CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
REBECCA
THE NEXT DAY, AS HAPPENS with both nightmares and fears, I feel much better. Part of it is the sunlight — worries always seem so much more sinister in the gloom. But the rest is Evan. I hate to admit it, but the same thing that made me worry last night makes me feel safer now. I’m getting attached, and I know my history. I make poor choices. What at once seems right inevitably goes so wrong.
Steve, writing me poetry then using my company money for hookers.
I tell myself Evan is different. He cares about me. And what’s even more ridiculous: I believe it. This time it will be different. Despite the devil on my shoulder, I honestly feel that this time, things will work out.
Evan believes in me. He liked my mind first and body second.
He’s a man of his word.
And look at me, working for my pay instead of receiving his money without conditions. I told him I don’t like to take things I haven’t earned — and Evan, perhaps recognizing the same thing inside himself, let me earn what LiveLyfe is giving me.
Now that I’ve delved deep enough for long enough, my project fascinates me. Somehow Evan has created a culture that mimics his values. These people are barely “managed,” by any usual definition. I don’t see Office Space style bosses, lording over their inferiors with a coffee cup and demands for pointless ritual and paperwork. I see self-directed people. Folks who work hard without complaint, believe in the mission, and largely manage themselves.
The company is huge, and yet every inch that I’ve seen — at least here in the Austin office — has Evan Cohen in its genes.
And there are miracles to meet the effort.
I met a custodian named Paul who likes to work overtime and not report it. He takes pride in clean offices that most would only take in their own home. He lifts coffee cups to put them on coasters while cleaning at night. He moves equipment to get behind it, and when I pointed out that nobody would even know, he said, “I will.”
Last year, Paul had a heart attack. His insurance wouldn’t cover most of his hospital stay, claiming a pre-existing condition. But Paul told me that somehow, those bills got paid. He asked how it happened, and the hospital said it was a party who wished to remain anonymous.
That seemed serendipitous, but then I met Laura Davies, a bookkeeper with an ethic as thorough as Paul’s. In her spare time, Laura peruses LiveLyfe’s expenses and finds inefficiencies. When I asked why, she said that she hates waste, and LiveLyfe is too good a company to have any.
Earlier this year, Laura’s sister was in a car crash. She went into the hospital for half a month, and Laura took a week of vacation to head home and help her family cope, in part because the car was totaled and it was the only one the family had. Laura played chauffeur in her own car, which was itself falling apart. When she returned, her co-workers said that Laura was despondent, but still as fastidious in her work, sad that she couldn’t take more time off to help. Two weeks later, both sisters won new cars in a contest that neither remembered entering.
I met a sunny receptionist whose run-down home was inexplicably chosen for a home makeover reality show. She’s not even sure who nominated her, let alone how she got her new house without someone pulling strings.
A sales rep who lost a leg in a tour of duty with the Marines and used to roll around in a wheelchair because he couldn’t afford prosthetics. That guy today is walking around on those blade legs, fit as hell and winning marathons. Luckily, he got an inheritance from a relative he’s not sure he remembers.
LiveLyfe’s best people — its unsung heroes, doing everyday good work on the front lines — have a way of running into some excellent luck. Once I noticed the pattern, I started looking and found another five instances in this office alone.
The latest? A pretty woman about my age named Layla Sky. She works as a technical project manager, and last month her husband suddenly died, leaving her alone with three young children.
Just a week ago, Layla’s children were all invited to attend an exclusive daycare and after-school camp program in North Austin, on scholarship. It’s a bit of a drive, but the scholarship came with a free limo service. That struck me as unusual for a camp to do, but then Layla told me about something even more surprising. Since she’s a working mother, they offered her a living stipend, too.
Why is a camp giving you money? I asked her.
Layla didn’t say much. She’s smart. She probably knows there’s something weird going on, but doesn’t want to rock the boat. She was in tough shape before the miraculous events that helped her to survive. Or thrive, really.
It’s like all of these people have an angel over their shoulders.
I start poking around. Lo and behold, deep in archives I shouldn’t even have access to, I find something called Project Angel.
There are assistants dedicated to the project. Bankers. Lots of people are required to take large sums of money and donate it to deserving people in ways that seem invisible, or flat-out lucky.
I’m still warm from this new twist on my LiveLyfe documentary when Steve messages me out of the blue. The subject of the message is LAWSUIT, and he’s sent it to my LiveLyfe inbox instead of my email.
Looks like he’s finally gotten tired enough of my SteveHasATinyDick website that he’s convinced some legal shyster to take the case. I’m immediately angry, but I’m also ready for his bullshit. I looked into defamation laws before starting my site — and while technically I’m not allowed to do what I do to Steve in public, it’s impossible to enforce. If Eminem could diss D’Angelo Bailey by first and last name in one of his raps and win a defamation suit, I should have no problem. I mean, I’m only reporting the truth. Steve’s dick is truly minuscule.
I read Steve’s message again, furious anyway.
He’s not just being pissy. He’s clearly gotten the feeling I’m cozier with LiveLyfe than I’ve officially let on, and he’s jealous of what he seems to suspect.
Me, being with someone whose dick isn’t tiny at all.