No Way Back

by Matthew Klein

  A little before twelve, we’re led into the conference room. The receptionist is a young blonde girl who surely can’t be older than twenty. Nevertheless she’s a pro – when she observes our laptop computer and camera, she offers us a few minutes to set up our presentation before she calls in her bosses. She shows us the power outlets hidden beneath the table, points to the video input jack, and presses a button on the wall. A large projector screen descends from the ceiling with a motorized whir. Then she smiles and leaves. I’m pretty sure the Christians saw a similar smile from the centurions as they were led to the Coliseum stage entrance.

  Randy and Darryl plug the digital camera into the laptop port. They boot the computer. They’re quiet and nervous. Maybe they’ve never been on a sales call before? Vanderbeek, in contrast, has that delighted, expectant look you see on the face of a fight fan just before a heavyweight bout. He knows he’s about to see a knockout – of me, no doubt. He glances at his big Rolex, as thick as a money roll, as if he can’t wait for the bout to begin.

  After a few minutes, two men enter the room. They have that hurried, distracted air of executives trying to show that they are too busy to stay for long, and so we ought to prepare ourselves for their imminent departure. Both men are far younger than I expected. One, a handsome dark-complexioned Indian man, must be in his early thirties. He introduces himself as Samir Singh. The other – blond, with stylish wire-framed spectacles – introduces himself as the Chief Technology Officer, Stan Pontin. The two of them standing together look like a welcoming committee at a college fraternity. I have a disconcerting realization: it wasn’t long ago that I was the youngest man in any business meeting. Now I’m the oldest. Time marches on.

  We go through all the mathematical permutations of shaking each other’s hands, sit down across the conference table from each other, and slide business cards back and forth. They skim over the table surface like air-hockey pucks. Stan Pontin arranges our cards into a neat row in front of him, makes sure the top edges are perfectly aligned. Staring at the cards, he says that Sandy – he means his boss, the CEO, Sandy Golden – will try to join the meeting, if he can. ‘If he can’ is sales-meeting code for: If you guys prove to me and Samir that you aren’t assholes.

  I say that sounds wonderful, and hopefully Sandy can make it.

  They nod.

  Finally, with introductions out of the way, and the visiting team’s expectations suitably lowered, I kick off the meeting by saying, ‘So let me tell you why we’re here.’

  I cut right to the chase. There’s no point in labouring it. Either the gamble will work, or it won’t. Business isn’t like making love to a woman, where your chances improve the slower you go. The pros and cons are right there in front of you. Either the pluses outweigh the minuses, or they don’t. An extra hour of bullshit up front won’t get you laid.

  I start speaking as if I’m at a dinner party, recounting an amusing tale that I am confident will delight everyone. I’m the new CEO at Tao, I say, and I’ve been hired to ‘turbocharge’ Tao’s performance. I give a sidelong glance at Vanderbeek, to see his reaction to this bit of bravado. But he keeps a pleasant half-smile on his face, and doesn’t react.

  I continue my pitch. Tao originally designed its technologies for the consumer market, I say, but we’re moving aggressively into a new vertical – retail banking. Within a year, Tao’s P-Scan technology will be in use at most retail banks across the country. It’s a passive identification and security system. It keeps track of anyone who enters a retail branch – from employees to customers. The technology is so important, and improves account-holder security to such a high degree, that soon almost every bank will use it. In fact, there’s a good chance the federal government will require its use, in all retail branches, for the purposes of AML compliance.

  I pause, let this scenario sink in. It’s preposterous, really, and I almost feel embarrassed saying it out loud, but what the hell. It’s our one shot.

  I continue. We’re looking for one bank, I say, just one, that wants to share the spotlight with us. The bank that we choose – whichever it turns out to be – will bask in the initial press frenzy that’s sure to accompany the introduction of P-Scan. Americans love new technology. And what’s more, this bank will be paid royalties by all of its competitors when those other banks are required to use P-Scan. And, oh yes (almost offhandedly) – this bank will invest $500,000 in Tao, up-front, in order to seal this win-win deal, and become our equity partner.

  I stop talking, and let the two young men from Old Dominion digest this. There’s a long silence. As I sit, I have a vision, that both Samir Singh and Stan Pontin will burst out laughing. They will slap the table with their palms and guffaw at the outlandishness of my proposal: that Old Dominion pay a half-million dollars to some chicken-shit start-up with a meth-addict CEO on loan from the treatment centre.

  But nothing of the sort happens. Instead, they nod respectfully at me, as if my proposal is quite reasonable and is exactly what they expected.

  Then they turn to each other. Samir speaks, and at first I think he’s talking to his colleague, but the words are really meant for me. ‘Yeah, that sounds about right,’ he says. ‘We’ve been anxious to roll something like this out. We’re playing catch-up in the Georgia market, after the SunTrust merger.’ He turns to me. ‘We’ll roll it out there, first. Metro Atlanta.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s perfect,’ Pontin says. ‘Exactly what Sandy wants.’ He has the earnest, guileless face of a technologist. It’s a face that says: Surely there’s an answer, somewhere, if we only put our minds to it! He adds: ‘And that five hundred thousand dollars isn’t a problem. It’s well within our budget. We can get that done ASAP.’

  Then that’s it. No point in continuing the pitch. When someone agrees with you, and tells you they will give you everything you asked for, and more, you get out – fast – before they can change their minds.

  ‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘Well, then.’ I rise from my seat.

  Samir also stands. He looks down at my business card. It was actually Charles Adams’s business card, but I’ve crossed out the old CEO’s name, telephone, and email and replaced them with my own. Classless, I guess, but there wasn’t enough time to order reprints before the meeting. Samir says: ‘Jim, I’ll have our corporate counsel get in touch this afternoon. His name is Mark Sally. He’ll email you an MOU. We can get this done by the end of the week.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ I say. I refuse to look at Vanderbeek. But in the corner of my eye, I see that he is standing, too. He also is a pro. He understands: take the money and run. Now we simply need to leave the room. Easy enough.

  I reach my hand across the table. Unsure of the pecking order, I offer it to the exact geometric midpoint between Samir and Stan. I smile, but I’m careful to make sure it’s not too broad. Not a cat-got-the-canary smile. More like a well-that-was-a-worthwhile-meeting smile. Samir is the first to take my hand. He pumps. Then I turn to Stan Pontin, and shake his. Vanderbeek joins the hand-shaking.

  I’m about to move away from the table when a voice, on my right, speaks. It’s Darryl. He says: ‘But what about my demo?’

  I continue to stare straight ahead, hoping that my perfectly modulated grin doesn’t waver. I’m about to say, ‘Don’t worry about it, Darryl,’ but then Stan Pontin raises his palms and says, ‘Oh, my’ – as if he has been terribly thoughtless and rude. He says, ‘I’m so sorry. You came all the way here to give us a demo of your product, and we’re rushing you out the door, without even seeing it.’

  I say, ‘Well it’s nothing, really. Hardly even a full demo. We can save it for next time.’

  But now Samir is staring at the camera and the laptop sitting at the end of the conference table with intense curiosity. He says, ‘No, no. We’d be remiss. If Sandy asks us about the demo and we didn’t see it... ’ He shrugs, as if to say: You know what it’s like to work for a tough boss.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘OK.’

  Everyone sits back
down.

  I turn to Darryl. He is slumped in his chair, with his legs outstretched, staring at the presentation screen, as if he’s impatient for a movie to begin. All he needs to complete the effect is a bucket of popcorn and box of Jujyfruits. I say gently, ‘Darryl, why don’t you run the demo?’

  He looks baffled for a moment, then says, ‘Oh,’ and scrambles to his feet. He pushes a long strand of greasy hair behind his ear. He says: ‘Great!’ and smiles. ‘Let me show you Tao’s P-Scan 2.0 technology!’

  But of course you know what happens next, don’t you?

  Darryl hands the digital camera to Samir, and tells him to take a picture of anyone in the room – ‘anyone he wants’. Samir looks at the camera as if he’s been handed a newborn baby, and the responsibility that comes with it. ‘Doesn’t matter who,’ Darryl reassures him.

  Samir looks around the room with wavering uncertainty. He points the camera first at Randy, then at Vanderbeek. At last, he makes a decision.

  He points the camera at me.

  I freeze.

  In that moment – that instant between Samir aiming the lens at my face, and clicking the digital shutter – my mind whirs through the distressing possibilities. I am not a famous man, exactly – not in the traditional sense of the word – and yet many of my most colourful moments have been memorialized on film.

  There was, for instance, the mug shot after my Menlo Park DWI. I was going eighty in a school zone. The only thing that saved me from serious jail time was that schools are not in session at 2.30 a.m. The incident is not something I’m proud of – not something I like to reminisce about – but then again, the cops don’t give you a choice about whether you want your mug shot taken. They just simply take it.

  Surely that photo, from the Santa Clara County Jail, circa 2003, is available for download, and now resides in Tao Software’s photographic database, ready to be identified and displayed on the huge screen in this fifteenth-floor conference room?

  As alarming as this possibility seems, surely it would be better than seeing my other mug shot – the one from that night in LA, five years ago, when I was arrested after a bar-room brawl. At least, I think it was in a bar room. The brawl part I’m pretty sure about. I was so cranked up, that I didn’t sleep for forty-eight hours afterward. It’s not every day that your picture appears in your hometown newspaper with two black eyes. That photo will surely have tongues wagging in the SunTrust executive lunchroom. Now there’s a CEO we should stake our reputation on, they will say, studying my photograph, noting the blood-encrusted hair and the meth-enhanced eyeballs popping from my skull.

  But before Samir can commit to taking my photograph, there’s a commotion at the front of the room. Samir lowers the camera. The door opens, and the young blonde receptionist enters, leading the way for an older gentleman, right behind her. ‘Here they are, Sandy,’ she says. ‘See, you’re not late, just like I promised.’

  ‘Thank you, Margie,’ he says gruffly. The blonde leaves, shutting the door as she goes.

  The older man is portly, with the jowls of someone who has been enjoying fine wine and good steaks for as long as he can remember. He introduces himself – needlessly – as Sandy Golden, CEO of Old Dominion. I notice his tie, a beautiful azure silk Hermes, which sparkles electrically in the sunlight that streams through the conference-room windows. He wears an impeccable suit of dark wool. It occurs to me that the only people in Florida who can get away with this kind of outfit are those who are ushered from air-conditioned conference room to air-conditioned limousine to air-conditioned restaurant. Sandy Golden is a man who hasn’t perspired in twenty years.

  Golden turns to his lieutenants and says: ‘What did I miss, guys?’

  Samir summarizes the meeting economically. ‘Tao has what we’ve been looking for, Sandy. Passive image scanning. We can pop it in at our branches. Back of the envelope, I’m guessing it’ll reduce liability and compliance costs by thirty per cent, minimum. As far as the deal, we can do a small equity tranche, half-million, and they can use Metro Atlanta as the pilot platform.’ He indicates the camera in his hands. ‘They wanted to give us a quick demo.’

  ‘Ah, good!’ Golden says. He has the booming voice of a man who is used to being in charge. ‘Just in time for the show.’ He looks at Samir. ‘Go for it, Sammy.’

  His tone is somewhere between good fun and impatience. Samir gets the hint. He lifts the camera, points it at his boss, and snaps a digital photo.

  The camera beams the photo into the laptop, which in turn sends it to the screen at the front of the conference table. Sandy Golden’s photograph appears larger than life, accentuating his beefy jowls and the flesh that overhangs his collar like a turkey giblet. God, I think to myself, I hope the P-Scan software doesn’t highlight that.

  Even so, I’m relieved at the turn of events. Surely the software will be able to identify Sandy Golden. He is one of the financial industry’s most recognizable CEOs, and there are countless newspaper and magazine articles about him, many recent photographs of his hobnobbing with politicians and treasury officials and other industry bigwigs. And the photograph that Samir just snapped is perfect – a close-up, head-on, in sunlight. His face will be impossible to get wrong.

  Darryl says, ‘OK, Sandy.’ I cringe at my programmer’s use of the CEO’s first name. ‘Let me tell you how this works. We’re going to digitize your photograph – you’re a handsome man, by the way – congratulations – and then convert it into a series of measurements. Basically, we’re turning your picture into numbers, and then we’re going to use those numbers to search our database. Think of it like a visual search engine.’

  Please, I silently pray. Please stop talking now.

  ‘It’s really a clever algorithm,’ Darryl continues. ‘I suppose it isn’t going to seem like very much to you – I mean, you’re kind of famous, actually, so it’s no big deal to identify you – right? But still. You need to use your imagination a bit, Sandy. What you’re about to see here – you should imagine it taking place in all your bank branches, with thousands of your customers experiencing what you’re about to experience.’

  Lord, save me, I think. And for a moment, I wonder if I’ve accidentally said this out loud. I glance around the room. No one is staring at me, so I must have spoken silently.

  Darryl says: ‘OK, so let’s see if we can identify the mystery man on the screen.’

  He winks at his audience and types a few keystrokes.

  The P-Scan algorithm kicks in. On screen, Sandy’s photograph is converted into granular grey blocks. The software identifies his most salient visual characteristics; I grimace as I watch Sandy’s fleshy neck being highlighted in yellow. But when I look around the room, no one seems to notice.

  On-screen, the software begins announcing which databases it is scanning: first, the state-by-state DMV records, the local newspapers, Facebook, YouTube...

  The scanning continues.

  I think to myself, with growing concern, that surely the program will arrive at the correct identification at any moment. After all, it is analyzing a photograph of Sandy Golden. A perfect photograph. Of the Sandy Golden. Industry Titan. Famous, and publicity-hungry, CEO.

  No answer comes. P-Scan continues scanning. Thinking.

  Another list of databases crawls down the screen: Crain’s New York Business... Fortune magazine... Bloomberg Businessweek...

  Ah, I think to myself. Closing in on the answer. Closing in. Here it comes.

  We wait one moment longer.

  Finally text appears on the screen: ‘Identity Confirmed. Probability: 98.3%.’

  Below this definitive statement of great certitude is a photograph of the man that P-Scan has conclusively determined is the same man who is seated in the conference room.

  It is a driver’s licence photograph. In defence of the P-Scan algorithm, I will admit that the man on the screen in front of us shares a similar build and heft to the Old Dominion CEO. The man in the photo too has a fleshy neck that hangs
pendulously beneath his chin. There, alas, the similarities end. The man in the photo is black, weighs about three hundred pounds, has two gold front teeth, and sports a gigantic 1970s afro. His name, according to the text beneath the photo, is ‘Anthony B. Tybee’, and he lives in South Carolina, or at least he did when the photo was taken, two years ago.

  We descend from the fifteenth floor to the parking garage in silence. Even Randy Williams, who lacks any business sense, knows enough not to speak, and instead stares down at his shoes, which are, I notice dishearteningly, white Keds. Dom Vanderbeek isn’t smiling exactly, but his lips are twisted puckishly, like an altar boy trying not to laugh when the priest lets slip a fart. Darryl looks from face to face, sensing that he is the subject of some as-of-yet undetermined emotion. He’s not sure what he has done wrong, but he knows it’s something.

  The floor indicator counts down from 3, 2, L, and then finally P1. The chime sounds, and the door opens. The four of us exit the elevator and step into the dark parking garage. The air is humid. As I turn to look for Vanderbeek’s BMW, a figure slips past us and steps into the elevator. Behind us, the elevator doors rattle and start to close.

  I didn’t get a good look at the man, but caught enough of a glimpse to realize he was familiar. I’m not sure where I’ve seen him before, but I know I have. Recently. So I turn, to get a better look.

  By now the elevator doors have almost closed, and – here’s something odd – the man who entered – whom I’m trying to get a good look at – is standing off to one side of the elevator, as if to stay out of view. The doors clank shut, and I’m left looking at my own misshapen reflection in the polished wood and brass of the doors.

  I look at the floor indicator just above my head. It rises past L, without stopping, and keeps ascending. It stops finally on 15 – the floor from which we just came – and pauses there for a while, before it begins its descent back to the lobby.

  ‘Jim?’ I hear someone behind me say. I turn, startled. It’s Dom Vanderbeek. Now he’s grinning broadly. His mirth is unmistakable: Boss loses sale. Boss freaks out in parking garage, stares at elevator. Good story to tell when we return to the office. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks.