Steven's Choice

by John Renesch

  Chapter Three: BACK TO WORK

  March 18: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 12:17 PM PST

  His first few days back were quite difficult. Luckily, he was well rested when he somewhat tentatively returned to the hallowed halls of Venture on Monday morning. Ironically, much of his difficulty had to do with the many kindhearted people reminding him of his family's loss. His responses seemed to be settling into a familiar routine. He missed Kirsten very much. He always would. But life went on. He and Catherine had never been closer..

  There were a couple of new faces in the offices—he particularly noticed a fresh-faced, energetic young woman pass him in the hallway on his first day back. To be honest, he probably noticed her because she was cute. She was a new hire from Stanford. It did feel odd for him to have been away from work for this long. Normally he was better informed about incoming staff.

 

  Steven had no lunch appointments—a rare occasion. He decided to take lunch in, by himself, and asked Ruth to arrange for some food. When his sandwich arrived, he adjourned to the table near the bar in his office. On the table sat the book he'd received before Kirsten had died. He paged through it idly.

  This was a second edition—”revised and expanded” –published posthumously. The author had died of cancer about a year before this edition had been published, but his revisions had been made prior to his illness. While Steven still believed he'd heard of the author, he couldn't place him yet in his memory. He made a note to ask Mark about this guy Harman. Maybe he had heard of him.

  The back cover contained a quote by the author, which read “No power can compare with the power of a change of mind.” How does that work? Steven wondered. How does one “change one's mind”? The concept was intriguing. He was sure Harman was not referring to a brain transplant, but what was he talking about? He turned to the table of contents to see if he could get a better idea before starting to read.

  The author first offered a historic perspective on social transformations, starting with the Copernican Revolution. Then he addressed the topic of consciousness, a term that Steven found simultaneously off-putting and mysterious, intriguing and engaging, snobbish yet hinting of mystery. Then the book went into some rather esoteric subjects—quantum science, metaphysics, epistemology and philosophy. In the final two chapters, Harman examined the process and benefits of a world systems change.

  Steven had learned early in his business career to get the most bang for the buck when he was looking at contemporary business books. He'd learned how to invest the least amount of his time to discover if a book held anything of value for him. He could quickly scan numerous books and save himself much time. He probably scanned about thirty books a year, some in greater detail than others, and learned enough to be able to discuss the primary points so he could hold a reasonably competent conversation with his peers. And he avoided being scooped by any of his fellow CEOs on the latest business literature. In fact, he might actually read four or five books in the course of a year, but he appeared to read far more because of his time-saving scanning methods.

  If he had done his scan and was still interested in a book, Steven would set the book out for deeper scanning. He usually had four or five going at a time. They'd be placed about his home in a variety of spots—the bathrooms, his bedside table, the den—where he might be inclined to pick them up. He always traveled with at least one in his briefcase.

  After his first scan, he found himself even more intrigued by this book. He noticed a place where the author pointed to the business community as key to a much-needed shift in global consciousness. Something about this statement rang true. Despite the fact this was not what he considered a “business book” and despite its being far from a mainstream subject area, he reluctantly decided: I will read this book in its entirety.

  Steven had never been involved in any sort of consciousness-raising or awareness trainings. Catherine enjoyed that sort of thing, but he was always too involved in the pragmatics of business to be bothered with abstract esoterica. He'd take the real stuff any day—practical, material, measurable and spendable reality. But this book and the idea of changing the human mind wouldn't leave him alone.

  He read the book's preface and was getting into it when he was surprised by a gentle knock on his office door. Ruth stuck her head in. She whispered, “All clear in here, boss?”

  “Geez. Has it been thirty minutes already, Ruth?”

  “Yes it has, Steven. Do you want more time?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah. Give me a couple minutes more. I lost track of time, I guess,” he said, a bit flustered by the interruption and the degree to which he'd been absorbed in the book.

  Boy, am I into this thing, he admitted to himself. He was feeling an intriguing mixture of engagement, learning, embarrassment, surprise, and disorientation. It took a minute or so for him to gather his composure. He rubbed his face with both hands and leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head and feeling the tremble of a really good stretch rumble through his torso and legs.

  “Whew!” he said aloud. This book's really hooked me, he thought.

  But Ruth would be coming in again soon. He forced himself to return to the present. He stuck a bookmark into the book’s pages and closed it. Now where to put it? He felt a bit embarrassed about being seen with it, even by Ruth, like a teenager nearly caught with a Playboy magazine.

  This was crazy. He was thinking like an adolescent. Here he was, in charge of a twelve billion dollar company, making over a million a year before stock options, and worrying what people would think.

  Toss it in the trash, he thought. He was beginning to suspect it was anti-business, anyway. But it held some fascination for him. No, he thought, I want to read some more of it, but I want to do it in private.

  He put the book in his briefcase, closed the lid, and turned his attention to cleaning up his lunch mess. To his total surprise, his sandwich had only two bites missing from it. His drink had hardly been touched. The corned beef was cold and the rye was soggy.

  Boy, he'd been absorbed! He took another bite from the soggy sandwich and re-wrapped the untouched half for later. He stuck it in the fridge.

  A few minutes later, he was reading a document when Ruth knocked and entered his office in one swift movement. Walking briskly toward him, she asked, “Can I assume now’s a good time, boss?”

  “Sure, Ruth,” he said. “I was a bit surprised where the time went before. It really got away from me.”

  “That’s the sure sign of a good book,” she said. Steven’s heart rate quickened. “Of course, I guess it's also the sign of a good play, a good movie—anything that really grabs you and keeps your attention,” she added.

  She then switched to work mode: “Charlie called and said Citicorp won’t give us the six percent rate. He thinks there’s a chance if you talk to them though. He wants to talk with you about the strategy, if you’ll call him personally,” she said.

  Steven nodded. “Of course. We need that rate or the deal won’t work. The higher rate could cost us an extra million. We don’t want to do the deal for a breakeven. Is he still in the New York office?”

  “He’ll be there for another thirty minutes if you want to call him. The next most pressing matter is the Singapore problem but the time difference is working for us there and you can call Xing Ho later this afternoon.”

  Besides the New York call about the Citibank deal and talking to Ho in Singapore later today nothing grabbed Steven as absolutely essential for this afternoon. That was a big relief, he thought. He opened the file Ruth left him to refresh his memory before he spoke to Charlie in New York.

  The rest of the day was business as usual. But some of the ideas from the book were competing for his thoughts. His attitude about it changed from irritation at the way he’d become almost obsessed with it to intrigue and curiosity about some of the things he’d read, things he’d never seen in a book about business. At moments h
e felt guilty for spending so much time thinking about it only to find himself angry a minute later. He finally decided to leave the office early and find a place on the way home to resume reading. Besides, he rationalized, maybe he’d get some hint about who sent it to him.

  Steven managed to slip out around 5:15. Most of the staff was still at work and few of them even noticed the big boss leaving the building earlier than usual. He knew if he could get on the freeway quickly, he’d beat the rush hour traffic, which usually started in ten to twenty minutes. He got to his car without any interruption. He was driving the BMW today. He headed for Highway 101 and was soon on the freeway heading south—ahead of the rush.

  Now where do I stop? he wondered. I’d like to park out by the water, on the edge of the Bay He passed Candlestick Point and decided the scenery there wasn't what he wanted. He wondered about Oyster Point, near the marina in South San Francisco. Then he thought about Coyote Point. Oh, the memories of going out there in the 1960s, having dinner with Catherine at the Castaways Restaurant whenever they could get a babysitter for the kids. How exotic it had seemed back then! The South Pacific atmosphere, all those drinks with little umbrellas in them, the popularity of Don Ho. The good old days. To Coyote Point it was!

  He exited the freeway, passed by the City of Burlingame golf course and found himself at the restaurant. Then he recalled the best place to sit near the water was around the other side of the point, by the marina. He turned around and drove along the edge of the golf course until he came to the marina parking lot. He parked the car, picked up the book and started to get out. He paused. What an incredible evening, he thought and slipped off his tie, unfastening the top two buttons on his shirt. He grabbed a cap from the backseat, tucked the book under his arm, locked the car, and walked toward the water’s edge.

  He found a bench facing due east, toward the East Bay, where Oakland, Alameda, and San Leandro bordered the other side of the Bay, several miles across. There was a haze between here and there, but sitting in the sun with nothing blocking his view but a few passing ships refreshed him.

  He opened it and then started to read where he'd left off.

  Harman's writing seemed so common-sensical on one hand, he thought but I feel I’m reading something subversive to everything I've ever learned about business. While I like reading parts of this as a human being, I’m bothered by those same parts as a businessman. Confounding! That’s what it was!

  He continued to read as boats came and went from the marina. He became quite engrossed, just like he had been earlier in the day.

  His mind wandered back to graduate school and reading The Wealth of Nations, what many of his peers thought of as the definitive text on capitalism. Written by Scottish philosopher Adam Smith in the mid-1700s, this book had defined the free market as the “invisible hand” so many people now referred to almost religiously in their defense of Western capitalism. In fact, many referred to Smith as “the father of capitalism.” In some ways, Wealth had become the equivalent of the “capitalist’s bible” and was often quoted by those who held a fundamentalist’s view of capitalism. He started wondering if he lad slipped into that mindset of fundamentalist who saw only the bottom line as the measure of success in business. Had he become a rigid thinker when it came to business like some religious extremists are?

  In his reverie, Steven recalled reading parts of another Smith book, written around the same time, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, in which the philosopher stressed the need for the rich to care for the poor in such a way that everyone would have their basic needs met. At least, that was what he remembered all these years later.

  Funny, he thought, that idea sounds so socialist right now…almost offensive.

  He looked at his watch and couldn't believe the time. An hour and a half had passed since he began reading! It had seemed like only twenty minutes.

  He was only fifteen or twenty minutes from home so he thought maybe he should call Catherine. Now was one of the few times he regretted his stance on cell phones. He wished he had one right this minute. Ordinarily, he hated them, because they didn’t let him get away. He'd tried one once and found himself unable to get away from unexpected and often unwanted calls. He had no peace. So he became what he liked to call “a cell free zone.” He found a pay phone at the marina.

  Up the hills of the peninsula, winding his way toward his home, he realized he was actually enjoying this book. However, he felt he needed to keep it to himself and not let others know what he was reading, at least for the time being. This felt a bit odd to Steven. He was usually so open and transparent about everything, withholding very little of himself. He readily shared his thoughts, opinions and beliefs quite candidly. Keeping this a secret for now might take some discipline.

  It was almost quarter to seven when he turned off the key in the BMW. Catherine was coming out of the guest house. He waved to her. He remembered the times they'd stayed in the guest house themselves, when no one was on the grounds. Naughty and fun times, he recalled, and perhaps it was time to do it again.

  “Watch out big guy,” she said, as he hugged her and kissed her hard on the mouth. “You can get in trouble for thinking what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh yeah?” he countered, realizing she had read his mind again. “You want to join me?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “I’m going out tonight dearest, remember?”

  Steven was puzzled and surprised. He couldn’t remember her saying anything, but he didn’t doubt she had.

  “No dear. I don’t. When do you need to leave and when will you be back?” he asked.

  “I’m leaving in about ten minutes, and I’ll be back about ten thirty or so. I knew when you called to tell me you were close to home earlier that you might have forgotten. Are you okay with it?”

  “Sure. I’m okay.” He thought of the book and having some private time. “I have something to do anyway. Besides, I think it's time to fire up the hot tub. A good soak would feel great tonight. If you get back early enough, perhaps you can slip in there with me?”

  “There you go again. Well, maybe I can beg off a bit early, but I can’t promise. Right now, I need to get ready.”

  “Where’s your meeting?” he said.

  “Oh, it's only down the hill in Burlingame, at Rose’s home on Crystal Springs Road. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

  “Sure,” he said as they entered the house. He got his briefcase and imagined eating something easy, making a couple of calls, and enjoying the Jacuzzi before Catherine returned.

  He retired to the living room, opened the book and began reading again. Before he knew it, he'd read another thirty pages. He was starting to see ways the so-called “American Dream” had gotten out of control and could actually threaten the long term sustainability of human life on Earth. He was starting to feel some responsibility for his leadership in promoting a way of life that could only be enjoyed by a fraction of the earth’s population. He was also troubled by these new insights which caused him to feel guilty and reckless for being one of the best at doing business the way he was taught. He had mixed feelings as well as mixed thoughts about all this.

  And then there was this consciousness stuff! The more he read the more he wondered. It was as if he’d been only partially awake most of his life, parts of himself had been asleep all these years.

  After another hour, his mind began to feel overloaded, as if too much information was trying to get into his head. As he paused, he remembered the hot tub. It must be warm enough by now, he thought.

  It was perfect. He settled in. The jets swirled hot water all around him. It was about ten, so if Catherine got home early and could join him, fine. But, this was pretty damn good right now, he thought with a great big grin.

  This was a good time to reflect on what Harman was writing about, he thought. Was this guy a utopian academic pandering to the idealist side of human beings? Or was he simply delusional and naïve, and had found someone to publish his esoter
ic ramblings and package them as a business text?

  Steven was well aware of the social responsibility movement. As he'd mentioned to Mark, he was even aware of the movement's predecessor, the corporate responsibility movement of the 1960s. He knew about the formation of several organizations to advocate environment-friendly manufacturing practices. The public’s increased awareness of ecological issues certainly made it a prerequisite for any publicly traded company to be sensitive to these concerns.

  He was also aware of a tremendous increase in interest in spirituality and higher consciousness. The growing number of books, tapes, videos, television shows, and even movies on New Age subjects were testimony of this newfound interest, which represented a huge market. He knew this through his own family experience—through Catherine and Chelsea. He also knew it through the research he needed to read routinely in his role as CEO of an investment firm, always looking at emerging trends. Due diligence required he be informed of changing values in the marketplace.

  But did these New Age spiritual ideas fit into business? And if so, how? Everything this author writes about makes sense, Steven reasoned. Philosophically, he had no problem with people being treated fairly, having passion for what they do, and everything else Harman advocated. But what about the competitive world of the deal, the often cutthroat culture of international business? How could these nice, altruistic values fit into that environment?

  He recalled an article he'd read in 1994 or 1995—a critique of the trend of publishing business books that delved into spirituality. The critique had been written by someone with a credential in business, Steven remembered, but the name eluded him. And he recalled an article in the Journal about the phenomenon too. Geez, that’s right! he thought. Even The Wall Street Journal commented on this trend awhile back. Then he remembered articles in Chief Executive, Business Week, and Industry Week. Actually, he could now recall many articles he'd seen on this subject in the last few years, but he'd somehow forgotten them all until now. Curious, he thought.

  He remembered how he dismissed any books that crossed a line he had in his mind —religion was a private matter, and the office was certainly no place to bring your personal beliefs. He could still hear admonitions from his childhood, cautions about not discussing politics and religion in polite company—anywhere outside of family situations. These admonitions had been given to him as rules to live by.

  Steven was sweating profusely. He wondered if the rheostat on the hot tub was working properly. He wiped his face with a towel and looked around for the floating temperature gauge. It had found its way behind him. He lifted it out and held it to the light coming from the family room. One hundred four…on the money, he said to himself. It had to be him, because the thermometer was dead on. Well, he'd probably been in the tub for an hour anyway, enough time for one soak.

  Slowly, he exited the tub. He took another wipe at his damp brow and wondered where Catherine was. While he wished she was here and was used to her being with him whenever he soaked in the tub, he was also enjoying this time with himself, with his thoughts, all these thoughts that this book had triggered. He sure was stirred up intellectually. He couldn’t remember being this worked up about anything philosophical since his college days. It felt good to revisit his ideals.

  After a quick shower, he wrapped himself in a robe and re-entered the house. His thoughts returned to the book's origins. Who'd sent it anyway? By this time, he was ready to have a major discussion with whoever it was. Should he punch them or kiss them?

  He headed for the bedroom listening for any indications that Catherine was on the grounds. He assumed she couldn’t get away early. He settled into bed with the book. But he hadn’t read two paragraphs before he was asleep.

  A few minutes later, Catherine got home. She entered the house and checked around downstairs. As she climbed the stairs, she asked in a volume not loud enough to wake him if he were asleep: “Hey, handsome, still want a little action?”

  Hearing no response, she entered the bedroom quietly and smiled as she saw him. She gently lifted his glasses from his nose and took the book off of his chest.

  This must be the book—the mystery package, she thought. And a book which had obviously captured Steven's attention. She was surprised to see the name of Willis Harman, a man whose work she knew. She'd heard him speak several times. This is certainly something different for Steven, she thought. This would never be endorsed by the Harvard Business Review.

  Still feeling energized, too restless to sleep just yet, she had an impulse. I might as well check it out too, she thought. After all, it looked more like my kind of reading anyway. She settled in with it.

  When she turned off her reading light, she noticed the time. My God! It was two in the morning, she exclaimed silently. She’d read nearly a third of the book without a break. What really surprised her was this was supposedly a business book, and business books usually bored her to death.

  The next morning Catherine awakened exceptionally mindful of a dream she’d had. She'd found her dreams could be elusive after she woke up, to the point where sometimes she couldn’t remember any of them after a few minutes of being awake. Keeping her eyes closed, she let the dream marinate within her consciousness, not forcing her memory to recall any of it.

  She became aware of the shower running in the bathroom and realized Steven was up ahead of her. She still had several minutes of solitude before he'd be out. Bit by bit, the dream became clearer, like watching a photographic print develop in a darkroom. Steven was a major player in her dream, bigger than life itself, it seemed. As usual, this dream wasn't logical. Steven was fully grown, approximately his present age. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, looking very Harvard-like. But he was struggling through the birth canal of an incredibly large woman. The woman didn’t have a face, or even a particular shape for that matter. The mother was more symbolic than a real woman, like the goddess of mythology or the archetypal feminine.

  While Steven struggled in her dream, he didn’t seem to be resisting much. He didn’t fight the journey, but he had a difficult time squeezing through. When it came time for him to leave the womb, he screamed with a strange mixture of fear and delight, unlike any sound Catherine had ever heard. This was so uncharacteristic for her Steven, the man she’d known since they were teenagers, to be acting this unabashedly. She was thrilled and concerned simultaneously.

  She laid there basking in the reverie, knowing she needed to rise any minute. A voice from the bathroom pulled her back to wakefulness.

  “Honey, are you awake?” Steven asked.

  “Reluctantly,” she replied.

  “No need to get up for me, sweetheart. I can get myself off to school by myself you know,” he said playfully. “I’m a big boy now.”

  “No, I want to get up,” she said, half-meaning it.

  “Yeah, I definitely crashed, didn’t I? The hot tub was a perfect remedy for my body. But I was like warm Jello when I decided to read in bed. Read, ha! I doubt if I read two sentences and I was gone,” he said.

  “Yes. You looked so ‘gone’ that I decided to just let you be when I got in,” she said.

  “When did you get home? Was it long after I crashed?”

  “Well, I don’t know when you crashed, as you say, but it was about eleven.”

  “I bet I'd only been asleep for a few minutes,” he said. “I guess I just missed you, my dear.”

  “Well you sure looked cute. I just couldn’t wake you, as tempting as it was.”

  “Oh, did I miss something?” Steven asked coyly, as he selected a tie from his wardrobe.

  “Let’s just say I was considering having some fun with your body. You know how I love to do that when you’re asleep. But you looked so peaceful, I just couldn’t.” She smiled.

  “Well sleepyhead, it's time for me to hit the road. It’s a beautiful morning and I’m hot to trot. See you this evening,” he said as he leaned over the bed and kissed her goodbye.

  Catherin
e lay there for a few minutes until she heard the door close downstairs and the car start outside. She hadn't told him about the book, she thought somewhat guiltily. She was glad she'd put it back on his side table last night. Now it was gone. He had taken it with him.

  The Mercedes needed gas. Steven stopped at the Chevron station on California Avenue before venturing onto the freeway. He filled the tank himself and took his receipt from the pump. Geez, he thought, not only has all the service gone from gas stations, but there’s not even any human interaction anymore. He remembered when the local service station owner had been a stabilizing force in a neighborhood. He checked your oil and your tire pressure, and always had time for a chat. He'd even repaired the old family wagon on occasion. Steven realized he had these same thoughts every time he got gas these days. Was he getting old and crotchety, bitching about the good ol' days and how the world was going to hell? That’s what he remembered about the older folks from his childhood.

  As he pulled onto the freeway, his thoughts drifted back to his younger days. He hardly had the Ozzie-and-Harriet home environment as a kid. His childhood had been tough. When he was only six or seven, his parents had divorced and his dad had moved across town and remarried. His mom had started drinking pretty heavily and Steven had gradually taken over as the surrogate head of household, exhibiting his tendency to being over-responsible at an early age. His dad seemed content to visit him and his half-brother once a week, on the designated evening, but otherwise seemed lost in his new life with his new wife and her family. Eventually, his mom’s parents got wind of the situation and had their daughter committed to the state facility at Agnew, to get her sober and stabilized. The county social services people placed him and Richard, his mother’s other child from a previous marriage, in a boarding school selected by his grandparents. He was ten at the time.

  Being separated from his mother and the family home was devastating for Steven, but he'd managed to squelch his feelings. He missed his older half-brother, who was in a different section of the boarding school, so they never saw each other. He didn't know how to feel about that either. He still didn’t, he admitted to himself as an aside.

  The school—St. Vincent’s School for Boys in Marin County—turned out to be a cross between a reform school and an orphanage run by the local Catholic archdiocese. It was staffed with Dominican nuns, a couple of priests, and several lay teachers or prefects. Steven was a bright student. They promoted him ahead of his fellow classmates, and he'd skipped the seventh grade altogether.

  After two years, his mother, Elizabeth, had achieved a level of sobriety and sustained employment that allowed her to regain custody of her sons. Steven had been elated to be going home again, feeling sure this time he could do a better job of keeping his mother sober. He just had to try harder this time.

  They'd settled into a new home and he started high school, a Catholic campus run by the Christian Brothers. Steven hadn't known anybody there and he was quite shy. Eventually, he'd started hanging around another smart kid, Larry Connerly, gregarious and fun to be around. It was clear within a few weeks that he and Larry were the two smartest kids in their freshman class.

  Elizabeth was working at a plastics manufacturing company. Steven was allowed to have a cat and he started feeling like a normal teenager. However, the vigilant nature he'd learned before boarding school required him to remain alert.

  And then it happened. He found a hidden bottle of bourbon. It was only a few weeks after mother and sons had been reunited. He came across it quite accidentally, hidden behind the clean towels in the linen closet. His heart had sagged as he'd realized what it was and why it was there. He pondered what to do. It was mid-afternoon and no one else was home.

  The boy figured the best thing to do was pour it down the drain. That way his mother couldn’t drink it and she’d stay sober, his young mind reasoned. He took the bottle into the bathroom, opened it, and paused. He held the open bottle to his nose and took a whiff. Phew! Did it reek! He poured the brown liquid down the drain. The whole bathroom stunk. He rinsed the sink with water, letting it run for several minutes. That should do it, he remembered thinking, and he took the bottle to the garbage can in the backyard.

  He recalled how he'd waited for a reaction for the next several days. Surely she missed it. So how come she hasn’t asked about it? he'd wondered. But Elizabeth never did.

  The next week, Steven had discovered another bottle hidden in the kitchen. I need to be more vigilant. I need to do a better job, he'd thought.

  The next several months, Steven routinely searched for his mother’s hidden booze and watched for the signs of her drinking every evening. He noticed her breath smelled funny when she kissed him goodnight. Later, he started searching her purse. He found little packets of Sen Sen, tiny breath candies. He took one. That was how she smelled, he realized. She was covering up the booze breath. Now he knew for sure he was failing at his job as self-appointed caretaker.

  His mother’s drunkenness had gotten more and more obvious as the months went on. She would be conspicuously high before he and Richard went to bed on weeknights, and she’d be pretty much out of it all weekend. The brothers were pretty much on their own. Steven became the de facto head of household, despite his being the younger of the two brothers. Richard was more into leaving the house and staying away for most of the day. Steven took to tending to the household duties, like preparing bag lunches for the two of them, shopping for groceries with money he took from his mother’s purse, often in front of her, and cooking dinner from time to time.

  And then seemingly out of the blue, the house was invaded by two county social workers, a uniformed policeman, Steven's grandmother and a friend, and one of the neighbors. His grandmother was crying a lot, he remembered very clearly. He'd rarely seen her cry, and this time she was bawling. Her friend consoled her as the county people and the sheriff made her sign some papers. Then they'd taken Elizabeth away. She was screaming, swearing, and very drunk. She looked terrible, he remembered thinking. God, he was embarrassed as well as scared. He had failed at keeping it together.

  The boys had gone to stay with their grandparents on the farm. He and Richard loved it out there. There was plenty of room to play, and he could relax. He was taken care of and didn’t feel the need to be a caretaker. Of course, he didn’t know it until years later in therapy, but the farm was one place where he didn’t need to maintain the super-vigilance he'd adopted as a survival mechanism. His grandparents were like the parents he didn’t have and their home offered the stability and security that was so absent living with Elizabeth.

  As he turned off the freeway, his thoughts returned to today. He felt a strong need to talk about this book with someone. Mark! That was who he’d ask about it. Mark had done some pretty strange things, he recalled, even taken EST years ago, for God’s sake. He made a mental note to call Mark first thing and see when they could get together.

  He walked into the Ventures offices feeling suddenly quite light and cheerful. Offering his good mornings generously as he went, Steven entered his suite. He'd beaten Ruth to work. He took a few items from his briefcase, including the book, which he laid next to the phone on his desk. He smelled the fresh pot of coffee brewed on his wet bar and poured himself a cup, silently thanking whomever had made it in Ruth’s absence. He sat down at his desk and surveyed the messages that had accumulated since his early departure yesterday.

  After several calls to the East Coast, a short meeting with Ruth when she got in, and a quick hallway meeting with his controller, Steven dialed Mark at his office.

  “Mark, can I see you sometime soon—say in the next day or so?” he asked. “You’re out of town later this week and the early part of next week? Hmm. That’s too bad. I’d really like to talk to you sooner than that…You can later today? Great! What time?”

  Steven chuckled. “Four thirty it is. Where can we meet? Sure, I’ll come partway down. After all, it’s the least I can do for imposing on you like
this…Pete’s Harbor? You got it!”

  He put down the handset feeling enormously grateful for Mark's friendship. Yes, he’d be the perfect person to talk to.

  Steven’s mind returned to the work waiting before him. He hesitated a moment. Then he dove in.

  March 18: South of San Francisco, Redwood City, Pete's Harbor, 4:27 PM PST

  Driving down the peninsula toward Pete’s Harbor later that day, Steven wondered if Mark was the one who'd sent him this book. Wouldn’t that be interesting, he thought. Maybe there was a way to find out.

  Mark was waiting for Steven as he climbed the stairs to the restaurant which was built on tall wooden pilings.

  “Hey, hey, buddy,” said Steven as he extended his hand. “Thanks again for coming up to meet me on such short notice. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problemo, my friend,” Mark said. “Want a beer?”

  “Sure. But let me buy,” he said as he reached for his wallet, put the book on the bar, and extracted a ten dollar bill. He laid the money on the bar and picked up the book. He held it up. “You know this book you sent me is giving me fits!”

  Mark’s brow wrinkled. “That book? I didn’t give you any book. You must be confusing me with someone else.”

  “You mean you didn’t send me this?” Steven asked, more seriously. He handed the book to Mark.

  Mark examined it, smiled and said, “Judging by the little I see here, I think I’d remember if I sent you that book in particular. It's just not your kind of thing, Steven.”

  “Oh yeah,” Steven said, somewhat defensively. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, by the looks of it, this is one of those new breed of business books written by authors advocating a new human consciousness. You know, all those things that bottom-line operators like you think of as 'airy-fairy.'“

  That was probably fair, Steven thought. He said, “Well, smartass, it might interest you to know that I find many of the things he writes about in here to be quite thought-provoking. In fact, I’m finding them so provoking it's hard to keep my thoughts off this thing ever since I got it.”

  “Sounds like it’s got you stirred up a bit, buddy. It this what you wanted to talk about?” Mark asked.

  “Yes. You’ve been closer to this sort of thing and I thought it might be helpful for me to talk with you. I don’t know who else I can discuss this with.” Steven frowned. “After all, this guy says some things that make a lot of sense but could get him lynched by a mob of investment bankers, you know?”

  “Well no, Steven. I haven’t read this book, so I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about. That being said, it's safe to say that I am probably more familiar with this field or this movement than you are. I thought you believed any talk like this was hooey. Weren’t you the guy who liked what Tom Peters said awhile back—about there being no place for spirituality in business?”

  “Is he the guy who wrote that article?”

  “Yeah. It was actually one of his syndicated columns….”

  “Okay….Anyway, that column got a quick response from a CEO—a very articulate open letter which was included in an entire book on this debate. In fact, I think you know this CEO's company—Medtronic, out of Minneapolis. You know them, don’t you? They’re a publicly traded…they're a pacemaker manufacturer with a stellar record in social responsibility and financial performance.”

  At the mention of Minneapolis, Steven's thoughts shifted to memories of Kirsten. Another wave of grief swelled up in his chest, and Mark touched him on the arm.

  “Are you okay, buddy?”

  “Sure, Mark,” he said. “Go on.”

  Mark continued, “Anyway, this book was published which contained this CEO's letter as well as Peters' original article, along with the writings of about twenty other people who responded to the two perspectives. It was great! There was Thomas Moore, the New Age best-selling author, Anita Roddick, the founder of the Body Shop, the One Minute Manager guy—Blanchard—and a bunch of others.”

  Steven nodded.

  “So what all these folks say is that humans have a spiritual dimension that often gets locked out at the doorway when they enter the workplace. They all agree that by barring this part of themselves from the work experience, they are only partially present in their jobs. Peters doesn’t seem to get that there’s any difference between spirituality and religion and, since he’s such a First Amendment champion, he feels strongly that any talk about spirituality or any explicit acknowledgement of Spirit—even in a non-religious context—is inappropriate at work.”

  Steven started squirming on his stool. His agitation was obvious to Mark.

  “I can see you're having difficulty with this stuff, Steven. Are you sure you want to talk about it?” Mark asked.

  “Yes,” Steven said quickly. “On one hand, I don’t believe there’s a place for this stuff in the real business world either. So, I guess I agree with Peters. On the other hand, I’d like to think the human species can improve the way we treat each other and the environment. Then I reprimand myself because I think I’m being utopian and unrealistic.

  “For instance, do authors like this really know what it's like to run a business? Have they ever had to make a payroll in their lives? Aren’t most of them consultants or professors? They aren’t really in business, are they? They’re standing on the sidelines watching, like armchair quarterbacks. They don’t really know how to play the game! They certainly don’t know how to win at it!”

  Steven realized he was raising his voice. He also noticed his pulse seemed to have jumped a beat or two. He didn’t like having holier-than-thou types criticize his way of succeeding. Especially when they couldn’t survive one day in this cutthroat world. He was surprised at how agitated he’d become.

  Mark saw his friend’s discomfort. “One thing I can say, Steven. It is far easier to run a business with the values these authors are writing about when you have a small private company, particularly one that was founded on them at the start.”

  That calmed Steven down a bit. “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Let’s take Medtronic, for example,” Mark said. “The company was founded on certain values explicitly stated in a sort of charter. In fact, those values still stand today, over fifty years later! Having such noble and explicit values instilled in an organization at its birth seems to add to its prospects for adhering to them—walking the talk, so to speak. When a company goes public and its stock is widely sold and held by thousands of special interest groups, conforming to any sort of humanistic or social values becomes more difficult, since it might appear to impair earnings, especially short-term earnings.”

  Mark stopped for a moment, and then began again. “This isn’t too far afield from what we were discussing the other evening over cocktails. Remember Milton Friedman’s words of a few years ago, that the sole responsibility of the corporation is to increase shareholder wealth? Boy, did managers and directors take that one and run with it! They’ve used that bit of opinion to ruin thousands of lives in the name of increased profits, making the wealthy wealthier and the middle-income folks poorer by the millions.

  “And the increasing gap between the rich and poor is behind many of the concerns about humanity's ability to sustain life. Eventually, the system will implode—it's not built to continue the way we have been going for the past several decades.”

  Mark saw Steven's eyebrows rise in silent query.

  “Yes, Steven, it's only in recent years that this trend has taken hold…say since World War II. And taking stock public with a short-term market mentality has been a primary culprit in accelerating this trend.”

  Mark realized he was attacking the essential economic structure of the publicly held corporation—identifying it as a primary villain in the prospective demise of civilization—and that Steven's entire business was founded on this structure. Ventures International made its money largely by taking companies public…or at least increasing their portfolio companies’ sto
ck value so they could make their profits. He was too far in to turn back, though, so he continued.

  “Medtronic is publicly held, and it still can hold its head high and claim to be operating by the values its founder established many years ago,” he said. “That’s because their values were explicit and there was widespread commitment to uphold them through its history.”

  Mark paused. He’d been taking a lot of time and had gotten a bit preachy. He wanted to see where his friend was after his little speech.

  Steven sensed Mark’s wondering and assured him he wanted to hear more. “Keep going, Mark. I’m listening to everything you’re saying. This is great stuff for me to hear right now…I think,” he added with a whimper of playfulness.

  “Okay. I have one more point to make and then I’ll be quiet for a while. Your company is publicly held. That requires you to maximize profits every quarter or face significant inquisition by a whole bunch of people who think they have the right to question every decision you made. Your compensation is largely based upon profits and increases in share value. If you do not conform to these pressures all these guys —this gang of investment bankers, analysts, labor union fund managers and other large investors—they cam make your life miserable. Your income could be drastically reduced, affecting your lifestyle and your family’s security. Your work life can be adversely impacted…being hounded by all these people who think you owe them answers…threats to your job…media criticism…

  “This adds up to a lot of pressure to conform to the system’s wishes even though these wishes are not explicit. They are insidious demands. We all know this!” Mark paused, taking a moment to get back to his point without the frustration.

  “Some people have equated the global economic system to an addiction, where a small number of people demand more and more despite the fact that it is hurting the whole. I think it was Harman”—Mark pointed to Steven's book—”who once wrote metaphorically about the human body. He asked what would happen if the heart told the rest of the body it wanted more blood. Can you imagine such absurdity? The other organs would have to learn to get by on a smaller supply. They'd be starved of their share of the life-sustaining fluid because the heart got greedy. Some see the global economic trend as similar to this, where those with money—the “blood” of enterprise—want more and more of it. In Latin America they've developed a term to describe out-of-control demand for greater and greater wealth. They call it 'brutal capitalism.'

  “When I started Telcom,” he continued, “I decided to stay private. I knew I could make a killing once we knew we were going to survive. Given the investment frenzy in the Valley, I could have walked away with tens of millions. But I would have paid a price. For me, it would have meant selling my soul. A few years earlier, this would have been no problem. Not only would it have been no problem, it was my formula for getting rich!

  “To this day, I remember the insight I had back in the 1960s reading a Fortune magazine article about the richest people in the United States. Except for those who inherited their wealth, just about every one of them had made their fortune by starting a business and taking it public. I knew then and there that was how I’d get rich.

  “And I did! The Intel deal went pretty well, as did the money I made with Apple and Microsoft. But by the time I was starting Telcom, I was also beginning to realize the negative impact of this way of doing business. This was all before you and I met. I was one of the early members of the Social Venture Network and I still get information from several other similar organizations with overlapping objectives. I’ll be happy to share them with you if you are interested. In fact, I’d be thrilled to talk with you about this, Steven.

  “I don’t know who sent you that book, but I’m damn glad they did. If I’d known it would have sparked a conversation like this, I would have done it years ago! I never would have guessed that a true bottom-liner like you would be open to these ideas.”

  Mark took the last sip of his beer and paused, waiting for his friend to say something. He really appreciated Steven as a friend. Their friendship had grown very rapidly over the past few years and Mark felt closer to him than he did to many of the friends he’d known since high school. That he could discuss these aspects of business with his friend was frosting on the cake.

  Steven sat deep in thought, clearly affected by Mark’s discourse. Mark silently signaled the bartender for another round and allowed his friend to absorb everything he'd been saying.

  Nearly a full minute went by before Steven inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a huge sigh. He started to say something, and then paused again. Mark could tell by his friend’s eye movement that he’d been really stirred up—intellectually and possibly emotionally—although he’d never heard Steven talk about his feelings.

  Finally, with uncharacteristic awkwardness, Steven asked a question. “When you said what you did about the economy as an addiction, what did you mean?

  “Well,” Mark said, “if an addict is someone with an unwanted, unhealthy habit they can’t stop, we can expand the definition beyond just being hooked on drugs or booze, okay?”

  “Okay,” agreed Steven after a few seconds.

  “In the present economic system, there are millions of people who hate being in debt, who are tired of working most of the year just to pay interest on what they owe, and who feel they can’t stop. They can’t seem to resist the craving to purchase stuff. So, they work harder and longer trying to catch up. They consolidate their credit card balances into a second mortgage and then repeat the entire cycle again.

  “Did you know that personal bankruptcies in this country have been escalating over the past twenty years? On top of that, there are millions who are barely hanging on, afraid that their credit rating would get messed up if they were to file bankruptcy. Isn’t that ironic, Steven? People are drowning in debt, but they’re afraid to lose the right to get into more debt! If that doesn’t define an addiction, I don’t know what does.”

  Mark noticed how excited he’d become. “On top of this, Steven, we have the other side of the addiction—the supply side. Like the illegal drug trade, there are buyers of the drug and there are dealers, right? Now, just imagine that stuff—the stuff consumers buy—is the drug…”

  “Wait a minute!” said Steven. “That’s a big leap for me to make. You mean to say you think a new car is like cocaine? Why that’s preposterous, Mark! That’s crazy! That’s an insane rationale.”

  “I know it’s hard to get your mind around, buddy, but hang in there with me for another minute, okay? Please?” A resigned Steven slowly nodded his head.

  “If —and I know that’s a big little word—if stuff can be looked upon as the drug, then who are the drug dealers? A lot of writers and people who are influencing thought about the future these days are saying the dealers are the big corporations who bombard the public with advertising, sponsorships, and publicity, selling the idea that this car, this brand of pants, this television, will bring the buyer status, self-esteem, and all the love they can handle.”

  Steven was getting very agitated. “This is too much for me to listen to, Mark. If you weren’t my friend I’d have been out of here ten minutes ago. But you are, and now I think you’re my crazy friend. This analogy you made up is the most ridiculous thing I can imagine! Do you really believe this drivel?” Steven snorted.

  Mark wondered if he'd gone too far. He had been reading a lot these past few years, and had done a lot of soul-searching himself over this. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Steven so close to getting really pissed off at him. Perhaps he should stop now. But before he could think much more about it, Steven started up again.

  “Damnit, Mark. This conversation has really got me going—you know?”

  “I can see that. Do you want to change the subject?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Steven said. “I’m really not sure of anything right now, even my just saying you were crazy.” He took a long gulp from his second beer. The beer tasted unusu
ally good right now, he thought. Perhaps this comparison to addiction was getting under his collar because of his mother's alcoholism. Maybe that was clouding his mind a bit, making it so hard to hear what Mark was saying. He admired Mark. He loved the way he thought about things. So why was he having so much trouble with this?

  “It may be that I’m confusing alcoholism with your example, Mark, and you know how that addiction affected my life. Maybe that’s why I’m finding this analogy of yours so hard to listen to,” Steven said.

  “Could be, Steven. I know your mom fought it and won, through AA, as I recall. Right?” Mark said.

  “Yeah. That twelve-step stuff really saved her…I mean our lives…back when things were pretty iffy.” Steven nodded. “As crazy as you are talking, I’ve heard you talk crazy about other things and I didn’t get this agitated, so maybe there’s a connection here.”

  “Steven, if you are up for listening a bit more, I think there may be several more reasons why this is so hard for you,” Mark said.

  “Ordinarily, I’d say okay, but I’m feeling a need to let all this percolate…so maybe a break here would be good. But you’re going away for a week or so, right?” Steven asked.

  “Yeah, but there’s always email,” Mark said. “I know you still prefer talking in person, but maybe we can use technology to our advantage. After all, I’ll be half way around the world, completely out of sync with the West Coast time-wise. The Internet can serve us well over the next few days. Think of it, Steven, I'll be sitting in a hotel at night anyway. I’d much rather respond to your messages than watch Korean television.”

  “Oh, you’re going to Seoul?”

  “Yeah. There’s a problem with the quality of the last two batches of components we received from our supplier there, and I need to get some hands-on time with their plant manager,” Mark said. “I’m stopping for a short visit in Taiwan on the way and maybe on the return, but I'll definitely have time to engage with you in the evenings. What do you say? Are you up for it?”

  Steven sighed. “One of the reasons I don’t use computers more is that I never learned how to type, Mark. There—now you know one of my little secrets. It’s not that I’m too snobby to type my own letters. Besides, with help like Ruth around all these years, why should I start doing my own letters?” There was a note of defensiveness in his voice. “However, I can hunt and peck a bit, enough to get the essence to you.”

  Before Steven was twenty feet away from the bar, he began to wonder what other reasons Mark was going to suggest for his reaction—or was it an overreaction? Well, one thing for sure. Mark wasn’t the mysterious “Caring Friend.” But he sure was more up to snuff on this subject than Steven had ever imagined. What a fascinating guy Steven thought as he started the Mercedes and headed across the dirt lot to the road back to the freeway.

  March 18: South San Francisco, Hungry Hunter Restaurant, 8:38 PM PST

  She walked into the restaurant and looked around for the bar where she'd agreed to meet Allen. They'd met at a friend’s party in the city and she'd agreed to have dinner with him. This was her first date since taking the new job and she was more excited than she wanted to admit. Her dating experience until now had been minimal because she wanted to get through school and into the business world before getting serious about anyone.

  She’d met some great guys—along with some real jerks—but she wasn’t in the frame of mind to entertain any real possibilities with any of them.

  She entered the bar and looked around. Apparently Allen hadn’t arrived yet. He worked for a software development firm and suffered from the same “busy-ness” bug so many in the Valley did. She sat at the bar, ordered a Virgin Mary and checked her PDA to be sure she had the time right and that he hadn’t tried to contact her. She was a few minutes late, but not horribly tardy.

  Her drink arrived and Allen walked in immediately afterward. He apologized for being late and seemed a bit awkward and nervous. He was cute, she thought. She liked the way he seemed so real, not taking himself very seriously. He told the bartender, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  “I’m really hungry,” she told him as he was taking his first sip, barely managing to avoid sticking the celery stalk up his nose.

  “Me too,” Allen said, almost automatically. “I’ll ask how long a wait there’ll be for a table.”

  He excused himself. Jeez, she’s great, he thought. Attractive, intelligent, and socially engaging. A cool date. I wonder where this will go.

  March 19: Hillsborough, George residence, 1:48 AM PST

  Sleep was impossible. Steven knew the phenomenon—he’d been wired like this before, but usually on business deals. This time his mind was engaged in a very different way.

  Perhaps this was what they called soul-searching, he thought, feeling like he was in a debate with himself. A goodly number of the ideas he’d been reading in the damn book were not particularly new, he realized. They were, however, based on values he had long held as idealistic and naïve. They reminded him of his adolescent years, when he'd seen himself as a reformer of society and stayed up all night talking with his buddies about philosophy and the ills of the world….how they’d cure them, and on and on and…

  Then he'd gotten real. As he matured and spent more time with older, more experienced people—teachers and professors, managers he interned for before starting his own company, and various mentors—he adapted a more concrete approach to life. He saw his idealism as quixotic, jousting with windmills, an “impossible dream.”

  Now he wondered: Had he just given up on his dreams and bought into a system fed by greed, cynicism, and self-centeredness? Was the whole drive for success based on such shallow objectives as “getting the most toys”? Was this all a game, made up by grown-up children who wanted some engaging activity to occupy themselves, because they’d given up on the noble goals and high-minded ideals they'd cherished as adolescents?

  He recalled all the wonderful books he'd read as a child, including the Bible. He remembered how clear-cut he'd thought everything was—what was right, what was wrong, who was bad, who was good. Things were not so clear anymore.

  Or are they? he wondered. Could they still be as clear as Harman says, and I’ve just pretended to believe they aren’t because this kind of thinking best serves my agenda, the lifestyle I’ve bought into? As a man of conscience —and that was how Steven saw himself—how else could he rationalize beliefs and behaviors so contrary to the values of his youth? He winced as he considered the full impact of what he might have been doing all these years.

  Jesus, I hope that’s not what I’ve done, he thought, while simultaneously realizing he had done just that, at least to some degree.

  The whole night, Steven’s mind was engaged, to such a degree that by the pre-dawn hours he'd have done anything for a few minutes sleep. He couldn’t believe how difficult a night it had been.

  He looked at the clock. It was 5:15 in the goddamn morning! His thoughts were already preparing him for a difficult day. I might as well get up, he figured. Staying in bed and listening to this debate in my head is more tiring than if I got up and actually did something! He slipped out of bed, put on his robe, pulled the book from his briefcase in the dressing area and headed downstairs to the den.

  The den was one of his favorite rooms. He turned on the lights as he entered the large high-ceilinged room, its walls lined with bookshelves, its tufted leather furniture beckoning him to sit. The walls were primarily dark wood, matched by most of the furniture and the forest green and burgundy stuffed chairs and couch. Although it was quite dark, it was one of the cheeriest rooms in the house as far as Steven was concerned. It served as a sanctuary of sorts too.

  He walked over to the high-backed wing chair near the big fireplace and turned on the reading lamp.

  Time passed. Then he heard sounds from upstairs—the muffled indescribable noises one hears as a big house comes to life. Catherine must be up, he thought. He looked at the clock on the big d
esk. It was already 6:45. He got up from the chair, his body reminding him how long he’d been sitting in one spot. He walked over to the curtains and opened them, revealing a beautiful sunny morning with the rays of sunshine skipping along the blades of grass in the backyard, bouncing off shimmering drops of dew.

  Another day in paradise, he said to himself, stretching his entire body. He really loved this place, even though it was a bit much for just himself and Catherine. But they could afford it. So why not?

  March 20: New York City, Offices of Tivor Sagi, 10:34 AM EST

  He checked his transactions list from the previous day. His calls were perfectly planned. If his eleven o'clock options went well, he’d clear four and a quarter million before noon. This called for a special celebration. He'd already arranged for his two favorite escorts—Brawny and Colleen—to be available for lunch. If all went well, he’d take the yacht out for a short cruise and entertain them both for the afternoon. After all, he’d booked them for five hours each, and his skipper was standing by at the marina along the western shore of Manhattan. The skipper of the Deal Maker had standing orders to be ready for sea duty, so Ty could go boating anytime he wanted. He commissioned the motoryacht last year. She was a 145-footer with a cruising range of over 1,000 miles.

  Ty had considered a used boat, something a local yacht broker had advised him to do. He could refit one to suit his tastes. He'd even looked at several fine ships up and down the coast. But that hadn't suited his craving for newness—for being the first. In his mind it was something like wanting a virgin. He didn’t want to be taking over someone else’s yacht, even though he could have it refurbished. The Deal Maker had everything imaginable in the way of electronic gear, a pair of personal watercrafts, a 22-foot inboard tender and the interior was decorated like a sheik’s palace. A walk-in freezer assured guests they’d have food on hand for several weeks if they elected to spend more time at sea. And although Ty gave orders to toss the food regularly so that the ship’s provisions were always fresh, the skipper gave all the unused food to the local soup kitchen. It bothered the captain and his crew that the food should be wasted. Waste didn’t bother Ty. It was all deductible as a business expense since he wined and dined colleagues and clients just enough to pass muster with the IRS. It was more important to him that he could be spontaneous and do whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it, than to be concerned over wasting food.

  All this luxury and a tax deduction to boot, he thought, applauding himself for his shrewdness.

  He looked at his watch and thought of inviting one of his clients to join him and the two magnificently built women, but quickly decided against it. He felt like indulging himself today, and Brawny and Colleen would do just fine! Excess is good, he thought.

  March 22: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 6:08 PM PST

  Steven had received a rather long email from Mark. Ruth had printed it out:

  Dear Steven:

  Since we met for a beer at Pete's, I've had plenty of thoughts. First of all, I am so happy we had the discussion. It feels like our friendship has taken on a whole new dimension and this excites me. I hope you feel similarly.

  There's a parable I'd like to share with you. I've forgotten where I first heard it, but it seems appropriate given our talk the other day. I remembered it on the flight over here. It is a long one—the flight, that is. I call it “The Parable of the Boiled Frog.” It goes something like this:

  If you put a frog into a saucepan of water at room temperature, it is likely to remain there. If you slowly heat the water, the frog will stay there while the water gradually warms up, getting groggier and groggier as the temperature rises. Given no other stimulation, the frog will remain in the water—growing less conscious every minute—until it has been slowly boiled to death.

  On the other hand, heat up a pan of water until it's hot. Then place the frog in the water. You can bet the frog will sense the danger and waste no time leaping out of the saucepan to safety.

  In this parable, the frog represents humanity. The water represents the system—the global society in which we live along with all other living things. The pan is the earth, a container holding nature, the oceans, and everything alive. The heat under the pan represents the energy threatening to destroy everything in the pan—environmental degradation, species extinction, unbridled consumption, and all the other threats facing humanity that are driven by modern-day economics or “cowboy capitalism” and its newly adopted uniform—the multinational corporation.

  Humanity is slowly being “boiled” by gradual but constantly increasing economic forces, which catalyze greater and greater global consumption, requiring ever-increasing rises in productivity and resource exploitation, which produces a deepening division between those who have the “goodies” and those who don't. If aliens were to drop in our world right now, like the frog dropped into the hot water, they'd probably wonder why the purveyors of this insanity were going unchallenged by the masses. They wouldn't understand that the masses are allowing it because they were getting drowsy—slowly being sedated into a state of unconsciousness—and oblivious to the growing danger.

  Steven, perhaps this parable will give you an idea of what drives so many of the people expressing their concerns about the economic system running the world today. It isn't communism, or socialism in drag. It isn't anti-business. And it certainly isn't against free enterprise. It is about allowing us humans to evolve to whatever next level is there for us, without missing the opportunity and going extinct.

  I'll be in touch again soon. Send me a note if you're so inclined.

  From the Seoul Hyatt,

  Mark

  Steven reread Mark's message. He folded it up and slipped it into his inside breast pocket and headed for the parking lot, pondering the parable.

  In the months that followed, Steven found himself spending lots of time and much of his energy reading magazine articles, searching for information on the Web. His curiosity was piqued around this subject of consciousness.