by Jason Letts
Seth cleared his throat and hunched his shoulders a little.
“Can I trade that in for an easier question?” He did a perfect job acting flustered. The starlight was reflecting off of his black hair and temple. He was serious, but he had a playful side to him. I shook my head.
“I guess not everything is right in your head. But request granted. What are you doing with her?”
“That’s a suggestive phrase right there, with her. Right now I’m with you, and when I’m with her it’s not much different. But you look like someone who appreciates a little honesty, so you can have it. I thought it’d be a short trip into bed.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise me in the slightest.
“And how’s that working out for you?” I asked. Seth gnashed his teeth.
“Not as well as I’d hoped. Everything is a deal with her, and she hasn’t even told me what I’d have to pay for it yet. Not literally with money, of course, but I have a feeling she’s scheming up some sort of pink infusion for BlockBank. Nothing explicit, no real quid pro quo, but some of her ideas would just happen to slip out and if I responded positively then things would just happen to heat up later on. That is if she can tear herself away from her phone.”
It was hard not to wonder if in a twisted way I had been like that to Keenan. If he hadn’t brought me along to the big meetings or given me the promotion I’d wanted, maybe I’d have been completely turned off. I wished I’d presented it that way to Dr. Alex, who might not have accused me of being so passive.
Seth must’ve noticed that I’d gotten lost in my thoughts, because he craned his neck and raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head to snap out of it.
“Maybe I don’t even need a phone to disappear,” I said apologetically. He didn’t let up with the way his eyes were boring into me.
“What about you?” His question was almost defensive. “Is your time at South by Southwest the dream you always though it would be?”
With a question like that, I had an easy time figuring out that I’d exposed some of my inner turmoil, too much.
“I’ve just got a lot of work to do,” I said, and I didn’t realize I was striking my cue to leave until I’d said it. Gently pushing away from the railing, I left him standing there. I was glad somebody managed to get my mind off of the awful emails I’d received that day, but I knew staying longer wasn’t going to lead to anything good, not with those dark brown eyes reflecting the firelight.
At least I did myself a favor and went right to sleep rather than even touch my phone.
The first official day of the festival was supposed to be a bonanza of excitement and wonder, but I found myself with the unwelcome task of trying to find Andrew, who hadn’t ever responded to my email. I couldn’t wait a minute past 8am before calling him. At least he picked up on the first ring.
“Hey Andrew, it’s Sarah. I was hoping to hear from you about that email I forwarded you from some conference attendee.”
A little bit of his breathing was audible over some voices in the background. Evidently he’d already gotten started on the day, whereas I was still in my hotel room and famished from not eating much the night before.
“Yeah, I got that,” he said as if that was all that needed to be said. I was in disbelief when he didn’t say anything more.
“So is this something we’re going to be able to take care of?” I asked. There was a moment’s pause.
“I’ve got it taken care of. These things have a way of taking care of themselves,” he said.
“Wait, what? You took care of it, or you’ve done nothing and you expect it to resolve itself?” I asked.
“I think we need to put this in perspective,” he said, but I didn’t let him say another word.
“Where are you? I want to speak with you in person about this,” I said, already getting up from my chair and reaching for my shoes. I listened to second after second of background chatter with intermittent bursts of laughter.
“I’m taking care of another situation right now and I can’t get away.”
“Andrew, are you kidding me?”
“The best I can do is tell you to meet me at the Southbites Trailer Park at eleven thirty. That’s on Driskill,” he said. Every word that came through my phone felt like he was trying to saw my arms and legs off with a wooden spoon.
“You’re saying you can’t even speak to me until you break for lunch?”
“I’m speaking to you now and offering to meet then,” he said, an annoyed edge to his voice. “Are you going to be OK until then?”
My heart felt like it was burning, but I didn’t know if barging into his current location was the right thing to do, especially if I wanted him to do something to help me.
“I think so. I don’t know. I’ll see you there then, and I want your undivided attention,” I said through gritted teeth.
Hanging up immediately was my vain attempt to salvage some control, because I could already see Dr. Alex in my mind’s eye sweetly telling me how I’d let him dictate the terms of the situation. My feeble defense was that I’d been caught off guard that he didn’t offer to drop everything to investigate this. It made me go back and read that chilling email to make sure I really wasn’t blowing things out of proportion.
It was only a few hours until eleven thirty anyway, and at that time if Andrew hesitated at all he was going to get it.
Until then, I wasn’t going to waste one of the most exciting parts of the festival. The very first day was when everyone’s energy and enthusiasm were at a maximum, when glimpses of the future were on display alongside the world’s most recognized brands and ones no one had ever heard of.
When I walked out of the hotel it looked almost like a riot was in progress. There were people pouring in and out of the convention center. The sidewalks were packed. Maybe it was just because so many people had decent tans going, but it just felt different than the kind of crowds in New York. There was a different pace. The party atmosphere was everywhere.
I snaked through the convention center, glimpsing into the auditorium for a hint at who was currently speaking before continuing on along the exhibition space with the idea of making my way toward the Fairmont and the Courtyard for the Mercedes Media Lounge. I stopped here and there at different booths to have a few quick conversations about some mobile games and cutting edge audio recording equipment, but I found myself unconsciously attempting to identify the locations of security and police everywhere I went.
The Media Lounge was a quieter place for coffee and networking. Yes, they had a silver car in a tiny structure that looked like a dance floor with lights mounted overhead, but inside there were lots of white couches and desks setup. The coffee was free and there were lots of approachable people around, but my heart wasn’t in it and I ended up leaving relatively quickly.
I took a different path through the convention center on the way back and happened to see a booth for Visonic tucked in among the others. I almost laughed, because my previous employer had never bothered to present at this festival before, and that they were now made me wonder if the festival was on its way to becoming passé. Seeing one of those monstrous 80’s TV’s that was as wide as it was tall only reinforced my view.
But then I saw something that did catch my interest. There was a guy standing in front of the fat TV with what looked like a big pen, and he began tapping on the screen to change the channel and adjust the settings. It was like this obsolete monstrosity had been turned into a touch screen.
The shock that my old company had actually produced something cool pulled me closer, and it helped when I saw that the company reps did not include another one of my ex-boyfriends.
The man holding the pen to the screen adjusted the volume and then started making the attached VCR begin recording. He had puffy, red cheeks and long blond hair that went down to the middle of his back. He was slightly overweight, but it seemed worse than it was because his tie was too short and appeared to rest on his belly.
“C
an I see that after you’re done?” I asked.
The man grinned, revealing a gold tooth, and handed the pen over immediately.
“Pretty neat, isn’t it?”
I nodded emphatically as I went to the channel menu and put on some cartoons. A tall man with a full beard leaned over from behind the nearby table.
“Did you know there are five million TV’s made before the year two thousand still in use? Even though older people can’t even watch broadcast channels on them anymore for the most part, it doesn’t mean they can’t benefit from the advances the rest of us enjoy. This’ll be the hottest Christmas gift this holiday season,” he said.
But I was busy tapping away on the thick glass and barely heard his pitch. The man next to me was eating it up.
“Put me down for five. This’ll give my uncle a heart attack. Better make it six!”
I chuckled a little, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the man’s comment or because I’d stumbled upon an episode of Full House.
“Do you know anyone who would use one of these things?” His question made wonder.
“Maybe one,” I said, thinking of my mom, who had to find some way to pass the time when she wasn’t being a responsible adult or contributing member of society.
“Hey, I think I recognize you,” he said, which was enough to make me pull away from the giant screen with the washed out colors in front of me.
“Yeah, there was an article about me in the…”
“No, aren’t you one of the speakers?” The man seemed nice enough, but that hostile email but such a damper on my spirits that I just couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm.
“Oh, right. I’m speaking tomorrow along with the Future of Work in Tech panel.”
“Neat,” he said. “I apologize for this but I only recognize your picture. The name didn’t stick.”
“Sarah Faverly,” I said, already looking for a way out of this conversation. It was getting closer to eleven thirty and I knew that this friendly man could have a pleasant enough idle chat with any of the other million people around. “Look, I’ve got to…”
“My name’s Gary Polling. It was nice to…”
He kind of mumbled it, and because I was starting to turn away I almost missed it completely. But then the name rung a bell and I jerked back like I was a fish caught on a line.
“You’re Gary Polling? Of Interlink House?” I squealed like I’d found buried treasure. My sudden enthusiasm seemed to amuse him, but he was circumspect about it.
“What of it?” He shrugged with arms wide.
“If you read my article you know that I’m with Mouse Roar and Keenan Rorche. We’re a powerhouse when it comes to small business marketing, and I was hoping you’d give me a few minutes to discuss how we could work together,” I said. The lines I’d rehearsed seemed to jump off my tongue of their own accord.
Polling gave me a wary look.
“I suppose, but it’s a bit too crowded in here,” he said.
We ended up walking all the way back to the Media House. Not much was said, but he seemed to enjoy walking alongside me. When we arrived at the car on the dance floor, he cupped his hands around his eyes and leaned right up against the glass for a good look at the shiny black luxury vehicle. It was a pretty car, and Polling practically licked his lips as he pulled away. I jumped into my spiel.
“One question that’s been on my mind is how well you could handle an extra one billion impressions a month. That’s what we could commit to purchasing on your network,” I said.
“We could absorb that without any difficulty at all, and there’d be some premium placements in it for you as well,” he said, not flinching at the prospect of such a big increase in inventory. Premium placements, of course, was peanuts compared to what we were after.
“I’m sure you understand why we’re not already using your service in more than a token way. It’s the convenience factor of the big networks. Your mobile app and blogger advertisers make it difficult to know exactly what content ads are being shown alongside, and more and more brands are content to just tap into huge audiences at Facebook and be done with it,” I said.
Polling gave a begrudging nod.
“You say that, but we’re growing by double digits a year with no sign of stopping.”
“But that’s not enough for you, is it?” I asked, taking a step closer and giving him a piercing look. “I’ve actually read interviews of yours and you resent playing second fiddle to some of these giants. Getting a greater share of our ads would be quite a coup for you.”
“Perhaps,” he said. There was interest in his eye not too different from what he’d just lavished over the Mercedes.
“We can give you some serious momentum and credibility with small businesses, not to mention a pipeline of new customers without any additional work on your part. But we need you to give us a break on your fees. What I’m talking about is a partnership where we’re invested in your growth for the benefit of our customers,” I said, feeling satisfied that I’d articulated my case in the most convincing way possible.
But Polling merely looked around and back at the vehicle, where a couple of people were taking looks from the other side of the glass. Other than that the grassy space was pretty sparsely populated.
“What kind of a discount are you talking about?”
“We need to get under ten cents per click,” I said.
Polling shut his eyes hard and leaned against the glass wall.
“That’s asking a lot, nearly a quarter of our fees. What’s in it for me?”
I blinked, feeling like I’d missed something.
“I just told you. We can bring a mountain of business and fill ad spaces you just said yourself you’re not using.”
Slowly, a thin smile spread across his lips. He seemed to be basking in the sunshine or at least the attention of having something someone wanted.
“That’s all well and good, but I mean what’s in it for me?” His question made me suspicious he was looking for something that wasn’t above board. “The number of impressions is nice, but I’d need some hard data on monthly budget averages, product categories, expected overall expenditures.”
“Oh, I can get you that,” I said, a little relieved.
“Great. Why don’t you bring it over later to my room at the Hyatt? We can go over it in detail.”
His eyes gave it away and my heart sank. Really? Nothing was ever easy.
“Don’t you think this would make a big difference for you?” I asked, in disbelief. “This is something you want.”
There wasn’t an ounce of shame on his face.
“Let’s not confuse things,” he said. “This is something you want, and it could happen. We just have to make sure everything is taken care of first.”
I was beside myself that an owner like Polling would try to take advantage of a situation like this to the detriment of his business. Why throw it all away by being offensive? Did he think there was any chance I would say yes?
“You sound like someone who’s very comfortable with what he has,” I said, laying the irony on thick. “I’m sure your relatives will enjoy their new TV remotes.”
I turned around and left the grassy plot, disappearing into the crowd at the first opportunity.
The sting of disappointment followed me all the way to the Southbites Trailer Park, where many of Austin’s hottest restaurants had set up shop in small trailers and stands. The smell of chili, simmering beef, and peppers had my mouth watering instantly. I couldn’t even think about finding Andrew until I’d wolfed down the best chili I’d ever had in my life.
I wasn’t the only one who was enticed by something to eat. People were everywhere and as soon as I finished eating I saw that the lines were three times as long as they were when I showed up. That meant a lot of faces to scan, but eventually I spotted Andrew standing near a trailer chewing on what appeared to be spare ribs. Some of the sauce had gotten on his goatee.
When he saw me, he hasti
ly lowered the paper plate so that it wasn’t so close to his face and came right over to me. He chucked it in a nearby trashcan, giving me a chance to see the word “staff” in capital letters across the back of his South by Southwest t-shirt. I could only hope he’d actually act like it.
“Are you ready to do something about this email?” I said to him.
Andrew produced a convincing frown and let his shoulders droop.
“I hate that this happened to you,” he said. “It’s the last thing we want anybody to have to experience, but there just isn’t much to go on here. It was sent from a disposable email address, no signature or name of any kind. I want you to take comfort that security for the festival is top notch. As long as you’re in the city of Austin, nothing is going to happen to you.”
Maybe some of it was because of what just happened with Polling, but my blood was boiling and I could barely listen to what he was saying. I didn’t even know if he was finished talking, but his mouth closed for a second and I jumped in.
“That is outrageous. This guy says he’s going to be sitting right in the front row and then come after me when my presentation is over, and you’re just going to shrug it off? Nobody should be able to get away with that. You should be contacting everybody with front row tickets, and when you find him you should deny him access to the festival,” I said.
Andrew did everything but roll his eyes. He grumbled and arched his shoulders.
“There’s no telling if the writer was being truthful about being in the front row,” he argued.
“I agree. Better contact everyone in the audience,” I said. This time Andrew did roll his eyes.
“We’re not going to send emails to a thousand people asking them who sent you a nasty anonymous email. That just looks bad and no one is going to admit to it. And even if they did, revoking their credentials and booting them off the premises isn’t a good idea either. These people paid good money and taking away access for an off-color comment won’t fly.”
At this point Andrew had more than convinced me that he was going to do nothing, but I was more interested in seeing how hard he would stick to that even in the face of glaring common sense. I was used to people acting ridiculous online, but seeing it in person when my own safety was an issue was a new kind of horrifying.