you guys for lunch. Wanted to meet you. Congratulations on the B-Corp.”

Chance shook his hand. Firm grip. It occurred to Chance he should look him in the eyes, and was shocked to find Pablo’s smoke brown eyes already locked to his gaze, expectant. Chance felt uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

This is what was always so irksome about these encounters, he stewed. How embarrassed they made Chance feel, when he really should just be embarrassed for them. For Ted.

“Thanks. Good to meet you,” Chance replied as he slid into his seat. He allowed himself a petulant passing thought that if they were going to really pull this shit they could at least remember that he hated sitting with his back to the whole room. Give him the bench seat. He immediately felt sympathy for Pablo that his mission was unknowingly blown before it had even begun.

How would he portray it in his next week’s status reports? “Prospect warm.”

Chance was seconds into his internal debate about how long to string Pablo along or whether he should come out with the plausibly-polite-in-NYC “So what do you do,” when Ted showed up and saved him from making the decision for which he felt had no properly moral answer.

“Oh great. I’m glad you guys have met.” Ted smoothly slid into his chair. He didn’t even move it. Dude had to be something like 190, 200 pounds. How does he do that? Is it a high tech coating on his $4,000 suit? Is it an ultra-secret startup product he’s backed, only available to the nine-figured? A Swiss finishing school value-add to parents with multiple children enrolled?

“Pablo’s just in town and he mentioned what a fan he was of Launchbot so I told him to come along and meet you. That you’re not as weird as people say.”

Ted was flying fast and loose today. He was probably unaware that this was the first time he’d ever cracked and acknowledged Chance’s rep for “not caring about money.” Like he was a monk. A monk with an Amex card. He usually played naive, or denied everything, insisting he was just like everyone else. Ted’s admission would have given up the game of today’s aim even without the new twist of using an out-of-towner. Ted probably felt that the deployment of this particular new tactic gave him a little cover to be more honest about the word on the street. And Chance had to give him credit. The combination of both plays in one lunch was weird enough that it just might have seemed plausible.

Especially if he had tried it at the Bounty. NoMad was one flourish too many. He chuckled inside: could even convince Pablo to venture out to Greenpoint? Hardly seemed the type.

Whatever, Chance figured. The roasted broccoli with lardo here is insane. Just enjoy this. Just live. Just be. You’re a normal guy. In three years you’ll have to start getting your prostate examined. Same difference. Mental acceptance. This too shall pass.

The small talk progressed and Chance could at least be thankful that this part of the ritual was pretty easy. He thanked his stars that Ted’s a master of small talk. Ted could erect and steer conversations around Chance’s daydreaming, suppressed petulance and fondness for non-sequiturs. Chance was often tempted to go a little meta or dada here. Drop knowing jokes or pretend to innocently admire a passing Bugatti. He could almost rationalize it because Pablo — or Dominique, or Brock or whoever’s next (Brock was the most normal name in the line of succession in quite some time, he mused) — would be so thankful for the opening. But he knew that was “unethical justification,” as he called it. Truth was, messing with these guys had all the trappings of entitlement and privilege. Chance knew it was imperative to eschew and avoid the temptation.

He did, however, think it was only polite to give Pablo the opportunity to tell him what he already knew. That it would speed this whole procedure along was only a bonus.

“So, Pablo. where are you in from?”

“Palo Alto.”

Check. Now for another question he knew the answer to, down to the client. Chance just wondered whether Pablo would just go for it. He put 3–2 odds he would. “in town for work?”

“Yeah. IPO of…” Pablo smiled. “Well. Possible IPO of a mobile payments company based in the Bay Area.” Air quotes.

Chance turned over to Ted and gave him a Colbert jazz hands face. He had a small lookup table in his head of the frequency of the various reactions he used on Ted. He liked to mix them up, offering a different serving for each moment in the conversation when plausible ignorance to the topic at hand could no longer be feigned.

Normally, Chance had seen these Ted/Chance Dances days in advance and was better prepared. So let’s give Ted that much. Chance’s suspicions had not been aroused to such an extant, merely stoked. Thus, today’s dance moves would not be nearly as well mentally rehearsed as usual.

He wanted to tell them that he understood. He was as insecure as everyone when it came to money. He grew up poor, and he never, ever felt like he had enough money. But that was the point: he would never feel like he had enough money. The whole thing was a trip down the primrose path. it was bad enough he let the board give him that raise to $150k. He knew exactly what they were doing with that one. He racked himself for a week, wondering if he should just resign over it. But who was going to hold firm if he left? The reason this company existed — it was in its bones — was to fight this very battle. He and the company were bound, eternally. There was no end game. There could be no end game. They would both live forever, or they would die together.

But he had told Ted all of this before. And yet here he was.

He drifted with indecision. Ted bated his breath, waiting for a sign for which direction to take the conversation. Pablo arched a single mountainous eyebrow. Beat.

Chance remembered shopping at a record store in Portsmouth. He must have been about 20. It was 1998. He bought a Mercury Rev CD single with a great Velvets cover as a B Side. Not usually his jam but that song they did with the Chemical Brothers was awesome. He bought the CD and left to go meet his girlfriend at the time (oh, Stella Marie you’re my star. Missed her). At a coffee shop. Ordered an ice tea.

Stella had not yet arrived when SHE walked in a couple minutes later. He didn’t recognize her but he immediately understood he was alone in that regard. The barista was gawking. The room stared. It took him a minute. But he got there.

What he loved about her in that instant was that she immediately understood what was happening. Again. One quick beat. A shudder of a moment where her soul inhaled, exhaled. Wondered if she really deserved this. Channeled inner peace. Beat.

She switched gears and went to work. The work of a politician. Her partner in infamy had been so famous for it. Hugging babies. Shaking hands. Introducing. Intimately isolating. That woman. Period. Subtle avoidance of verbs.

She started with the barista, with all the sweetness and kindness of an all-business southern realtor.

“Hi. how are you. I’m Monica Lewinsky. Could I get an iced mocha please? Hi. I love your shoes.”

It was the invitation the room needed. A D.A.R. blue bonnet who’d been sipping tea in the corner piped up. “He treated you disgracefully. He is no gentleman. You never deserved all this.”

“Oh, thank you so much. That’s sweet of you. What’s your name? Janet? Hi. You know. We were good friends for a while there so I feel like I understand. I don’t mind. He has a hard job. And people have been so dreadful to him. But thank you. I’ll tell you a little secret that makes me so embarrassed. But I can tell you.” Whisper. Beat. “I miss him sometimes.”

Chance fell in love with her in that moment. Sigh. Swoon. Inspiration.

Beat.

“Oh man. That IPO sounds like a great gig. And that’s so funny. You know, people are always asking about our IPO. And I keep telling them, you know, what kind of man would I be if I went back on my word? But it’s so hard, you know? I know some employees wish we had a better stock plan, and there would be an IPO. And it’s weird because the place does make a good amount of money, you know? But gosh. I just. I really did my best to reinforce and tell everyone over and over ‘look. If you’re going to get involved with us you should know we’re never going to sell. We’re never going to IPO.’ I really tried. But I totally didn’t make that clear I guess. That’s on me. It’s such a weird thing you know? No one does this, not IPOing. So I guess people didn’t really believe me. I don’t really blame them.”

He figured he may as well keep going. Part of him wondered if he was twisting the knife. But he always wondered about what Ted actually tells these people. Pablo obviously expensed this trip. He’s got that status meeting. How much money, he wondered, had Goldman spent on him already (he assumed it was Goldman. With Ted it was always Goldman. with Deval it was JP Morgan). Tell the guy the whole truth. Let the truth get heard at status. He had tried this approach before. But come to think of it, maybe he’d never tried it on Ted. His mom? Definitely. One of the engineers? Yep. His last girlfriend? Yeah.

But now that he thought about it, he doesn’t remember the Monica stratagem being deployed against Ted.

Best to double down.

“And I mean Ted here. Well. I mean. I sort of feel the worst about Ted. He’s got LPs, you know? Hey lemme ask you. Pablo. Where do you work? Goldman?”

Pablo was playing a bit of catch up but he was no slouch. Chance detected a hint of mischievous admiration, fleeting, suppressed. Pablo might be all right IRL. “Yes sir. Goldman freakin Sachs.”

Style points.

Chance went on. “Cool. Cool. Hey lemme ask you something. I was reading this Felix Salmon article a few weeks ago. I think it was called Home offices want dividends. It was going on about the zero cost of borrowing, and how hard it is to place money, and home offices know they’re getting a a bit played with startups and dividends are back in vogue. Well. I mean. You know any of these guys? Cuz Ted here. I mean. He has LPs. Ten year cycle. Shit. What’s Launchbot? I think we’re seven now? His LPs gotta be getting a bit nervous. It got me thinking. I mean. We make a ton of money. We have dividends? Well. I mean. We could, right Ted? All that profit? Could you, like; find some of those people for Ted? Sell his shares, swap some of Launchbot’s VC shareholders for some cool bond villian or something that likes dividends?”

Chance paused and in a moment of inspiration delivered the coup de grace.

“Hey do you know Richard Branson?”

Ted flushed. “Ok. Ok. Ha ha, Chance. It’s cool. Pablo here just wanted to meet you.”

Pablo, again no slouch, wasn’t going to let the lunch go to waste. “you know, Ted. Chance is right. I mean. I don’t know about Richard Branson, And I don’t know about your legal limitations, but I assume with Chance’s blessing — ” chance gave a gracious bow of a nod, “ — we probably have some clients who would be — ”

Hands up in surrender, Ted interjected. “No no, we love Chance. We love Launchbot. We believe in Chance’s vision. I just wouldn’t be doing my duty as a board member…”

A staticky warm blanket of small talk re-enveloped Chance. A temporary shield it, was. But soon he would be again with his only friend: the cab driver. He loved Uber, but paying the higher tip alleviated himself of the chatty guilt. He salivated with anticipation at the safety he’d feel back in their loving arms. His therapist. His prostitute. His only real friend. The only person in his life who wasn’t trying to get him to sell out would soon be shuttling him through the steel canyons, across the river. Back to his Greenpoint fortress of solitude.

—

Special thanks to Mark Mangan this week for an inspiring lunch.

—

The next card is:

Destroy

— nothing

— the most important thing