The Glitch_A Novel

by Elisabeth Cohen

  What it really gave me is this story to tell at conferences and conventions and in front of people, and privately, in small meetings late in the day, or after dinner, once in a while, when for some reason I am feeling expansive and want to give someone a tiny bit of currency. It gave me something nobody else has, the certainty of being set apart.

  “The fear I felt during thunderstorms—that I continue to feel during storms—was debilitating.” I click onto a slide of my aunt’s bichon wearing a thunder suit and cowering under the coffee table. The audience oohs in a different tone. “I always want to say to Lulu, you have no idea, honey.” A needed light moment.

  “But when you’ve experienced true fear, and come through it, you realize that death is always at the door, and fear is only an emotion—it can’t protect you. Fear can be the body’s way of alerting you to opportunity. If I had feared the storm and gone inside, I wouldn’t have gotten shocked. But if I hadn’t been hit, I would not be here onstage today. I would not be at the helm of one of the world’s most exciting corporations, bringing life-changing technology and actionable intelligence to everyday people like you. I would not be the person I am.”

  I’ve told this story so many times, I’ve written it, I’ve been interviewed about it. I walked into a boardroom once and someone said, he’s an Olympic fencer and he’s a national lacrosse champion and she was hit by lightning as a teenager. And of all those achievements, mine was the rarest and best, the one that made the person do a double take and say, “Really? Wow!” Mine’s the only one people really want to hear about. Telling this story has burnished it and peeled the story off the kernel of what happened. At first they were attached, the happening and the telling, and gradually they detached, until, when I try to remember now, it comes already wrapped in my old words. I can only remember my own phrases as I was interviewed, the lights, the mic hanging from the boom at the edge of my peripheral vision, the sympathetic face of the TV interviewer with her perfectly invisible pores and exaggeratedly interested responses, not how it felt. Even the shape of the light, which for such a long time I could remember without wanting to, and which I tell people I still can.

  Instead I talk about risk and failure and passion and what they have to do with success, which is everything. They’re all words that the tech industry has co-opted and that are very popular with a certain proportion of a group I have heard called the technofuckoisie and have spent too many hours in rooms with. I explain that success itself, hard work, and leadership as I am now experiencing it, is itself an ongoing experience of pain and fear and nausea, sleep deprivation, and the knowledge that every bit of it is close to being blown away. When I start talking about nausea and sleep deprivation and bone pain, about exercising, about the lesions on my foot, I notice that people pull away. That isn’t really the part of my life they covet. They want the Tesla. They are less interested in getting up at 3:00 a.m.

  “What can I tell you? Risk is OK. Failure is OK. Disaster is OK. But only sometimes, if you happen to survive and overcome. In fact, sometimes disaster is the route that takes you to the island you couldn’t otherwise reach. When Cortés landed in America with his men, his first move was to burn his ships.” (Click slide.) “A bold move, and what it says is: there is no going back. I am not advising going out and getting struck by lightning. But I urge you to take that difficult path, because it will lead you to a place very few people can bear to go.”

  I talked a bit about Conch, Inc., being careful to stay on the thought leadership side and linking it to human potential. I wasn’t shilling, which is prohibited by this conference, just connecting it to my trajectory (that’s permissible). “Here’s a question to think about. In life, are you a cord, or are you a battery? Do you stay tethered to the wall, or are you mobile, bringing your energy with you out to the world?”

  Last slide: It is not because I am strong, but because I am weak, that I am strong. A quote from a “thinker” because my assistant couldn’t find the source. The thing is, none of these speeches hang together all that well if you really analyze them. Mine always scores in the top quintile for inspiration and actionable intelligence in the post-conference evals.

  As I spoke I noticed a man in the audience. He was one of just a few men. I’d seen his face before. I kept talking, but I was certain I recognized him. It was not until I was finishing that my mind was pulled back to the apartment, and the fear and relief of finding Nova, and I realized it was Enrique, along with the woman he’d been with. I gazed at them, which I could do because the audience was so big, and I strolled across to the other side of the stage so I had a better view. It was still hard to see much—he was in shadow, and there were so many faces out there, all of them fixed on me, and it was time to wrap up. I smiled and bowed my head with satisfied reverence as the audience applauded.

  And it was all over in seventeen minutes, which is the optimal length for a substantive idea talk that challenges preconceptions and stakes out a counterintuitive but motivating inspirational position.

  Afterward I went to the private restroom for the presenters and removed the nasal squeeze-pot and my bottle of distilled water from my bag. I pumped saline solution into my nostril with sharp squeezes till it gushed out of my opposite nostril, and cherished the feeling of absolute head clarity and coolness, and an empty place at the center of my head that for once had nothing pressing on it.

  Chapter 4

  I was tired after my speech, eager to say my goodbyes and fade into a cab for the quick trip back to my hotel. I longed for the moment when, alone at last, I could shoot up the elevator to my room and slip into private-personhood, as into the terrycloth robe with chest-crest on the back of the bathroom door. Kick off my shoes, unhook the unforgiving clasp of my pants, peel out of my slim-cut sweater and knee-to-bra-band Spanx, and pad around the hotel room in jammy pants wriggling and undulating like a sea anemone, which is a technique my yogi, Greer, suggests for loosening the ligaments, preventing blood clots, and inviting conscious relaxation. Watch Bring It On, which is my favorite movie to watch after a long day of work, because even though it’s stupid I relate to the Kirsten Dunst cheerleader because someone has to show leadership and make it happen when chaos is breaking loose, and the movie is truthful about the hardships associated with that, and also I love the cheer sequences. From the cab, which smelled of cigarettes and clementines, I leaned back and watched the city streak by. Satisfyingly exhausted and lulled by all the treats I had to look forward to, I texted Rafe—Give kids a kiss for me! Speech went great! and then my assistant, Willow—Speech went OK, pls confirm travel and synopsize the tweets.

  I had my evening rehearsed in my head, fully anticipated, up until the moment when I’d slip between the sheets, decide on tomorrow’s top three priorities, and flick off the inner light, so it was unpleasant when I arrived in the hotel lobby and a clerk rushed out from behind the desk to buttonhole me. The lobby was set to its “evening” mood lighting, with hyphens of light illuminating every counter edge, making it hard to see if he wanted me specifically or if he was mistaken or simply in my way.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to step to the side of him. He stepped the same way. We both, at the same time, stepped the other way. I once read that this thing, where you both go the same way and then both reverse it, trying to let the other by, is due to unconscious sexual attraction. I don’t quite see how that can be true, but whenever it happens I take a good look at the other person, just to see what the option is.

  “Ms. Stone!” he said, dashing my hopes that he wanted someone else. “A visitor has been waiting to see you.”

  “I’m not available now…” I began, and then I saw a man waving at me from a leather armchair, a small laptop open on his knees.

  “Hello,” I said, defeated.

  “So wonderful to see you again,” Enrique said, springing up with enthusiasm, the computer balanced on his open palm. The soles of my feet hurt in a way that did not leave me room to be kind, so I nodded wanly.
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br />   “Speech was wonderful!” he said. “I enjoyed it.”

  “You came? How nice that you traveled all this way. Thank you again for your kindness to my daughter.”

  “I have been working on my business plan, in case you are interested.” He turned on the little computer so I could see its screen, a gridded spreadsheet. I gazed at it for a moment, and blinked, its oblong light a blot on the dark field of my vision. “Perhaps we could have a drink”—he gestured to the bar—“and I could tell you about my technology. You will find it very interesting. It is a natural complement to Conch.”

  “Please,” I said. “I’m very tired and I have several tasks to take care of this evening. Send me a précis and I’d be happy to look it over.” Something caught in my throat, which felt scratchy and sore. My tonsils throbbed in unison. My nose twitched with the effort of holding back the congestion. “Perhaps we could arrange to meet another day,” I suggested nasally. Perhaps a day when I would be thousands of miles from here.

  The bellman was still beside us, waiting for instructions or a tip. I handed him some money reluctantly. I wanted him to stay.

  Enrique closed the netbook and held it in the crook of his arm. He seemed anxious. “You don’t have to sit with me,” he said. “I just need you to accept a gift. It is for you and is very important. Here—take this!” He handed me the laptop.

  “I already have many computers.” I shoved it back to him.

  “Watch this—just give me five seconds.” He opened it again, x’ed out of his spreadsheet, and summoned up a new window. I had stepped back to make it clear I was getting out of there, and then I saw something on the screen that made me step closer to look. It was me. I was speaking.

  “There’s supposed to be volume,” Enrique said. “Your patience please, let me back it up and turn the volume up.”

  It was me, from the waist up, against a swirly blue background. “Hi, Shelley!” I said too loudly, onscreen, and smiled irrepressibly. My hair looked nice. I was wearing a royal blue V-neck sweater that could plausibly have been one I owned, a useful staple for anyone’s wardrobe, but a sweater that, in point of fact, I could not remember ever wearing. My face was looking straight into the camera. It looked pleasant, relaxed. “It’s Shelley.” I paused, as if unsure what to say next. “Hi. I want to tell you to take this gift and the opportunity it represents. Good things are happening.” She smiled, and I couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Try it out, imagine, explore: you are in for a treat!” She smiled so warmly that I smiled again—I didn’t mean to, it just happened—and the video stopped, on a paused image of myself, looking a little remote.

  The real me, in the hotel lobby, was even more remote, trying to remember when I’d made this and why. I couldn’t pinpoint it. Perhaps many years ago, for some meeting. I looked like myself, perhaps a little younger. Maybe it was some kind of mash-up we’d done, back when we first amped up our social media presence and we weren’t sure how to do it. Maybe it had been reworked from a video chat with employees. Whenever we got a new HR person, they always had these ideas. And then they went away—first the ideas, then the HR person.

  “Could I see that again?” I said, reaching for the laptop.

  Enrique snapped it shut.

  “I thought you were going to give it to me.” Now that I’d seen it, I wanted to watch it again.

  “You’ve seen it now. It is convincing, isn’t it?” He smiled.

  “The video? What do you mean?”

  “It looks like you.”

  “It’s me,” I refuted.

  “It’s an app,” he said. “It is my business idea. It creates videos of people saying whatever you’d like them to say, whatever you type in. You could sit at work while being—this is a dream of many—a YouTube star. You could make a video of yourself reading a book, for your children when you are not home. You could convince someone you said or did something you did not do.” His eyes glittered.

  “It was me in that video,” I insisted. “It wasn’t?”

  He shook his head. “Did you notice the pulsing in the background? It is very rough still.”

  “I make a lot of videos,” I pointed out.

  “But you didn’t make this one.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I only have your word for that. There is a lot that happens in my typical day and without referring to my Conch and schedule I can’t be sure. Maybe a few years ago. No? Really?”

  He shook his head. “No, it is the product. My company. But so far, the use of it is mostly for blackmail. That is not my dream, to be a blackmailer.”

  “You’ll have to pivot from that,” I agreed. “Can I see it again? It really looked like me.” I reached for the laptop, but he held it out of reach. “Let me give it a try. It’s an interesting idea.”

  “That was a taste. It’s not ready for you to try.”

  “You mean it’s fake? You haven’t actually figured out how to implement it. You just edited some video and are showing it to me in the hope I’ll bite.”

  “No, no.”

  “I’ll give you this, it’s an intriguing idea. If you ever get it up and running, I’d be interested in talking to you about it.”

  Rather than pin me down on this possible meeting, he seemed to change the subject. “I have a gift for you. Just for being so accommodating and keeping my technology in mind. You will like it even more.”

  “You don’t need to give me a gift. You’re the one who did me a favor, helping my daughter.”

  “Then you will do me the favor of taking it.”

  “I have to go upstairs,” I said. “I have work to do. I am intrigued, but unless you can nail down the tech, it’s not worth anything. Ideas aren’t patentable, you know. And even if you could execute, I see a lot of potential legal pitfalls.”

  I expected him to be crestfallen but instead he looked pleased. “It’s around the corner, fifteenth space counting from the lobby. You will find it even nicer, I think. It’s silver. You already have the key, I believe. Goodbye.”

  I watched him lope off, somewhat awkwardly, with his raincoat and his netbook under his arms. I felt like, something is happening and I don’t know what. It was an interesting, destabilizing sensation.

  * * *

  —

  I went upstairs to my room as I had planned. It was my time for decompressing, but I felt confused by recent events, and unsettled by the thought of whatever was out there in the “fifteenth space counting from the lobby.” You have the key, I believe. No, I don’t believe I do. I was interpreting it metaphorically, thinking about security keys to websites, hacker attacks, cipher keys, and I was out of the elevator before I remembered yesterday. Jules the bellman. Odder and odder. Had I even kept that key? I really believe in the practice of minimalism and how many benefits accrue from letting go. I jettison unnecessary goods—it’s freeing. The universe wants to provide—that’s another Greer-ism. But maybe. I went into my suite, which was small, but pleasingly so, with a glossy white TV console wall separating the white bed from the white sofa and chair. There was a balcony shaded by the leafy branches of a street tree, and no art on the walls—I like that, it feels real, like a couple’s real minimalist apartment in a Danish film.

  In the bathroom—also modern, with a sculptural freestanding white tub, like a teacup—I hunted through my makeup case for the key. Not there. I looked through my suitcase. No. Wait. In an interior pocket of my carry-on, I kept a bottle opener, packets of isotonic nasal irrigation solution, tampons, and a mini LED flashlight. Maybe there? There was the envelope. I took it out and shook it, letting the key shift around inside, making a satisfying thunk as it slid from one side of the envelope to the other.

  I kicked off my shoes and changed into exercise clothes. I started the shower, reconsidered and turned it off, opened my laptop on the bed, made a desultory attempt to get on top of my inbox, and sent a tart punctuationless reply to a product manager who was annoying me (“you make the call”). That’s not forfeiting
responsibility, that’s empowering and developing subordinates.

  I thought about Enrique. Something about him unnerved me. Why had he followed me all this way? Surely he wasn’t involved in the women and entrepreneurship summit. I remembered the strange, spare apartment where he’d brought Nova. Poor Nova—I hadn’t thought much about what it must have been like for her, lost and brought there. Had she missed us? Maybe Rafe was right about her needing more time with us.

  No time like the present, I thought. I think that constantly. Turn intention into action, otherwise you’re a dreamer, not a doer (vote the latter!). So what if I were far away? I could call her.

  Melissa, on videochat, looked fish-faced and surprised to hear from me. “Are you OK?”

  “Sure, fine. Can I say hi?”

  “Blazer’s just going down for his nap. Hang on.”

  The view spun, past ceiling, wall, rug, Nikola Tesla–themed nursery paraphernalia, crib slats, and then Blazer’s rump as he was hoisted, then propped on the little chair. He gummed a sippy cup, thrust it out, and smiled.

  “Hi,” I said. “It’s Mommy.”

  Blazer’s face was huge and looming, his skin flawless—I, on the other hand, looked like a pitted desert dweller on this webcam. The sippy cup dropped out of the frame.

  “Hi, sweetie. Do you know where I am?”

  “Work,” Blazer said, or maybe “truck.”

  “I’m on a trip. Where’s Nova?” Her little chair was empty.

  Melissa moved into view. “Your husband took her out to lunch. They’re out on an adventure.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh, right, I remember now, he texted me about that.” Melissa gave away that she did not buy that Rafe ever texted anyone about anything. “Let’s do our song,” Melissa suggested, and unself-consciously began to sing. She’s a true professional, my highest compliment.