CHAPTER ONE
It probably wasn’t the best idea for me to move back to New York. Not now, in the midst of the hottest June in the history of Manhattan, and at a time when the Guano company was going batshit crazy.
“Are you paying attention,” Rachel, my best friend and currently the head of HR asks.
“I’m sorry, it’s really hot,” I tell her. “It doesn’t get this hot in Berlin.”
She’s saying something, but I can’t concentrate. Instead my mind wanders, wondering how long it would take to hit the ground from her 43rd story office window.
I’d never jump, but the former director of HR had, hence the bolts now installed that prevent the windows from opening any more than an inch.
“They’ll turn on the air at 11,” Rachel says.
Rolling blackouts and voluntary brownouts have meant intermittent episodes without luxuries like air conditioning, and at 9 am it’s already scorching.
“What am I supposed to do until then?”
“You’ll just have to tough it out,” she says. “But you can’t roll up your sleeves. Visible tattoos are against office policy.”
“Seriously? Berlin isn’t even that strict—and we’re talking Germany,” I say.
She looks at me for a moment. I assume she’s not really going to insist that I sweat to death over an office policy. “Sorry,” she says instead. “This isn’t Berlin.”
She’s changed in the couple of years I’ve been away. We grew up in Indiana together, moved here to go to undergrad together, and even started working here together, but this is not the same person I knew.
That said, I guess I’m not the same person either.
She unplugs her small desk fan powered by USB. “Here,” she says, “consider it a welcome back present.”
“I can’t take it.” She’s an over-sweater, and I know she’ll be dripping in her seat within minutes. I smile at the thought, and about how she’d sweat to death for me.
“What?” Rachel asks.
“You always do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Take the heat for me.”
She smiles. “Well consider this the last time. Only because I love you and I know you can’t afford to buy one yourself.”
“Ouch,” I say, flinching at the truth.
“And because I don’t want you sweating like a pig when Mason gets here. I don’t want you to get fired on your first day back.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I say. “Fired for sweating?”
“You haven’t met Mason,” she says. Her face is suddenly concerned. “Go and get setup. He could be here any minute.”
I walk to my desk, second guessing my decision not to take the fan, wishing I could afford my own. It feels like a desert and oddly enough looks the same. 50 or so cubicles litter the oasis of sweltering open office, half of them empty.
Despite being 25, I almost feel like a kid again. The faces I pass all look concerned, worried that dad could be home any moment now. Some faces avoid me altogether, buried in their computer monitors, as if they’ve been concentrating and working for hours despite it only being 9:15.
This isn’t at all the office I used to know. The place used to have an energetic vibe. Had things really gotten this bad?
Five years ago Guano Insight was a booming startup that specialized in consumer data and market research. Guano meaning batshit, the company’s slogan and claim to fame was “Insights as crazy as the name itself.” The company delivered and provided analysis and data research on the hottest brands, trends, celebrities, and social media data.
The New York flagship office was known for its unusual corporate atmosphere. Back then Barry Mantelope, one of New York's 30 under 30, helmed the place. He was 27 and the oldest person in the company. There wasn’t an ageist element deliberately in place, but anyone not college aged seemed to feel out of place.
Work in those days was done on bean bags instead of desks, and staff meetings were outright banned, replaced with mandatory weekly barbecues, beer pong think tanks, and several optional happy hour excursions throughout the week. Loud music could be heard playing at any time of the day, and the kitchens and refrigerators were well stocked with a variety of spirits and craft beers. Barry believed that happy employees were productive employees and that the results would do all the talking. He was right. The results were so explosive that the company quickly expanded into a global operation and soon after that went public.
I was lucky. I interned in the second year of the company’s existence, the summer after I just turned 21. This meant I could legally partake in the alcohol infused success. I wasn’t big on beer, but part of interning meant collecting bottles and cans. I was also eventually dubbed Mr. Martini and became the official intern in charge of Martini Mondays.
Rachel also interned that summer, but sadly she wasn’t yet of age. By the time she turned 21 at the end of the year, the company was already sold and the hey-days were officially over. Even companies have to grow up, I guess, but this place has become a graveyard.
I look around for familiar faces and then it hits me, besides Rachel, there are none.
I’d be more concerned, but my guess is that they’ve moved on to bigger and brighter pastures. I’m the one taking the giant leap back, returning like some lost sheep, battered and worn, finally returning to the flock.
Doubt overtakes me as I plop in my seat. Was this the right move? My hands start to tremble. I ball them into fists and hit my desk. Get it together, I tell myself, and I remember why I’m here.
I’m here to get my life back. I’m here because I still need my job with this company—despite the change in location and function. I’m here because I just need to get back in touch with me. None of this stops my hands from shaking. I think they’re telling me to get to work.
Officially, I’m a Closer—that’s my actual job title. I used to be a Sales Manager in Berlin, where we had much more traditional job titles. Rachel tells me not to look at this as a step-down, but rather an adjustment in function. It’s hard to accept the craftily worded demotion, but even harder to admit that at the moment, it’s my best option.
I decide to focus on the present and actually get to work, but my computer isn’t cooperating.
“I can’t log on,” I tell Rachel, back in her office.
“We have a double credential check here.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “How do I fix that?”
“Still helpless,” she says. “Open the app on your phone. You can’t do anything more than email without the double credential check. It’s to protect the database.”
“We didn’t have this in Berlin,” I say.
“At some point you’ll realize you’re not there anymore,” she says. “Give me your phone,” she says, though she doesn’t stop working.
“I can do it myself, you know. I don’t need a babysitter.”
I open the app and see that there’s a changing code required to log on to the system. Through fingerprint verification you’re assigned a temporary access code that you can use to access the company database.
“I have to do this every time?”
“I know,” Rachel says, “life’s tough.”
I give her an annoyed look that only I could get away with.
“Look,” she says, “at a company that specializes in data collection and market research, how important must the database housing all of the information be? Of course you have to do it every time. Access is always controlled and monitored.”
The same database manages the sales leads and customer data, and trying to close a deal without the customer data is like trying to pass a class without the textbook. So you’re pretty much dead without access.
“Still, it wasn’t like this in Berlin,” I say.
“And I think we already talked about that,” she says, still not looking up from what she’s been working on this entire time.
“Anyway,” I say. “What are you working on?”
“You really want to know?” Her face livens with expression and promises to tell me a secret, like when we were kids. She looks past my shoulder, as if checking the coast is clear. “Firings,” she says in a whisper.
Her phone rings just after she says it and it startles us both. She answers and hangs it up in less than a seconds.
“Go back to your desk,” she whispers with concern. “Mason’s here.”
I leap to my feet and go to head back but it’s too late. We bump into each other at the door.