Learning Curve (2 page)

The applause was deafening, and Dan was caught up in it himself. “But even the best need the right products to sell, the right sales tools, and the right marketing and advertising support to be all it can be. So…” Dan looked suspiciously left and right. “Any spies here from CMR or Twillium?”

A chorus of boos echoed in the auditorium. “Good,” said Dan conspiratorially. “Because I know I can trust you—”

“You bet!” someone shouted back.

“Let me give you an early glimpse of what we have coming your way over the next twelve months…”

Six minutes later it was over. The crowd took to its feet in applause. Dan smiled, made a brief wave, and headed to the front of the stage, where he bent down, said hello, and shook hands with every salesperson—some old friends and veterans, some newcomers trying to be remembered, a few attempting to blurt out the contents of a long-ignored memo. He dealt graciously but quickly with them all. He was soon joined by Tony D., who was his usually gregarious and profane self, but whose very presence made the crowed quickly shrink away—just as he'd planned.

As they walked back through the curtains, Tony D. slapped Dan on the back. “That's the bread and circuses for this year. Doing the usual ‘quiet dinner with the missus' thing tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Well,” said Tony D. as they stepped off the stairs, “I suppose you need to be fresh and alert and all of that other bullshit for tomorrow. But as for me, I'm going to celebrate one great fucking year. Maybe that's why you're the CEO and I'm not.”

“That must be it,” said Dan with a tired smile.

The stagehand was waiting to take the microphones, carefully coiling each to keep them from tangling. “Terrific job, gentlemen,” he said.

Dan glanced up and saw a familiar figure threading her way through the packing crates and cables. It was his secretary, Donna, cradling a pile of papers and portfolios against her hip in her sleeved arm. She always wore a long-sleeved blouse to cover some unwelcome tattoos from her past—not an unusual sight back at corporate headquarters, but odd here. He couldn't ever remember Donna coming to one of these sales speeches. This wasn't good.

“Dan,” she said breathlessly as she arrived. Her face was flushed, as if she'd been running. “You aren't going to like this.”

“Okay.” he said evenly.

“Mr. Validator called. He wants to talk with you.”

“I'll call him once I get outside.”

“In person.”

“Oh. All right. Fine. Where's he staying?”

“In Idaho. At the ranch.”

“No. He's kidding, right?”

Donna just pressed her lips together in reply. “Mr. Validator's plane is waiting at the San Jose Jetport. It's fueled up, the crew's on, and it's ready to go when you are. I have a car and driver waiting outside.”

“Cosmo wants me to fly all the way to Idaho for a five minute meeting and fly all the way back tonight?” He glanced at his watch. “It's already 3:30, for God sakes.”

“No sir. He wants you to fly back there this evening, and then get up early to meet him in the morning. You'll then fly back together to the shareholders meeting.” She motioned down at the stack of papers. “These are all of the documents you'll need for tomorrow and the meeting.”

Dan's shoulders slumped. “Did he say why?”

“No. I heard everything from some new assistant he has. She wasn't very friendly. I've told you everything she told me.”

“I'll need a change of clothes and my medicine kit.”

“Already taken care of. Along with some casual clothes in case you want to walk around the ranch. And I've told Ms. Crowen. She also picked out your suit and tie for the meeting tomorrow. The driver has already stopped by your house and they're waiting in the car.”

“Thank you. How did Annabelle sound?”

“At least as disappointed as you.”

He nodded. “Well. It's got to be done.” He reached out and took the papers. “Thanks for taking care of everything, Donna.”

“Sure, Dan. And I'm very sorry. I know these evenings are very important.”

Dan gave her a wan smile. “See you tomorrow.”

As the limousine made its way down the commute lane on Highway 280, past the gridlock of cars in the other lane, Dan pulled out his Blackberry and called home. His wife answered after a single ring.

“Don't worry,” she said peremptorily. “Dinner can wait.”

“I know, but it won't be the same dinner. I mean, this is our own private tradition. And I don't know about you, but I'm hugely disappointed. The prospect of a quiet evening together. A nice dinner and an expensive bottle of wine. Aiden at a friend's house. Coffee on the patio. A little fun. A real honest-to-god good night's sleep. It's the prospect of it all that gets me through this miserable week every year.”

“I know, honey. And I'm disappointed too. If you had cancelled for any other reason, you know I'd be furious. But this is Cosmo. And Cosmo is crazy. He's always been crazy. And he has no concept that other people have lives. That's why you had to save his company. He worked his people nearly to death, until they quit, and then took all the credit for the company's success. I figured out a long time ago that bitching about Cosmo Validator is like complaining about earthquakes—it doesn't do a lick of good. You either move away or deal with it, but you can't fight it. He loves you, dear.”

“Yeah, lucky me. And lucky you I'm not twenty years younger, because that's more his style.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Aiden will love it. Two overnights in a row? That's her idea of paradise. Besides, the filets and the zin will be just that much more aged.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Thanks. Try at least to get a good night's sleep. At least you've already done the heavy lifting. All you have to do tomorrow is shake hands and look presidential.” Dan smiled; after all these years, Annabelle knows my job as well as I do. Smarter than me, too.

“Maybe I'll keep the cowboy gear on,” he said
. The shareholders would love it.”

“Why not? I'm sure Cosmo's done it before.”

Dan chuckled. “I'll call you later.”

“Safe trip,” said Annabelle. “Love you.”

T
he limousine pulled up to the electric gate at the side of the terminal. The driver handed a piece of paper to the guard, who nodded and returned to his booth. With a shudder, the gate rattled open and they drove through—past the open front of the hangar with its parked collection of private jets, and out onto the edge of the flight line. Cosmo Validator's Bombardier was waiting just ahead, turbines slowly turning. Skirting the horizontal stabilizer, the car pulled up at the base of the plane's lowered steps. “Thanks,” said Dan. “You're picking me up tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” said the driver. “Do you know when yet?”

“I know nothing,” said Dan. “But someone will let you know.”

He opened the door, and with just two steps on the tarmac, he was on the step-up into the plane. The flight attendant, a stunning brunette—Validator never had anything less—greeted him as he entered. “Mr. Crowen. Welcome aboard. It's been a while, hasn't it? Davos, three years ago.”

“Yes. Yes, I remember. It's good to see you again, Wendy.”

“Would you like a glass of wine before we take off?”

“That would be fine.”

“We have no other passengers, Mr. Crowen, so please make yourself comfortable anywhere.”

Dan knew that meant Validator would not be on the flight. And that, in turn, meant that Cosmo's designated seat—the one in the center near the rear bulkhead, with kidskin upholstery and its own special control panel—was available. Dan decided instead to take a window seat.

He sipped his wine and watched the limousine driver unload his suitcase and suiter and hand it up the steps. He looked out across the airport to the swooping stainless steel walls of the new Mineta Airport, looking like some great vacuum cleaner against the distant skyline of downtown San Jose. A Southwest Air 737 was taxiing out for take-off, a face in every window. Dan gave a small smile: that would normally be him, enjoying the modest advantages of business class, and thankful for them all. That's how CEOs travelled—at least until they made the Fortune 500 and the company bought a plane. Only founders could afford their own jets.

“Mr. Crowen?”

Dan looked up to see the pilot—there'd be two of them—in his uniform without the jacket.

“Welcome back. If you are ready sir, we have clearance from the tower.”

“By all means,” said Dan.

“Very good. Your choice, Mr. Crowen, but we do prefer that you buckle your seatbelt.”

“Of course.”

The pilot made a casual two finger salute. “I'll check back with you somewhere over Nevada.”

Dan looked across the aisle and out the far window. The sun, the color of butter, was resting above Swig tower at Santa Clara University, and preparing to dive behind the wave of fog cresting over the distant Santa Cruz Mountains. The Jesuits had given him an honorary degree two years before; the diploma now hung on the wall of his home office.
It'll be dark in Idaho when we land,
he told himself.

There was no shuddering, bouncing, or rattling, just a whine of engine and an infinitesimal diminution of vibration as the Bombardier leapt off the runway and hurtled into the air. Dan felt the G's slightly as the plane made a tighter bank than a commercial airplane, but it wasn't enough to do much more than slightly tilt the wine in his glass. After a few minutes, the plane crested the eastern hills, with the ranger station atop Mt. Diablo surprisingly close off the left wing. As the golden light flickered off the Bay and spires of San Francisco, the flight attendant appeared in the aisle ahead and began opening cabinets. She was gorgeous. That's what all stewardesses looked like when I was a boy, Dan told himself. Now rich men keep them for themselves.

He closed his eyes; he was surprised to feel how quickly he was breathing. Was it residual adrenalin from the speech? The change of plans? Or the impending meeting with Cosmo? Probably all of them. But probably the last most of all.

Odd, how our roles have reversed,
he mused. Cosmo was born in Redwood City—a fourth generation Californian whose ancestor had proved a better fisherman than gold miner—and a man more Silicon Valley than Silicon Valley itself. Yet Cosmo now lived on a 33,000-acre ranch in Idaho, and treated the Valley like a strange and alien landscape that he occasionally had to visit but couldn't escape quickly enough. Meanwhile, Dan realized, here I am, the son of a Back Bay Boston grocer who bleeds Dartmouth green, and I never travelled west of the Berkshires until I was sixteen years old. Now, the instant the wheels touch off the runway I feel an ache of homesickness to be back in the Valley.

He had begun his career at an investment banking firm in Manhattan. For fifteen years—beginning the Monday after his MBA graduation from Tuck—he had worked his way up through the ranks to the top floor, and became a partner. He was supposed to stay there forever. He'd already gone from young buck to newlywed to new father, and from the walk-up in Chelsea to the apartment off Columbus Circle to the house in Garden City. Circling and circling in an ever-upward gyre—Connecticut next, and then back to the city. Senior partner, then chairman. It was so predictable and perfect. Set your clock; set your calendar—the road ahead was smooth and well-marked.

And then Cosmo Validator showed up one day and shattered it all.

It hadn't begun that way, of course. Validator Software was just one more of those hot tech companies out West, full of engineers and scientists who didn't know how to buy a suit or order a meal but had a native genius for making fortunes. Dan barely understood what half of them did—Validator, for example, made (manufactured? wrote?) something called ‘productivity software,' which seemed to have almost nothing to do with any notion of productivity he'd ever learned in business school.

But it didn't matter. All that counted was that the marketplace wanted these new products, and the stock market wanted to own pieces of these new companies. And so these California companies—from a place called ‘Silicon Valley' that seemed to be located south of San Francisco and near Stanford but had no recognizable landmarks, buildings, or even topographic features—found a way to grow more quickly than any companies in history… and make money with astonishing speed.

But it took money—a lot of money—to make money at this rate. And these little Silicon Valley start-ups, despite paying their employees with as much stock as cash, and despite never paying dividends to shareholders, were insatiable when it came to capital. Chip companies, consumer electronics companies, even software companies never seemed to have enough money to invest in their own operations. With the semiconductor companies, like Intel, this was understandable—their fabrication laboratories were like something out of NASA. And the consumer electronics and computer game folks like Apple and Atari needed factories able to absorb millions of orders.

But why, Dan had regularly asked himself at the time, did software companies need so much money? All they sold was a bunch of bits on computer disks; how much could that cost? It would be years—truth be told, only after he joined Validator Software—before he finally appreciated the financial dynamics of software: the overhead of superstar code writers, the heavy investment in marketing and advertising to capture market share, and the short product life cycle between upgrades.

That education began seventeen years before, on the day Cosmo Validator walked into the bank. His hair was darker then—it was not yet the great silver mane that would become his most indelible image—but still shocking for a corporate CEO. And even then he wore bespoke suits and cowboy boots on his 6 foot 5 inch frame.

Those who saw him arrive never forgot it. Silicon Valley tycoons were still not a common sight in the canyons of Wall Street, and when Validator stepped out of a limousine and strode towards the glass doors, even jaded New Yorkers froze on the sidewalk to let him pass. He had the same effect upon the poor receptionist. She had handled heads of state with aplomb, but this incarnation of pure Alpha Entrepreneur seemed to paralyze her into speechlessness.

Validator waited a full fifteen seconds, staring without moving at the sputtering receptionist, then finally said in what could only be described as a booming whisper, “Little girl, if you can't speak, then at least hold up the correct number of fingers to tell me what floor the Underwriting department is on.”

She finally managed to tell him. “May I tell them who's calling?”

But Validator was already gone. The terrified receptionist tried to call ahead, but that department was preoccupied with a small birthday celebration… for Dan Crowen. The phone was still ringing and the office staff singing ‘Happy Birthday' when Cosmo Validator slammed through the glass doors and surveyed the scene. Standing with his hands on his hips, he announced, “Well, goddamnit, if this isn't
exactly
how we Californians figure you all spend your workday.”

There was a quick scramble of secretaries, clerks, and even partners, and Validator was hurriedly led into the conference room. As the lead associates on the Validator Software account raced to their offices to gather up the requisite paperwork, Dan found himself alone across the table from the new arrival. Cosmo leaned back in his chair, checked his nails, and then began to stare at the young man. “What's your name, kid?”

In those days, when he was still uncertain that he had earned his place in the world, encountering one of the most extraordinary human beings he'd ever seen would normally have made Dan Crowen duck away from making eye contact and hurry to escape any conversation. But at this moment, he was pissed off enough about this inexcusable and rude interruption of his party that he looked the older man right in the eye and said, “Daniel Crowen, associate on your account.”

“Ah,” said Cosmo Validator. “Having a happy birthday, Mr. Crowen? What is it: your twenty-fifth? Twenty-sixth?”

“Thirty-seventh,” said Dan firmly. “And I was having a good one until you crashed my party.”

Validator stared at him for a long moment—until Dan was convinced the man was going to leap across the table and throttle him—then burst into hearty laughter.

“Well, shit. I guess I did, didn't I? Did you even get some of your own cake?”

“No.”

Validator slapped the table. “We can't have that, now can we?” He jumped to his feet—for such a towering man, he was remarkably nimble—and headed for the door. Dan sat up in disbelief. Validator flung open the door and shouted, “Everybody! The party isn't over. All of you, get in here. And somebody bring the goddamn cake!”

Two minutes later, the entire Underwriting department was crowded into the conference room, singing ‘Happy Birthday,' heartily led by Cosmo Validator—who had already managed to forget Dan's name… and substituted ‘The Kid.'

His office mates were still calling Dan ‘The Kid' four years later when he left for California.

After that, the meeting would have been anti-climactic but for two things. First, it began to dawn on everyone in the room that the Validator initial public offering (for that was why Cosmo had come to New York) might be one of the biggest tech IPOs in history—perhaps even rivaling Netscape a few years before, and Apple Computer before that. In fact, in the end, Validator's going public day would not quite reach those exalted heights—but it would be the biggest software company IPO in history.

The second reason the meeting was so memorable was that when the discussion turned to the international road show that Validator and part of his management team would have to embark upon in the final weeks before Going Public Day, Cosmo—who had turned half away from the table to stare out at the Manhattan skyline—suddenly spun back and around. He looked at each of the men facing him—then pointed at Dan and said, “I'd like The Kid to come along on the tour.” He winked at Dan and added, “It'll be one long birthday party.”

In fact, it was more like the world's most expensive bachelor party. Each day was spent in taxis, racing through some capital city of Europe or Asia on the way to the fifth or sixth presentation of the day; each night was burned on an expensive dinner in an elegant restaurant and a quick stop in a strip club or bar, followed by a red-eye flight to the next country. Tokyo (geishas), Hong Kong (scary food and endless booze), Paris (sex shows), London (dinner with the Chancellor of the Exchequer), Johannesburg (liquor), Buenos Aires (chiracurra), Los Angeles (strippers), Seattle (a seedy bar down at the port), San Francisco (drag show), Chicago (they had switched to a leased jet now, and left Dan to sleep in it), and back to New York.

Along the way they had lost two of Validator's employees, who'd had to figure out how to catch up with the team. One had to pay a fine to get out of jail and flew home to Palo Alto; the other showed up two weeks later without a coherent explanation of what had happened. Meanwhile, the rest of the team had been in a crash in a Hong Kong taxi, had talked their way out of a drunk and disorderly arrest in The Hague and, in Dan's case, got food poisoning in Singapore from (drunkenly) eating a fried tarantula on a dare.