Learning Curve (14 page)

P
ierce Road was windier and narrower than Dan remembered. He hadn't been up here in years, since the early days at Validator when he was feeling well-off for the first time in his life. He'd briefly contemplated buying a vineyard up here, with a house at the ridgeline where he could look west towards the Pacific Ocean and east down onto the Bay by day, and where he could see the lights of Silicon Valley at night. He'd even convinced Annabelle to give her tentative approval—that was back in the days when she supported his every decision.

Luckily, at the last minute he'd recognized his own mistake. A winery? When would he have had time for that? In the years since, perhaps a dozen of his fellow Valley CEOs had followed through on the same dream—and lost fortunes on mediocre zinfandels and cabernets that nobody wanted. As his big BMW caught the narrow shoulder of a particularly narrow switchback and flung gravel a hundred feet down the nearly vertical hillside, Dan once again thanked his good fortune that he hadn't doomed himself—and doomed seemed the right word—to travel this road a thousand times in rain, ice, and the occasional snow.

Even after he'd decided instead to build their current home in a less dramatic, but much gentler, lane in Atherton, he'd still driven up here to get away from the intensity of Valley business life, and to look out over the steep green hills with their straight stitching of grape vines and dream of life after Validator. In his worst moments, he had gone up here to regain control over his emotions before putting his CEO persona back on and returning to work.

But that was long ago—when he was running one of the world's most admired companies. When his wife trusted his judgment—when he was worthy of that trust. And when his little girl still thought he was the most important person in the world, not just a jailer to be ignored, lied to, and bypassed on her headlong race down to disaster.

Here it is.
Dan slowed as he rounded a familiar curve. There was a wide spot up ahead, where a tractor had long ago cleared away a small turn-out…

But the turn-out had become an entrance. Now, instead of rutted dirt and a low bank of gravel, there was a pair of brick pillars flanking a forbidding wrought-iron gate, each topped by a lantern. Beyond and below, he could see the tile roof, chimneys, and whiterailing of the widow's walk of a big new executive home.

Dan stopped his car with its nose almost touching the twisted bars of the gate. He stared in disbelief at the godawful new house, and the last of his emotional defenses collapsed. His company, his family, even his old dreams of running a winery, were all falling apart one by one. He let out a loud sob, and the tears began to pour down his cheeks. His hands were shaking so hard, he barely had time to yank on the hand brake and put the big car in gear before it rolled into the gate.

The sobs still came, one after another, until he was howling and punching the steering wheel and grabbing at his hair. He hadn't cried so hard since he was a boy, not even at his parents' funerals. Now it was as if every tear he'd ever fought back was rushing out in one great, paralyzing attack.

For a long while, he couldn't stop. His chest ached, as if a belt were being yanked ever-tighter around his torso. Finally he caught himself and rubbed his breastbone with his fist. Am I going to have a heart attack now too? Is this where I die? he asked himself in horror and shame. Here, on some random hillside, after the most humiliating day of my life?

No,
he told himself as the tightness in his chest eased a little.
I won't be that lucky. God isn't that merciful.

T
he brief respite from tears had cruelly provoked Dan to remember the public humiliation that had driven him to hide in the hills in the first place. He'd heard the rumbles from the audience. But there was nothing he could do. Cosmo would've tackled the doubters head-on, challenging them to explain themselves, then improvising some strategy on the spot. It would have been mostly bullshit—but it would have turned the jeers to cheers, and he'd have worried later about actually fulfilling his promises.

But that was Cosmo. The shareholders, the market, and the public believed in Cosmo Validator because he had pulled off so many miracles in the past. Cosmo had that personality common to all great entrepreneurs: he would lie, cheat, and probably kill, to protect the company he had created. And the world knew that—so if he was caught fabricating numbers to buy himself time to save his company… well, everyone knew he was a rogue.

But that isn't me,
Dan acknowledged to himself. He had lied and dissembled and tossed up so many smoke screens of false optimism over the last year that the prospect of ever doing it again made him sick to his stomach. It wasn't as if anyone had believed him anyway. He was a CEO, not a founder; a hired gun, not a true believer. That was why he had mercilessly cut all the bullshit financial predictions out of the annual report speech—and why, just minutes before leaving his office and heading down to the main hall, he had excised the entire last page of the speech. No more lies to the shareholders, he had decided; no more lies to the employees. Now we all live with the truth.

Some hero you are,
he told himself now.
What did you think was going to happen? They were going to give you a standing ovation for honesty? Who were you kidding?
The real truth-teller was that woman with the Blackberry. She'd had it right: Say what you want, Crowen; be a liar or be an honest man—either way, it's just your own fucking vanity. All that counts is the bottom line… and you have failed.

Maybe so, he thought, but at least I don't have to lie anymore. Well… at least not about
this
.

He took a deep breath and wiped the tears off his face with his suit sleeve. Then for the first time, he looked around. It was beginning to get dark. Though the sky overhead was still blue, the sun was setting behind the hills, casting the Valley floor into shadow. Only the summits of the Diablo Mountains across the Bay were still glowing deep pink and orange. Below, the lights of Silicon Valley, from Burlingame to Gilroy, were just coming on. So were the skylights on the roof of the house before him, he saw with surprise. He hadn't given a thought to the possibility that there might be people inside.

Wouldn't it be awkward,
he thought as he looked in the mirror,
if the owner's headlights were to show up behind my rear bumper right now? How would I explain this?

As if on cue, Dan jumped as headlights flashed across the back window of the car. Then, to his relief, the car roared on up the road. He found himself laughing at his own over-reaction.
What am I worrying about?
he asked himself.
The poor sonofabitch is probably like the rest of us: working fifteen hours a day to own a big house he never gets home to. He won't be home for hours.

Well buddy,
he thought as he flipped open his cell phone,
at least you've still got a home.
He googled the number for the San Jose Fairmont Hotel and called to make a reservation for the night. As he waited for confirmation, he looked down the hill to his left. He could still make out the white glow of the spiked tent of Shoreline Amphitheater and—further to the left—the even whiter salt stacks on the edge of the Bay near Redwood City. With his finger against the window, he traced the line of Willow Road as it came up the hill from Bayshore Freeway and the lights became further apart.
One of those is my house,
Dan told himself.
When will be the next
time I see it?

The reservations clerk came back on the line and confirmed his room. Dan thanked her, hung up, and tapped in a text message to Lisa:
Meet me at the Fairmont in San Jose in an hour. I'll order room service.
Without waiting for a reply, he started the car and backed out of his dead-end.

W
hen Armstrong Givens straightened his cuffs, Alison noticed for the first time that he wore a Cartier tank watch with an alligator strap. When did he get that? Had he always worn it, and was she just now noticing it? Or was this the first sign that he'd already begun spending his stock money?

It's odd, the things you notice at times like this,
Alison thought. The first new cars had already begun appearing in the parking lot. Nothing too expensive, but that was probably because only the lower-level employees as yet had stock they could sell. Next week, the big shareholders would see their “founder” lock-outs end—and the first twenty percent vesting completed. And Alison had already been warned by Valley veterans—her new best friends—that the Porsches and Ferraris would soon follow.

“Hey,” she told Armstrong before he had a chance to speak, “I was just reminded this morning that it was one year ago today—right here in Harvey Milk—that I first announced that we were going public.”

“An historic moment,” he replied. “Someday they'll put up a plaque outside.” He had a weary look on his face.

Dreading what might be coming, Alison decided to keep talking. She gestured at the stacks of boxes and the empty walls. “Looks a little different these days, doesn't it?”

“Indeed,” Armstrong said dryly.

“Are you going to miss this place?”

“You mean the vomit on the sidewalk out front? The ancient elevator with creaking cable and the zero-gravity descents? The lack of an edible breakfast within eight blocks? The disappearance of every parking space for a mile every time there's a Giants game? Oh, I don't think I'll ever stop weeping at the many memories.”

“Well, I know that
I'll
never forget this place,” she said, and tears welled up in her eyes.

Armstrong reached over and patted the back of her hand. “And that is perfectly understandable, my dear. After all, it was within these walls that you experienced something that only happens to one or two people per generation. I would think you would cherish this place.”

“And now?”

“We're at the point of inflection, Alison, and you and I both know it. This is a very different company now than it was just a year ago. Eighty percent of the employees in the company today weren't here at the IPO. They have no memory of that plucky little start-up called eTernity—and they don't want to know about it. What they care about is the future of this company and their place in it. They know what this company is straining to be, and they're getting impatient about getting there.”

“And what is that company, Armstrong?”

“You know that better than I do,” he said. “It's the industry leader. A big, established, supremely competent global corporation with tens of thousands of employees and several billion in annual revenues.”

Now it was her turn to take his hand. “And to think that you and I
did
this. Isn't it incredible? All from an idea sketched out on a paper napkin. A great worldwide company, employing thousands—an institution that will likely outlive us both. Doesn't that prospect excite you?”

He drew his hand away. “Not in the least, my dear. I loathe life in big companies. It's all about power and boundaries. And I've never been obsessed with the former, nor constrained by the latter. I know a lot of people for whom big company life, with all of its privileges and perquisites, represents a kind of empowerment. But for me, it's nothing but a slow suffocation. Big companies bore me to death.”

Alison had unconsciously sensed this coming for weeks, but had refused to admit it to herself. Now the dreaded moment had arrived. She felt as if she were on the other side of the room, watching herself performing in a scene that would become an important—if largely inexplicable—part of the company's official history.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means, darling, that inflections, transitions,
turning points
, are always the best times for arrivals and departures. And so I've decided to use this moment to make my own exit.”

“You're leaving? Now?”

“No,” Armstrong said, “not this moment. But soon. Within the year; as soon as my vesting is complete—and I hope you will speak to the board about accelerating it. Trust me, once you find my replacement, you'll want me out of here pretty fast.”

“But I still don't understand why. You've been as important to making eTernity what it is today as anyone in the company. Why would you walk away before the job is done? Don't you care enough about this company—about
us
—to see this thing through? To make eTernity what it's destined to be?”

Armstrong refused to take the bait. “I
start
things, Alison, I almost never
finish
things—at least not if I can help it.”

“But that's facile—it doesn't mean anything, Armstrong. After all we've been through, at least you can give me a sincere answer.”

Givens was momentarily taken aback. Then he grinned at her. “Good for you,” he said. “Okay, young lady, I'll tell you the truth. You're entering into a whole new phase in your career as CEO of this company. You're inexperienced enough in this job that you still believe that all the changes that are about to hit the company will take place around the edges. That the heart of eTernity, the one we created over the last few years, will always remain unchanged.

“What you don't understand is that
everything
is going to change around here.
You
are going to change. It's already begun in ways that you haven't even noticed yet.”

She started to interrupt, but he held up his hand to stop her. “Don't try. Just trust that I know what I'm talking about. I've been here before. And I've learned two things. The first is that I don't like those changes when they happen to me, much less my company, because in my heart I'm an entrepreneur, not a businessman. The second is that this attitude of mine is exactly the wrong thing for a CEO at a time like this. What you need now, Alison, is a veteran Operations guy who knows how to help you navigate down the next stretch of road. Someone who wants to go where you're going. I'm not that man.”

“And there's nothing I can say or do to keep you here?”

Armstrong gave a sad smile.
“Nothing you say can make me the person you need now; and nothing you do can accomplish anything but insult me. Don't forget, you just made me a rich man, my dear. I can no longer be bought.”

She nodded. “I assume you don't plan to compete with me, Armstrong.”

“I'm too old for lawsuits,” he said. “And besides, I'm going in a different direction now. I'm in love—and love always makes me hungry for good food.”

They both laughed—longer and louder than they needed to.