Seeping Through
Nick
I have an early meeting with the board, but I’m having trouble seeing the upside of going.
Marly wasn’t lying when she said I didn’t have the people on my side I thought I did. Over time, though more usually from event to event, employees will see their employers in various ways.
All of the stories in the press about me fooling around while my company tanks have done an impressive job of making me almost universally hated among the higher-ups here at the office. Not that any of them have come right out and said it.
Malcolm has a different, somewhat more diplomatic style than Marly did, but so far, it’s proven to be just as effective. I already know what every member of the board is going to say.
So, I get up from my desk, and I walk down the hall toward the board room. As I go, people chatting at the watercooler grow silent, those at computers stop typing. They know where I’m going.
I get to the board room and I show myself in. The members of the board are gathered and waiting for me. I take my seat in silence.
Leaning forward, I put my elbows on the table, my forehead on my clasped hands and take a breath. I raise my head and look at the eight people who might, it turns out, be able to remove me from the company.
Not one of them has the guts to speak first, so I take the lead.
“This is your meeting,” I say, opening my hands. “Let’s talk.”
Daniel Reeves, the unofficial spokesman for the eight, says, “Nick, what are you doing?”
“I’m waiting for someone to say something,” I tell him.
“You know what I mean,” Reeves says. “Over the years, we’ve tolerated a lot from you. In the early years, you were still getting your chops, and nobody’s holding it against you, but you’re a real leader now. When you move, people pay attention. So why is it that when our company was plugging along great, you decided it was time to uproot and move headquarters where nobody will ever find it?”
“It’s on a map,” I tell him. “Seriously, pull out your phone and bring up GPS. It’ll give you directions and everything.”
“Nick …”
“What?” I snap. “This wasn’t a problem until it was made into a problem. The only thing happening now is the satisfaction of a self-fulfilling prophecy the eight of you bled throughout this company.”
“You can’t run a business like this from a place like that,” Geraldine Peña, my CFO, chimes in.
“Who cares where the headquarters are?” I ask. “Everyone said we were supposed to set up in Silicon Valley, but I didn’t hear too many complaints when I decided on New York.”
“That’s not the most troubling matter,” Reeves jumps back in. “You make our investors nervous, Nick. You always have.”
“I’ve also made our investors filthy, stinking rich,” I answer. “They’re the ones causing our stock to drop. They could turn this whole thing around by coming to their senses and remembering the same thing you should remember.”
“What’s that, Nick?” Reeves asks.
“They’re where they are because they trusted me. You’re here because you trusted me,” I answer. “I haven’t always been right, but I’ve always tried to do right. Every step of the way, I had people telling me it couldn’t be done or that I was going to kill the company by making this decision or that. Here I am, twenty-eight years old, still sitting at the head of one of the largest tech companies on the planet. Do you think I tripped and fell into the gig?”
Mason Handler, my executive vice-president answers, “We know what you’ve done for the company, Nikolai. We just don’t all agree that you’re taking it in the right direction now. That’s what we’re talking about: Now. Maybe we’ll pull out of this, but the numbers keep going down. We’ve been losing since you left for that godforsaken hellhole.”
“Maybe it’s that I don’t understand, maybe it’s that you're not clear, but I fail to see how your incendiary, though remarkably bland, quotes to the press are doing anything but making it worse,” I accuse. “I read that piece in the Times, Handler. Don’t think I’ll forget about it, either.”
“You can sit here and try to throw the blame back on us, but the fact of the matter is it’s simply not appropriate to have a CEO more concerned with his personal life than he is with the company he runs,” Reeves says. “Not when a corporation of this size is at stake.”
“I don’t grant your premise,” I respond. “Since day one when it was just Jacque and me sending code back and forth to each other across our dorm room, I have worked tirelessly for this company and that dedication has only grown as the business has grown.”
“This ain’t an easy conversation for any of us,” Verne Pollock, our biggest investor and easily the most gutless person in the room, says. “We don’t want to start taking action, but the investors I represent—”
“Oh, come off it, Verne,” I spit. “The only investor you’ve ever represented was yourself. You’re not loyal to this company any more than you’re loyal to me.”
“That is outrageous!” Verne roars, rising to his feet. “I will not sit here and be spoken to in this way!”
“Oh sit down,” I tell him. “You have a stroke and these seven will replace you faster than they’ll replace me.”
“Yeah, then we can just join each other on the unemployment line, won’t we?” he asks.
I take a breath. This approach isn’t working, and I don’t know why I ever thought it would.
“Listen to me,” I say. “We can talk about the specifics of the relocation, but first, we’ve got to remember we’re not all in this thing together. If this company goes under, I’m sure everyone in this room will get a dozen offers before the doors close, but the company I helped build, the foundation of my entire career, is over. If you think I don’t take that seriously, you’re out of your mind.”
Reeves starts in again, saying, “We understand the personal attachment you have to this company, Nick, but you have to understand where we’re coming from. It isn’t just another dip in stock prices, Nick. You’re Napoleon marching the company straight to Waterloo.”
“Okay,” I say with a chuckle. “So, what are we talking here? Are you honestly going to try to have me removed?”
Reeves says, “We don’t want to do that. At this point, the board is prepared to trust your judgment, so long as that judgment is to give up this ridiculous move to Mulholland and get this company back on track.”
The room is quiet for a minute.
I take a deep breath. “Give me a month,” I tell them. “If I haven’t convinced you by then this is the right move I’ll drop the whole thing.”
“We can’t promise that,” Geraldine says. “If we continue to lose investors—”
“A month,” I say and stand. “Until then, I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”
They don’t agree. They don’t disagree. One way or the other, they’re going to keep pushing to remove me. They’ve smelled the blood in the water, and they’re not going to stop until I’m gone, devoured.
I look over the eight faces that are to decide my fate once more before walking out of the room.
Fifty-one percent. I still hold a fifty-one percent vote.
I wish that were the end of the story, but there are ways around it. One of the quickest ways around it is to declare me incompetent, thus evaporating my say in the matter.
I’d love to argue that an incompetent CEO could never have built something like this, not from the ground up, but that means nothing next to two consecutive quarters of negative growth.
Even though I know Marly had more than a little to do with all this, I wish she was here to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
* * *
By the time I get home, I just want to give Ellie a kiss, collapse on the couch, and maybe have a long series of high-proof drinks.
Max greets me at the door, and I give him a light pat on the head before going further into the house.
“Nick?” Ellie calls. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” I holler back. “Where are ya?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” she says. “Come in here. I want you to taste this.”
Max accompanies me to the kitchen where I find Ellie stooping over a pot of red sauce.
“That smells good,” I tell her. “What are you making?”
She looks over her shoulder at me, saying, “I found a recipe for manicotti I wanted to try. Tell me what you think of the sauce.”
She gathers a dab of the bubbling red onto the wooden ladle she’s using to stir and holds it in front of her face. Very gently, she blows on it before holding it out for me to sample.
As she brings the spoon of the ladle closer to my mouth, I can smell the garlic and the oregano. My mouth is watering, and my lips are almost to the ladle when, somewhere behind me in the house, Naomi lets out an ear-splitting, “Woo!”
I am now wearing Ellie’s sauce as a goatee.
“Oh!” Ellie says with a chuckle as she reaches behind her for a paper towel.
“Hi, Naomi,” I groan.
The Michaels sister I don’t like comes bouncing into the room and laughs heartily as Ellie kindly dabs the sauce from my face. “Didn’t see ya there, Nicky boy,” Naomi says.
“Eh!” Ellie interjects.
“Oh,” Naomi says, “sorry about that. I was asking my sister earlier if you had a nickname and that kind of came up.”
I turn my head to look at Ellie and with about ten times as much irritation in my voice as I intend, I say, “Thanks, Ellie.”
Ellie’s eyes go wide for a second, but she lets it slide—for now, at least.
“So, I was wondering if you could help me with something Nicky—” Naomi stops herself. “I’m sorry, it’s like someone telling you not to think of a pink bunny. No matter what you do, it’s the first thing that comes to—”
“Can I give you a hand with that?” I ask Ellie.
“Naomi, would you excuse us for a minute?” Ellie asks her sister.
This isn’t going to be good.
Naomi says, “Sure,” but instead of leaving the room, she just crosses her arms.
I’m not in the mood, but I don’t want to make things worse, so I keep my quiet.
“Nan, now,” Ellie commands and Naomi’s eyelids go wide. She leaves the room, leaving Ellie and me alone. Ellie turns back to me, asking, “What was that all about?”
“I’m sorry,” I respond. “Things at the office are …” I trail off. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have snapped at either of you the way I did. I apologize.”
“Is everything okay?” Ellie asks.
“I’m fine,” I answer. “I think I just need a drink.”
Ellie nods, saying, “Yeah, I’d say so.”
“How about some champagne? Are you in the mood?” I ask.
“I should probably keep my head clear until I’m done mangling this recipe,” Ellie answers with a soft smile. “You go ahead, though.”
“You sure?” I ask. “I’ve got a bottle of Dom Perignon we could—”
“Was it the Rose Vintage?” Ellie interrupts, wincing.
“Yeah,” I answer, looking at Ellie out of the corner of my eye. “Tell me she didn’t.”
Ellie winces again.
“I thought you were going to talk to her about that,” I say. “Since she’s been here, she's drunk all my expensive booze, used more than three ounces of caviar as a beauty mask, and she’s claimed the north end of the house as her own.”
“I know,” Ellie says. “Come here. She steps closer and puts her arms around me. “I know she can be a pain sometimes, but she’s my sister,” Ellie says. “I’ll talk to her, okay?”
“I think I have a bullhorn around here somewhere. From what I’ve seen, you’re going to need it to get through that thick head of hers,” I say.
Oh, I was close. I was so very, very close.
“Excuse me?” Ellie says. “I get that you had a bad day at work, and Naomi’s been a pill, but that is no reason for talking about her like that. I know she doesn’t listen, and I know that bugs the crap out of you, but could you keep the snotty comments to yourself?”
My mouth is open to apologize, but that’s when I notice the smell.
I say, “I’m not trying to get out of anything here, but—”
“But what?” Ellie interrupts.
I answer, “I think your sauce is burning.”