by A. C. Fuller
Despite the interrogation, I closed strong, and I'm proud of myself as I wash my hands in the palatial bathroom outside the meeting hall. Pressing my palms against my neck, I allow the cool to spread through my body, which calms me.
I walk back into the lobby and nod at Malcolm as I pass his desk. "Nice to meet you. I'll check out your YouTube videos."
"I'll keep an eye on your website," he says, picking up his ringing phone.
Waiting for my Uber, I survey the Colton Industries campus. From where I stand, I see three other large buildings, all glass and silver and curves, surrounded by green grass and new sidewalks. Everything screams "new wealth."
When the Prius arrives, I slide in, pulling out my phone to make sure my flight is on time. I feel calm and accomplished, the way I always feel when I've done something hard, something I was afraid of. As the car pulls away from Building 7, I glance back wistfully, like people do in movies.
That's when I see Malcolm, running through the front door and waving at my driver to stop.
The driver doesn't see him.
"Stop," I say. "Stop for a sec."
I roll down my window as Malcolm rushes up.
"What?" I ask. "What is it?"
"I just realized something important," he says. "If Willie Nelson runs for president, they'll probably drag up his old tax scandals. It's never gonna work."
I blink for a moment, confused. "You're right," I say eventually. "The single flaw in an otherwise perfect candidate. Um…is that why you flagged down my car?"
"I wish," he says.
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain. Then he leans his head through the window slightly and, for one ridiculous moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
2
Instead, Malcolm does something even more surprising. "Mr. Colton would like to invite you to our Friday night staff party," he says. "And he's asked me to help you find a dress for the event."
"Why?" I ask, stunned. "I mean, what for?"
He looks down at my shirt and pants. "He just figured you wouldn't have packed for a formal party."
"I mean, why is he inviting me?"
"I'm just the messenger here, Mia. Will you go?"
I shoot him my best skeptical look, but I see from his stoic face that, even if he knows what's going on, he won't say. "Are you gonna be there?" I'm not flirting, though it may appear that way to Malcolm. I'm just nervous and like the idea of a friendly face.
"Sort of," he says. "I'll be DJing."
"Then sure. I'll go."
I apologize to the driver, hand him a twenty, and follow Malcolm back into the lobby of Building 7, trying to figure out what my first question will be.
He takes his seat behind the iMac and says, "The party is at eight, so we've got a little over three hours. I need twenty minutes to finish some things, then my replacement comes. Like I said, Mr. Colton asked me to take you shopping for a dress, but only if you'd like one."
I lean on the reception counter casually, trying to pretend that there are circumstances under which I'd say no to shopping with the credit card of a billionaire. "A dress?"
"The Friday night parties tend to be more formal than you'd expect for a Silicon Valley company with no dress code. Let's just say that these aren't your typical staff parties."
"And he asked you to take me shopping? For real?"
"If you're more comfortable in what you're wearing, that's fine as well. Mr. Colton is a bit of a libertarian when it comes to his parties. All are encouraged to dress up, and most do, but there's no requirement. Individual choice and all."
He's right that I didn't pack for a formal party. I didn't pack at all. I flew down on the 10 a.m. out of Sea-Tac, planning to be home by midnight. I didn't even bring a toothbrush. Speaking of which, "Where will I stay?" I ask.
Malcolm is typing fast, and he looks up from his screen. "We can get you a hotel room, or you're welcome to stay in Building 12, the dorm for staff who spend the night. The rooms are individual, pod-type spaces, but they're nice."
With that, his eyes are back on his computer, and I shuffle back to the chair I sat in earlier. I pull out my iPhone to check my email, scroll past a couple dozen work-related non-emergencies, and open one from my mother.
Dearest Mia,
How did your presentation go? I can't wait to talk with you.
Love,
Mom
My mom is a waitress at the same Greek diner in Connecticut where she's worked since before I was born. Her calls on Saturday mornings are the only reason I don't sleep until noon, and I need to let her know that I won't be there when she calls my landline tomorrow.
Mom-
Not sure yet. Good, I think. Strange things are happening. Staying over in California a night, so you won't reach me on my home phone tomorrow.
Love you,
Mia
I scroll for a few minutes, ignoring work and deleting spam, then realize the email Malcolm mentioned—the one informing me of the change in presentation structure—isn't there. Not that it matters now, but I'm curious. I scroll again, look in my spam folder, then run a quick search. I have definitely not received an email from Malcolm or anyone at Colton Industries.
Malcolm is now standing behind his chair, updating a young woman who's taken his seat behind the iMac.
I step over, wait for him to finish and, when he nods toward the door, I ask, "Did you lie about the email to all the presenters, or just me?"
"It was a test," Malcolm says, breaking a long silence as we drive off the Colton Industries campus. "The committee wanted to see how you'd do under pressure."
"So, you lied?"
"I was told to lie. And you must have done just fine."
"I guess so, but can you tell me anything more about what Mr. Colton said?"
Malcolm takes a soft left onto a wide, two-lane road that heads straight into the small town of Santa Clarissa. "I can't," he says. "Not because I don't want to. I just don't know much else."
"Then tell me about the town."
"Isn't much to it," he says, and I can already see that. We enter a small commercial district, no more than eight blocks long because I can see where the buildings stop and the road continues its path toward the rolling brown hills in the distance. The town looks like it was dropped, all at once, onto a huge patch of flat farmland. When Malcolm explains the history, I learn this is basically what happened.
"In 2012, when Mr. Colton built the campus, he wanted to provide everything his employees would need on site. Free food. Gyms. Child care. Bus service to and from San Francisco, Oakland and all the cities within ninety minutes. By 2014, enough people had relocated to the surrounding area that a small town popped up almost overnight. Other than the old post office, and a bank building that's now a yoga studio, every structure you see was built in the last five years."
"Wasn't that the plot of a Simpsons episode?" I ask.
"Yes it was, and I can't promise that's not where he got the idea."
Most of these baby buildings are modern, square structures of wood and glass, all between two and four stories. On the ground floors are a mix of juice shops, boutique clothing stores, and restaurants. On the upper floors are apartments and offices, most of which have wide balconies covered in plants and small trees. Taken as a whole, Santa Clarissa looks like a new section of Disneyland designed for rich Californians. Main Street USA, Silicon Valley style.
Not that I have anything against the opulence. Most Friday evenings I'm arranging last-minute weekend travel for Alex Vane, my boss at The Barker, or arguing with our web host about why the site is running slowly. If I'm lucky, by eight o'clock I'm on my couch, eating macaroni and cheese out of a plastic container while watching Netflix. Spending an evening shopping on Peter Colton's dime is a notable improvement.
Malcolm parks and we pass a couple clothing stores and a boutique cellphone shop before stopping at the window of a store called Mama Mia, which displays a variety of heels and flats, and even the occasio
nal pair of designer boots. In the back, they appear to have at least a dozen racks of dresses.
"This is the largest store in town," Malcolm says. "Good mix of stuff, from what I hear."
Before he can finish his sentence, I'm inside the store, practically salivating. I'm not a clothes-hound. Not exactly, anyway. Would I spend lots of money on clothes if I had lots of money? Maybe, and I hope to find out someday. But I do love nice clothes, even if I can't afford to wear them.
"Mr. Colton said that it's on us," Malcolm says, finding me at a rack of cocktail dresses.
"Thank you."
It takes a good twenty minutes, but I find three possible dresses and Malcolm follows me to the dressing rooms in the back, where I step behind a curtain and he takes a seat on a round velvet bench.
As I squeeze myself into an emerald green, A-line, princess-style dress, I call through the curtain, "So if you can't tell me anything more about what he said, tell me more about Peter Colton."
"You read the blogs, don't you?"
"And yet, I asked you anyway. What's not on the blogs?"
"I've only worked for him for two years and, honestly, I don't know him that well. I was just starting to make a living with my music when YouTube changed their advertising rates. Then the club gigs dried up. I took this job as a temporary thing and, well…"
He trails off, the way everyone does when they're talking about dreams deferred.
"So what are these parties like?" I ask, worried the dress I'm trying on makes me look like a teenager at a junior prom.
"Kinda crazy. We work hard all week, often twelve or fourteen-hour days. Well, I don't, but the engineers and coders and managers do. Every Friday, Mr. Colton throws a party with a different theme."
This is important data. "What's the theme tonight?"
"Western."
I poke my head out from behind the curtain. "Seriously?"
Malcolm looks away awkwardly, probably because he thinks I'm naked behind the curtain, or is at least imagining that I could be. "Western," he says again, eyes glued to the floor.
"Western? And formal?"
"We leave things pretty open to interpretation. Like I said, Mr. Colton is a libertarian about these things. I wear the same black slacks and blue blazer every day, just swapping out t-shirts. But some people go all-out for these parties."
"Can you elaborate?"
"It's a mix. Some go super formal, some get all kinds of crazy with their outfits, some just show up in their work clothes."
"So you really can't help me figure out what kind of outfit I should get?"
"Sorry."
Thinking quickly, I say, "There were a pair of red leather cowgirl boots up front. Can you ask if they have those in a seven and a half?"
I duck my head back behind the curtain as Malcolm heads to the front of the store. I try on a black crepe sheath dress that makes me feel like Jackie O, but it's too formal for a western theme. By the time Malcolm returns, I'm in a cream flare dress with three-quarter sleeves. It's not exactly a line-dancing dress, but it has a similar shape. It ends just above my knees and is the closest I'll come to a western look on short notice.
Malcolm hands me the boots, which are hand-stained and covered in fine decorative stitching. "Too informal?" I ask, doing a little twirl before sitting on the round bench and trying on the boots.
"You look great."
I walk a couple loops around the store, checking myself in the mirror as I pass. The boots are a little tight, but they accent my reddish-brown hair, and will break in over time. Also, they look really nice on me. I decide I can get through a night in them.
I gather my clothes and follow Malcolm to the counter. "If you can't tell me much more about Peter, tell me about you."
"Not much to tell. Grew up in Oakland. Still live there. All I ever loved was music, but I can type fast and be pretty organized when I need to be. Applied for this job when the music dried up and, for some reason, I got it. Now I take the Colton Industries electric bus out and back five days a week."
He pays for the dress and boots, the clerk bags up my business attire, and we step onto the sidewalk. It's past six now, but still hot since it's the middle of July, so we head straight to the car.
"What about you?" he asks as we drive back toward the campus. "What's your story?"
"I assume you Googled me."
"I did, but not much came up. I know you manage the offices at The Barker, and that you started Ameritocracy a couple years ago. Seems like such a cool idea. Why aren't more people signing up?"
"Why aren't you signing up?"
He goes quiet for a moment, and I think I've said something to offend him. Then he laughs. "I would be a terrible politician. Plus, I'm only thirty-one."
"Maybe in 2024?"
"Maybe. But seriously, I'm so sick of politics."
We're bonding a little, and I turn to him as he eases into the long driveway that leads into the campus. When he shifts his eyes from the road to me, I ask, "Do you think Ameritocracy can work? I mean, get big?"
"With enough money behind it, over time, yeah."
"That's what I'm afraid of. I started on a whim, thinking I'd slowly build it into something. If I win the money, that'll…I don't know. I guess I never thought I'd win. Now I'm scared. Nervous. Something."
Malcolm slows the car and scans an ID card to open the entry gate. "Just because he invited you to the party doesn't mean you won."
"But you won't tell me what it does mean, so…"
"I won't," he says, pulling up alongside Building 7 and shutting off the car. "But I will tell you this. For the first five or six years, when I would DJ, I'd get hella nervous before every show. Every. Single. Show. Even when I knew I was prepared, knew I was gonna kill it. Then my mom told me something that helped. She said, 'Malcolm, nervousness is just excitement without the breathing.' It doesn't always work, but ever since then, when I'm feeling nervous, I take a few deep breaths. Turns out I'm usually just hyped."
"So you're saying I should be nervous?"
"I'm saying you should be hyped."
I laugh awkwardly, excited but not entirely sure what he's getting at. Before I can ask, his laugh fills the car and I hear it like I'm wearing fancy headphones—crisp and full of bass. But it's not just his laugh. The leaves on the trees are greener than they should be as they sway in the warm wind. I brush my hand on the leather seat and it feels softer and smoother than before. I still don't know exactly what he's implying about Colton, but something about the moment feels significant.
Then, just like that, it's over.
"I gotta go finish some work things," Malcolm says, "but you can hang out in the lounge, just off Conference Room D, which is where the party is. Restrooms are there, snacks, whatever you need."
He opens the car door, but I grab his arm. "Can I ask you something?"
"No need for the preliminaries. Just ask."
"There's something that's been nagging at me. You said that Mr. Colton wanted to see how I'd do in an on-the-fly presentation, that he told you to lie about sending me an email. And you said you lied only to me."
"That's right."
"Why? I mean, if he wanted to test me—and only me—it means he'd already studied my proposal. Already knew about my project. One way or another, he'd already made up his mind, right?"
Malcolm smiles, and I meet his eyes, which are locked on mine with a slight look of concern. "He has."
3
An hour later, my face is washed, my makeup done with the touch-up kit I keep in my purse, and my hair tied up in a messy bun, a few stray curls dangling down to frame my round, freckled cheeks. I'm full of excitement, but as I walk into the party, I realize that I've misunderstood the western theme.
The hall is decked out in what I think of as traditional western items, but it also has a darker, dystopian feel. The walls are covered with wooden wagon wheels and even a few cowboy hats, but also old logic boards and antique keyboards. A mechanical bull sits in the
center of the room, surrounded by a pit of foam balls. The bull itself is bright purple, modern-looking, and etched with the Colton Industries logo. To my right, hay bales surround a large bar area and emit a subtle blue glow, like they have tiny LED lights in them.
I expected music, but there is none. All I hear is the whizzing of the electronic bull and the chatter of a hundred people, most standing in small groups. A large group surrounds the bull, watching with rapt attention. Every so often, a shout of joy or terror fills the room as a rider flies off and lands in the ball pit. Then everyone turns at once, stares for a moment, and returns to their conversations.
I don't see Malcolm, but it turns out he was right about the outfits. Around twenty percent of the people are wearing jeans and t-shirts or other informal workplace attire. The rest are decked out in all manner of costume.
One man wears a tuxedo and a giant cowboy hat that appears to be made from wearable computer screen material. As he walks past me, it lights up and black lettering appears as it would in a word processing program: Hello, my name is Benjamin Singh. Can I buy you a drink?
The message isn't for me, but for the two women to my left. One is dressed in a black leather mini skirt with fringe made from earbud ends and a belt made of old cellphones hinged together end to end. The other wears what looks like a standard Sexy Cowgirl Halloween costume, complete with a suede vest, knee-high suede boots, and a fake gun in her holster.
I shuffle past them toward the bar and see that it's not a fake gun, but a toy laser gun. She pulls it out and points it at me as I pass. "Pew, pew," she says, ignoring Benjamin Singh, who now stands about ten feet away.
I put my hands up in the universal sign of surrender and smile. "You got me."
Before I can ask her where to find Peter Colton, Ms. Cellphone Belt says, "I like your outfit."
"Thanks," I say. In addition to the cellphone belt, she's wearing a stenciled western shirt that—miraculously—matches the cellphones. "I like yours, too. Are you sure I didn't take the 'western' thing a bit too literally? You guys look fantastic."