Touch

by Courtney Maum

  It wasn’t until middle school when the higher feelings started. Her mother made her see a psychiatrist because she got weird feelings about the weather, the color of the trees. Margaret thought Sloane was too anxious. Plus, there’d been an incident. Her sister, a good athlete even in middle school, had had a soccer match, and Sloane had spent the entire car ride over asking Leila not to play in it. She said she had a “bad feeling,” and this only worsened when she saw the other team. It was an energy thing, the other girls seemed sour. Some small thing, some girl thing had gone wrong. There was unbalance among all of the teammates on the opposing side, resulting in a prickly kind of static that couldn’t go anywhere but bad. Both Margaret and Leila told Sloane she was being ridiculous (Leila said she was jealous because she was playing center forward, while Sloane didn’t play any team sports at all), but halfway through the game, the other center forward had purposely stepped—and stayed on—Leila’s cleat, and Leila, who’d been running forward, had torn a ligament in her knee. First game of the season, she’d been out for all the rest.

  It was happenstance, of course, completely coincidental, but it spooked the female Jacobsens. Instead of feeling rectified after the accident, Sloane felt ashamed. She’d have to find a way to temper her intuition, to influence people without freaking everyone out. Her father said she was “tapped into different frequencies than some people” (that particular evening’s conversation overheard from the stairs), but her mom said she needed to go and see somebody, that it wasn’t “normal” for a young child to have so many fears.

  Yes, well. Sloane talked about her fears a whole lot less now. She kept the disquiet to herself. In any case, people didn’t seem to be listening the way that they once had.

  9

  Sloane’s first meeting of her second day was with the furniture department, an incongruous, flailing sector that Dax had told her was in a “make or break” year.

  “It wasn’t the best decision, incorporating it,” he’d explained on the phone during one of the overview chats they’d had while she was still in Paris.

  The furniture division was one of the only sectors that wasn’t proprietary. Mammoth partnered with other furniture manufacturers to offer some technical enhancement that made their offers more competitive in the furnishing space. Couches that clocked how long you had been sitting, hospital beds that knew when a patient needed to roll over, lest they develop bedsores.

  The problem, Dax told her, was that their current offerings were all fault-finding. “Punishers,” he called them. “They’re not, any of them, delivering information that makes people feel good. We need to roll out some options for the conference, something kind of fun.”

  Sloane found herself checking the hallway for a sign of Dax before officially kicking things off with the new team. She good-morning’d everyone and they good-morning’d her back.

  “So, I’ll level with you,” she started, taking the staff in, “I think this particular division has the toughest challenge. How do we present furniture that specifically targets the childless? Let’s start by just talking. Why don’t you guys tell me: people without kids, what do their homes look like?”

  One guy laughed. “Well, none of us have kids.”

  “And my apartment looks like crap,” said someone else.

  Sloane smiled. “Really? In what way?”

  “Well, it looks like a design blog,” the fellow answered. “That’s my girlfriend’s doing. We’ve got white birch logs, like, jammed up against a wall with books around them, and we don’t even have a fireplace.”

  “And my girlfriend puts up really aggressive wall art. You know, like ‘EAT’ in the breakfast nook?” said a man whose name Sloane didn’t know.

  “Nook?” one of the girls giggled. “Steven, please. We all know you bought that yourself.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Sloane, putting her hand up. “The point isn’t to bash other people’s decorating styles, but to try and understand what furnishings say about us. The homes of people with children. What comes to mind? Just call things out.”

  “Cereal in the carpet,” said a young woman.

  “Beige,” said someone else.

  “Toys everywhere. A lot of . . . dishtowels,” said the guy who had spoken first. “Oh, and I’m Alex.”

  “Thanks,” said Sloane. “Yeah, let’s remember names. But let’s not get too negative. What I’m hearing is ‘messy,’ sure. But what else? Is there a sense of freedom maybe? Or fun?”

  Brows furrowed. Noses wrinkled. After a while, a tall man in a crewneck spoke.

  “I guess things get used more. Oh, and I’m Andrew Willett. Design.” he added. “Kids, like, jump on things. Or they hide under furniture. It really gets used.”

  “I think that’s pretty interesting,” Sloane replied, thinking warmly of Mina’s comment in that first meeting, of how parents’ skin got used. “And how do people who don’t have children use their furniture?”

  Wrinkled noses again.

  “I’m Jaimie,” said the guy who claimed his apartment looked like crap. “They have people over. Eat cheese, try not to spill wine.”

  “For . . . making out???” tried Steven, the nook guy, looking around.

  “More for TV.” Jaimie laughed.

  “So basically, furniture allows people to gather,” Sloane suggested. “And then Mammoth adds an extra element. What’s that element?”

  “We track everything,” said Jaimie.

  “We monitor what people do,” said Holly.

  “I think we reassure people,” said Andrew, his color high. “For instance, we have this Pharaoh bed? That’s something in the pipeline. It’s bigger than a California king, and it comes with a smart mattress that tracks the quality and duration of your sleep. You can sync your ratings to your smartphone, so that—”

  Sloane was going to have to feign enthusiasm for this one. Personally, she thought that people should be alert enough to check in with their own bodies to know—or feel—what they’d done physically with them during the day. You didn’t need a smart mattress to tell you that you’d had a shitty night of sleep.

  “Oh wait, I have an idea,” said Jaimie, drumming his fingers on the table. “Okay, this sounds obnoxious, but hear me out. I was thinking about the competitive angle, and—Carla, don’t even get on me about this,” he said, looking at a stern woman who hadn’t yet talked, “but what if we really went for it, and social feeds actually did broadcast what you did in bed? I mean, nothing too raunchy, obviously, but kind of . . . winky. Like, your mattress lets your followers know that you’re probably not gonna make Sunday brunch, because you’re still in bed, and the mattress also registers that there’s another body . . .”

  The Mammothers were arguing back and forth as to whether this was an offensive idea or a good one, when Dax and Deidre arrived.

  It was only her second day, she could give Dax that, but was he going to be at every meeting? And he had to arrive now when the group’s energy was scattered, they hadn’t hit on anything, they weren’t going anywhere.

  “Making progress?” Dax asked as he sidled in, patting her on the shoulder.

  She felt suddenly protective of her group with their flushed cheeks and downcast eyes, aware that they didn’t have anything to show the guy who wanted a great show.

  “It certainly is tricky,” Sloane accorded. “Even if you personally don’t have any, does that mean you’re never going to have any in your house? Are we assuming that the childless don’t have friends with kids? There’s a lot to wrap our heads around, so we’re just working through things.”

  “That’s fine,” Dax said, walking behind each of his disciples. “But we still need something kick-ass. I want something big. With a tech element that will blow people away.”

  Sloane pressed her lips together. What would really blow people away was if they announced that no one needed furniture. Entire
swaths of middle-classers living from a suitcase because they’d been let down by the system, had placed their faith in travel. Placed all their aspirations in the countries they’d see next.

  “Sloane?” asked Dax, she feared for the second time.

  “Sorry,” she said, shaking her mental cloud.

  “Alex here said that there might be some potential in lighting?”

  “Lighting. Right, of course.” She nodded emphatically to a suggestion she hadn’t heard made. “Certainly, there are a lot of options. There are melatonin-boosting sleep bulbs, and, um . . .” She held her breath.

  “O-kay,” Dax stalled. “I see you all have quite a ways to go. But you’ve got this, right?” He winked.

  Of course they’d come up with something dynamite, she reassured him. They just needed time.

  10

  After the meeting, Sloane retreated to the company cafeteria to sponge up her doubts with carbohydrates.

  Because she was a trend forecaster, people assumed that Sloane had a lofty taste in food, when in fact she was comforted by simple, empty foodstuffs: the luscious nothingness of a swab of cream cheese on a giant bagel, penne with butter, children’s menu items. Her first few months in Paris, she’d more or less subsisted on toasted baguette with spray butter, a product she’d found in a tiny American grocery store near her first apartment, the same brand her mother used.

  Sloane was just smearing the second half of a bagel with another block of cream cheese when Mina appeared at her side.

  “Hi,” she said, matter-of-factly, both hands around a mug. Nama’stay in bed, the mug said.

  “Oh, hi,” Sloane said, nearly dropping her knife from surprise. “I’m so glad to see you!” She tried to temper her enthusiasm, lest she scare Mina away. “I’m actually glad to see you,” she tried again. “Because I wanted to ask—”

  “How come I clammed up?” Mina offered, pulling a sesame bagel from the basket.

  “Well, yeah . . .” Sloane was startled by her forthrightness. “You were on to something so interesting, and then—I don’t know, is it a problem to say certain things in front of Dax?”

  “I don’t know.” Mina shrugged. “No one’s ever tried it.”

  “Oh.” Sloane flinched, astonished that it could be that simple. “So you think everyone’s . . . scared of him?”

  “Listen,” Mina said, pausing to chew. “We’re here to sell things. Everyone knows that. So these summer trend conferences . . . Daxter wants to make it seem like we have the time and resources to just bat ideas around . . .”

  “But you do have the resources,” Sloane contested.

  “Sure. But even if we had the time, no one’s fooling anyone. We can brainstorm all we want, but at the end of the day, Dax wants tangible products, things people can buy.” Mina ate more bagel. “It’s all fun and games, I guess,” she added, “until someone gets canned.”

  • • •

  Sloane left her impromptu conversation with Mina feeling emboldened. When she reached Dax’s office, Deidre said he was on the phone, but of course he’d see her, he’d be thrilled to.

  She sat down feeling confident that the Mammothers had potential—it was a given, they’d come up with something huge—they just had to have permission to lose sight of the shore.

  “Ms. Jacobsen?” asked Deidre several minutes later, pulling her cardigan closer at her neck. “Mr. Stevens will see you.”

  Sloane thought she heard Deidre whisper “Good luck” on her way through the door.

  • • •

  Situated on the thirty-second floor of the building, Daxter’s office had an unobstructed view of Union Square Park. It was lunchtime. All across the winter landscape, New Yorkers and tourists, seeking power foods. Fennel and blood orange salads, pumpkin seeds for crunch.

  “So what can I do for you?” Dax asked, rising.

  Sloane forced her gaze to meet his. “Thanks for making time. I just had a couple . . . well, frustrations, actually.”

  “Part of the territory!” Dax smiled. “Please”—he gestured—“sit down.”

  “Well, for starters, I’m afraid there are some unnecessary distractions,” Sloane said, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “For example, I’d really like to do something about the phones.”

  “The phones?” Dax repeated, picking up half a sandwich from a plate on his desk. “You mind?” he asked, his brow raised. “You eat?”

  “Yes, sort of . . .” She motioned for him to continue chomping. “People just aren’t present,” she went on. “I don’t need to tell you that they’re distracted by their cells.”

  “And I don’t need to tell you that they’re a huge part of our business.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But still. I was hoping we could confiscate them. Put them in a box before each meeting. Outside of the room.”

  Dax paused midbite, his small mouth gaping open. He looked as if she’d just suggested that he churn butter from scratch.

  “I’m sure you can see a number of reasons as to why that would be problematic.”

  “Listen,” she accorded, leaning forward. “We’re not going to be able to charge forward in the way you want us to with their attention so divided. They’re not able to listen. They’re not able to hear. And there’s another thing as well.”

  Dax blew out a mock whistle. “We’re not even twenty-four hours into it,” he scoffed.

  “I know,” she said, unwilling to back down. “But it’s better to get it all out now, up front, don’t you think? The staff is super bright, the products are amazing. But the project’s such a big one. A lot of your employees are too young to know whether or not they’ll even want kids, let alone to have them. So the things we’re asking them to speculate about for other people are intensely personal. And in order to get personal . . .” She left the sentence open.

  Dax pulled a long piece of sauerkraut from his sandwich and put it on the waxed paper underneath the other half. “I get it. You need time. Which I’ve given you. Six months.”

  “Timing isn’t a problem,” she said, sitting straighter. “It’s more . . . well, I have no way of knowing if this is your modus operandi, but with you popping in and out of our meetings . . . I mean, I totally get it. It’s your company. And it’s a great one. But I get the feeling that people are inhibited. They’re not saying things that you might not want to hear them say.”

  “About me?” Dax asked, eyebrow up again.

  “No, about the products. I don’t think that they feel safe. And while I certainly appreciate the time you’re giving me, and all the support you’re showing, I want to meet the task at hand. I need them to be able to speculate about stuff that’s really out-there. I would just appreciate it if you—if you could give us more privacy. It’s something I’d like to try.”

  Daxter resumed the digestion of his food. “I can hear that,” he said, chewing. “I mean, sure, I’m intimidating. It’s something I feel, too. So . . . fine, I won’t stop by so often. But the phones? This is a twenty-four-seven enterprise. People need to stay in touch.”

  “You really don’t think people can go half an hour without their cells?”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t. I mean, they could, obviously. But people need to sign off on things. They need to see their e-mails. I mean, Sloane. We make phones. You want everyone to wear smartwatches, we can do that if that’s more discreet but—”

  “I disagree,” said Sloane, adamant. “I disagree. You have to force people to remember what it’s like to pay attention.”

  “To the detriment of other projects falling through the cracks?” He shook his head at her. “I don’t know, Sloane, it’s your circus. If you can get them to do it, go for it. But you’re not gonna get support from me on this. I’ve got a vested interest in things getting done. Which means keeping my people reachable.”

  “O
kay,” said Sloane, sensing his desire to continue lunch without her. “But I’d also like your permission to put out suggestion boxes,” she hurried. “So that people who are timid, or are afraid of getting in trouble, can anonymously contribute ideas.”

  Daxter narrowed his eyes at her. “And are you also gonna do some trust falls?” he asked, mockingly. Then he wrapped his sandwich up, leaned across his desk and gave her hand a pat.

  “Go nuts. Get results the way you need to.”

  Sloane looked down at the constellation of crumbs that lay between them. She hadn’t been given a full vote of confidence, but something in her was stirring out of hibernation. It had been weeks since she’d been touched on the hand.

  11

  Sloane traveled the seventeen floors down to her office, thinking hard. She’d accomplished what she wanted, but she felt embarrassed. Suggestion boxes? She wasn’t working at a casual dining establishment, for God’s sake. She should have thought through her request more, developed a private blog that people could post thoughts to, but instead, she’d asked the CEO of a tech company for permission to purchase a cardboard box.

  But Sloane wanted to go in instead of out. Visually and audibly, the world of today was designed to distract. Before you could give a name to your own feelings, there was something telling you what to think and want. Must-have lists in magazines, billboards on passing buses, push notifications, slogans on T-shirts. How long until quiet trended? By asking people to cut the cord from their electronics, put handheld pen to paper, consider what it was they actually thought rather than parroting a think piece, they might find a way to their own brains again. And hearts.

  Looking out her window to the neighboring skyscrapers, Sloane found herself wanting to float up and out and back to where she’d been last night. The severe whiteness of their flat in Paris was such a stark comparison to the overfurnished closeness of her mother’s house, but whereas the cacophony of Margaret’s dominion (swelling bookshelves, kitchen cabinets littered with exploded bags of couscous) had always felt suffocating, last night it had felt like a home. Not in the sense that Sloane used to live there, but that her mother’s house (and her mother’s furniture) bore the stretch marks of a life actually lived. While Sloane’s apartment displayed the beauty of a life put on hold.