by Liza Palmer
“On our side of things, we need to make sure we don’t leave any kind of trail they can follow,” Thornton says specifically to Hani and Elise about the tech end of this investigation. “Secure everything. Even everyday shit like … we can no longer connect our text threads to our computers, no emails or communications through any server that Bloom has access to or can subpoena through discovery. If you go digging somewhere you’re not supposed to be, make sure you’re the only one who knows you were there.” Hani’s face twists from the worry that comes from asking a seemingly simple question and getting back an answer that is way more complicated and troubling than you were expecting. I know the feeling.
“If you talk to someone or ask questions, make sure it doesn’t send up any suspicious flares. Easy breezy,” I say.
“Easy breezy,” Hani repeats, her voice compressed in horror.
“I’m a little rusty at this myself.” Rusty? What an adorable word I picked to describe the complete and utter wreckage my life has become.
“You are?” Hani’s voice is a nervous yelp.
“Yeah. You really don’t have to be a part of this. I can’t guarantee that you won’t be fired. Shit, I can’t even guarantee that I’m right or that there’s even a story here. Honestly—” I look down at my hands. My bloodied and bitten-down fingernails, and the word “charger” written on the back of my hand so I’d remember to bring my phone charger into work* (*I still haven’t). “This could all be a wild goose chase.”
“Can’t get fired for a wild goose chase,” Hani says. I look up. Hani is smiling.
“No, you can’t,” Thornton says.
“I mean, you actually can, but—” I say and am cut off by Hani laughing.
“I’m in. Count me in. I’ll make team shirts,” Hani says.
“Thank you.” I turn to Elise, who is less enthusiastic. “This is just about finding the next thread to pull. That’s it,” I say.
“Just one thread,” Elise says.
“That’s it.” I look over at Thornton. He is watching intently. Elise looks over at Hani. Hani is utterly caught off guard at Elise checking in with her. She freezes. Elise smiles and looks back over at me. Hani lets out a long breath.
“And if that one thread unravels the whole sweater?” Elise asks.
“Then it wasn’t much of a sweater,” I say. Elise nods. We sit across from each other at the smallest table in the world, in the smallest conference room in the world. Thornton and Hani stand noiselessly on the fringes, watching us as if we’re in the final match at the World Chess Championship.
“Here’s my concern.” Elise pushes up her chunky black glasses and swipes her bangs to one side. We all wait as she thinks. “So, if you’re wrong, then it was just a wild goose chase.” I nod. “But what happens if you’re right?” I am quiet as a stream of fantasies where I get my old life back flood my brain. “Let’s say we uncover that CAM doesn’t work, and Bloom, inevitably, closes down. We’re looking at a hundred people, including all of us, who are now suddenly unemployed with no severance.” I’m about to jump in when Elise continues. “The only one who has gained anything from this”—Elise makes eye contact with me—“is you.” Hani and Thornton look from Elise to me. The room is breathtakingly quiet.
“I don’t … I don’t—” I stop. Think. “They’re doing something shitty and they think they can get away with it. I want to tell people about it. I want to tell a lot of people about it. I don’t think … that’s not me benefiting, that’s me putting a spotlight on the fact that these arrogant douchebags decided to tangle up all of these people and families and livelihoods into their bullshit scheme. If what I think is happening is true—” I stop. All of the emotion of the last few months is dangerously close to the surface now. The passion in my voice is on the brink of becoming just outright sobbing. “Don’t you want to be a part of the team that brings them down?” I make eye contact with each person in the tiniest room in the world. Except Elise. She won’t look at me. I’m holding my breath as I see her inhale and begin to speak.
“Yeah.” Elise’s voice is a whisper. She turns her gaze to me and nods. “Yes.” Her voice is loud and clear and strong. I can’t help but smile and find myself almost reaching across the table to grasp Elise’s hand in mine. I pull my gaze from Elise over to Thornton and the relief on his face is plain.
“That was—” Hani rests her hand on the wall and leans into it. “Good night, I did not know which way she was going to go.”
“So we find Meera Rao,” Elise says.
“That’s it,” I repeat.
“I’m in,” she says.
13
That Enamel Pin Life
I spend my nights researching the story, my days trying to keep up on work, and my lunches trying to maniacally learn a New Edition dance routine for a birthday party I completely forgot about.
I’ve used the Fortress of Solitude conference room during the week, to practice the dance on Skype with Lynn and Hugo. I’m Ronnie, of course. Whichever boy band member is the tallest, that’s the one I’ll be stuck with. I’m almost more terrified of someone recording those lunchtime dance-offs than any talk of Meera Rao or whether or not CAM works.
Even though we said it would only be one thread, we decide instead to pull four threads:
1. Who and where is Meera Rao?
2. Is there a Bloom server farm?
3. Who are Chris and Asher meeting with and why?
4. What are the inner workings of Bloom and how and where would one hide within it?
We’ve taken all communication offline. Instead we now have a group text thread dedicated to all things CAM. The fact that I now have Thornton’s phone number and he has mine is not lost on me. Of course, I’d never think to text him about anything that wasn’t related to the story.
Since Hani can find anyone, she’s put in charge of trying to find Meera Rao. It’s a common enough name, so she’s had to follow more than a few leads—which have unfortunately all led to dead ends. Whenever we meet up for coffee, Hani marvels at someone just disappearing. In this day and age, she says, mustering the same level of wonder every single day. As the week progresses, Hani becomes a bit obsessed, culminating in a particularly heated argument when she mistakenly calls Thornton Meera.
Because of her background, Elise has focused on the notion that Chris and Asher would need a server farm if CAM doesn’t work. She thought she found something, but it turned out to be just a clerical error on the lease to the first building where Bloom was housed. She said she thought Chris and Asher were covertly holding on to the old space for the server farm. But it was just a tanning salon that’d picked up the lease and that’s why the electrical bills were so high. She really thought she had something.
Thornton accepted a lunch invitation from Mackenzie and a smattering of the other popular kids to see if he could find an inroad to Chris’s and Asher’s calendars. By the time the vegan nachos hit the table, he’d gained access, but all he found was countless meetings with VCs and donors and moneymen. They’re filling the coffers, seating a board, and shoring up the bottom line. Thornton’s next task is to see if he can gain access to their finances. He thinks this might be a little more difficult than the whole calendar thing.
I’ve decided to try to get a bird’s-eye view of the inner workings of Bloom itself. Who is hired for what, what do they do, where did they come from, and how are they being utilized here at Bloom. What I’ve found is that the majority of people working for Bloom are in sales, marketing, and public relations. Social media, post-production, and something called “Web Scouts” are now hiring at a faster rate than they can find desks for.
They’re shooting feel-good videos right here on campus, where they’re cut and adapted to fit to each social media platform. Brainstorms about hashtags and Bloom swag are treated with the same gravity one would find in discussions at the Pentagon. There’s also a team simply known as Brouhaha, a group of people hired to make sure the employees
at Bloom are having a fun time (see: the Ball Pit).
I’ve also learned that no one knows what anyone else does, or who’s being hired and how they fit into the landscape that already exists. And despite our job titles and descriptions, there is no hierarchy, no leveling, and no power structure.
For a tech company, there are only a handful of software engineers, and fewer than that working with Elise in hardware. As Thornton pointed out, the people hired in those positions tend to be ancient Gen X fringe dwellers with families and mortgages. There’s even one poor guy who bought a Ducati motorcycle and dyed his hair green in an attempt to fit in. He was ostracized for being desperate. He was thirty-eight and a Stanford graduate with two kids.
What’s genius about all of these tactics is that every human being understands the currency of popularity. If you’re not successful because you’re not popular enough to network with the right people, then that’s your fault. Predictably, these employees will then internalize the blame instead of looking to Chris and Asher to take responsibility for building a company with such an adolescent mentality.
It has become patently clear that there are no adults at Bloom. On purpose. We are all working in a very plush version of Lord of the Flies.
And I blame my mission to figure out what people actually do here at Bloom for the fact that I now find myself crashing a brainstorm in the Freddie conference room entitled “Memes, Unlikely Animal Friends, and Celebs Behaving Badly: Unlocking Instagram.”
I am the first to arrive, so I set my laptop down in the middle of the table. With glass walls and glass doors, each of the conference rooms at Bloom is designed so everyone can see inside. The meeting subjects are displayed on tablets just outside the conference rooms and anything written on the whiteboard is on display for anyone who happens to walk by and look in. Utter transparency in every possible way. I scan the room and notice that someone has written the words “your mom!” on our whiteboard.
Perfect.
The door to Freddie is pushed open.
“Hi.” Her dyed pink hair is in a loose crown braid. She’s wearing a peasant-style dress with no bra and has finished off the outfit with worn-in Birkenstocks. She is carrying a tray of tiny Mason jars that are filled with a watery caramel-colored liquid.
“Hi.” I sit up straight and fumble with my laptop, waiting for the rest of the group to arrive.
“Ivy,” she says.
“Joan.”
“You’re new, right?” She sets the Mason jars out on the table.
“Yeah, yes. I’m—”
“Do you want to try something new?”
“Oh, um … I’m just here for the Instagram meeting?”
“You’re going to love it.” Sigh.
“Sure.” She hands me a small glass jar.
“Drink,” she says, her brown saucer eyes now fixed intently on me. I take the glass jar.
Is this millennial drugs?
“Oh, I—” I try to hand the glass jar back to her; she pushes it back toward me.
“Just give it a try!” I look inside. Looks like rusty water.
I did this story once on a guy who wandered off at Burning Man after drinking what he believed to be liquefied peyote. Before he went missing, he told those around him that he believed himself to be some kind of shaman. He’s still missing. Of course, Burning Man lore is that he turned into an eagle. My theory—and the theory of the police and emergency services—is that it was more likely that he died of thirst and exposure.
I smell the glass jar. A tart, vinegary odor pierces my nostrils. I wince. Ivy is rapt. I swirl the liquid around as I look beyond the glass walls of my conference room.
Help.
Help.
“Your discovery process is invigorating to observe.” I lift the Mason jar in a toast and drink Ivy’s brew in one shot. The seltzer-y bubbles tingle as the sour tang warms my throat.
“It’s kombucha,” I say, relieved. Ish. It may not be millennial drugs, but it is still kombucha. So, really, best-case scenario of all of the worst-case scenarios. Ivy takes my now emptied jar from my hand. “Thank you.”
“Do you want a baby?” Ivy asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“A baby,” she says. She turns around and picks up a Mason jar that’s got a brown liquid in the bottom of it. On top of the brown liquid is what looks like a circle of … welp, it looks like a disc of human skin.
“Are you … are you growing a real baby in that jar?” I can’t believe the words even as they pour out of my mouth.
“This is a good one, too. Here!” Ivy pushes the Mason jar into my hands. My fingers curl around the cold glass and I bring the Mason jar up to my face for closer inspection. “I’ll email you the details of how to start your own brew later!”
“My own brew?”
“Yeah, it’s a SCOBY. It’s where kombucha comes from. I give you a baby from my mother and then you can start making your own.” I just look at her. “It’s like sourdough bread?”
Three people stream into the conference room already in deep conversation. They settle in around the table, opening up laptops, setting down cans of fancy club soda, and oohing and aahing over Ivy’s home brew.
“Oh … oh.” Billy’s teasing about my Tin Foil Reporter hat screams through my head and my face flushes hot.
“—were talking about finding a back door into her feed and I thought he was talking about something else—” The woman sets her laptop down at the head of the table and curls her legs underneath her, digging her dirt-encrusted shoes into one of Bloom’s eight-hundred-dollar office chairs. “We cleared it up, but I just wanted them to know that I was open—no judgment, you know—to whichever way they decided to go.”
What the fuck kind of meeting is this?
“Everyone, this is Joan. She’s a junior copywriter and I’m so glad she decided to join us. I can’t wait to see what you bring to the discussion,” Ivy says, pulling her knees up to her chest.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by her openness to my presence at a brainstorm I was definitely not invited to.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” I say, looking at the other three coworkers.
“Oh, so sorry. Joan, this is my team. Jessica, Malaya and Mike J.” Each member of Ivy’s team looks as if they’re part of a new line of fashion dolls that have been styled in outfits that resemble the others just enough so you know that you must collect all four.
“What team are you guys on?” I ask, as breezily as I can muster.
“We’re on Jiffy,” Mike J. says.
“Jiffy?”
“Everything we make has to be under ten seconds,” Malaya adds, opening a laptop that’s covered in unicorn stickers.
“We maximize content that thrives on the more minimal platforms,” Ivy says, typing away on her computer.
We maximize.
Content.
That thrives.
On the more.
Minimal platforms.
“So, you make ads,” I say, finally putting it together.
“We like to think of what we do as more of an invitation for people to join the Bloom family,” Jessica says.
Ads.
Ivy launches into a series of prompts, using viral content as inspiration for future “invitations for people to join the Bloom family.” She hooks her computer up to the television in the conference room and screens the most popular short-form content of the past year. Mike J. then follows up each ad with a rundown of how it performed, where it performed the best, and which demographics clicked the most. Malaya then dives into the different iterations of the original ad—and how that particular ad became a phenomenon, and what each platform and region did with that original nugget of an idea. Ivy then throws the meeting over to Jessica, who talks hard and fast numbers. How many of those clicks turned into subscribers and how much revenue those subscribers added to the company’s bottom line.
I sit in stunned silence.
These Bloom kids—howeve
r much they need to get their shoes off the furniture and be a little less outraged about the lack of free ramen in the canteen—know their shit. In all the years I’ve spent in newsrooms, the conversation between the members of the Jiffy team in the Freddie glass conference room with “your mom!” written on the whiteboard behind us is right up there with that of any group of experts that’s ever broken down advertising.
Ivy turns to me for help on how to word a sequence of ads and I’m, quite frankly, relieved I can help in any way. By the time the meeting ends, and we’re closing our laptops and streaming out of the conference room, I am officially hoisted on my own petard.
Once again, I came in here looking to make fun of a generation of people because they appear to be doing work that is thought of as silly or unimportant. The truth is, they’re doing the same work people have done throughout the ages with the same level of thoughtfulness. But this time it’s identified by cutesy names and takes place in glass conference rooms with whiteboards that are never without a scrawled bit of graffiti. Unlike us, however, they have an eye and a respect for innovation and looking to the future instead of proclaiming that “this is how we’ve always done things.”
This is an odd realization, knowing of their blind reverence for the founders of Bloom and their failure to question the very DNA of the company to which they’re devoting so much of their hearts and souls. Case in point, the Jiffy team spent more time breaking down why a five-second video of a stalker swan creeping on a duck went viral than they’ve ever spent on whether or not the ads they’re creating are for a company that actually does what it says it does.
Walking back to my desk, SCOBY in hand, I think about how much these kids have to learn. Their bravado and certainty is like a flare sent up in the dark of the night as proof of their youthful swagger. But then I think about my slump and the denial of how small my life had gotten and realize that maybe the kids at Bloom are not alone in how much they have to learn.