Trent paused for a moment and broke into a fresh round of laughter. Gavin held his palms up. ‘Like I said, you guys are odd.’
‘And you seem cool, too, my friend,’ Trent pulled him in for a bro hug, followed by a brief round of enthusiastic back slapping. ‘Hope we get to talk again soon.’
Trent bowed to them both, shuffled his luggage stack out from under the bar and disappeared through the crowd.
‘You okay?’ Shanti placed a hand on Gavin’s thigh as he regained his seat. ‘Trent can be a real scene-stealer when he’s on a roll. Always talking a big game. I kinda miss him, though.’
‘You two used to date?’ asked Gavin, looking around for his drink.
‘He’s not really my type for that sort of activity.’ She curled the corner of her mouth, in exactly the way she knew men liked. ‘We met at this really intense finance startup in London a couple of years back and just kind of bonded. Felt like we were in a secret club – the only people in the whole company who weren’t completely insane.’
‘Been to that movie,’ said Gavin. ‘Good to have those people around.’
‘You two probably have a lot in common.’
‘How so?’ asked Gavin, straightening and inflating himself a little.
‘I think you’re both secretly worried that you’re already coming up on thirty and your job isn’t important enough. That you’ll spend your lives working for undeserving douches.’
Gavin threw his head back and laughed. ‘Isn’t that everybody our age?’
‘Not everybody. That’s why a conference like this gets people like Trent so worked up. You’re looking at these muppets up on stage, talking nonsense and bigging themselves up, while everyone applauds and throws cash. And you sit there thinking “These guys aren’t that clever. I could do what they’re doing.”’
‘So do you think he’ll actually do anything with that idea?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Shanti. ‘He’s living in New York. Has a really cushy sales job with a medical company, owned by his parents. Probably on a respectable salary. Plus he’ll inherit a fortune eventually. Why would you trade that life to struggle in a startup? Even for a week?’
‘Then what about you? If you’ve got “leet skills” as a coder, there’s almost nothing stopping you from doing your own thing, right?’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve got my own douchebags to worry about.’ She looked down and swirled her glass. She didn’t want to dwell on her homecoming just yet, there were still a few hours of freedom to be had. ‘You flying out tonight as well?’
Gavin shook his head and smiled. ‘Morning.’
‘Same here,’ she raised a corner of her smile to underline the point. ‘Are you looking forward to getting back to your cool life, doing cool design in cool Melbourne?’
‘For cool douchebags?’ Gavin laughed. ‘That’s going to be hard to take after this week. Every time someone got up on stage to talk about how they had seen the future of something, someone else got up and read the eulogy: the web is dead, apps are dead, brands are dead, agencies are dead, design is dead, ideas are dead. I don’t know what to believe. I just know I can’t go back to do corporate web design forever.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got some bad FOMO going on there,’ Shanti offered, draining the last of her drink. ‘You’re becoming paralysed by a surplus of opportunity. You won’t commit to anything, because you want to stay open to the next thing, which you also won’t commit to, so you can continue to remain open to a rolling future of endless opportunities, none of which you will embrace fully.’
Gavin sat back and stared at her. ‘Are you a psychologist?’
‘No, I heard it from one on a panel yesterday. She believes the technology we love so much, like phones and apps and social platforms and all that stuff, is making this non-committal behaviour worse. Made me realise I’ve been doing the same thing all week.’
‘Did the psychologist offer any solutions?’
‘She did, actually,’ Shanti placed her hand on Gavin’s leg. ‘Stop thinking about what you’re not doing and start deciding on what you will.’
She felt his thigh tense just a little under the palm of her hand, then waited for him to step through the door she’d just opened.
All your surveillance tape
are belong to us
The turbulence shook Trent awake. His mouth was dry and his thoughts scrambled for traction. The cabin of the Airbus was dim and most of his fellow passengers were still sleeping. He pushed himself up in his seat and massaged his face, rolling his shoulders to get the circulation moving again. Some people considered business class on domestic to be an extravagance. Those people were generally below six foot one.
‘Never a pleasant wake-up call, is it?’ The man in the next seat had the infrastructure of a rugby player and the upholstery of a restaurant critic. He used his sheaf of papers to gesture at Trent’s laptop, perched on the edge of his tray table. ‘You might want to grab that before it hits the floor.’
Trent blinked a couple of times before reaching for his computer. ‘Thanks for that. I must have completely passed out.’
‘The moment the wheels came up. A week at Southby can do that to you,’ his girth lending a deep resonance to his clipped British accent. ‘What did you think of it this year?’
‘It might have finally jumped the shark. Too big, too commercial,’ said Trent, summarising the view of a Guardian journalist he had befriended at a bar during the week. ‘Was that your experience?’
‘Yes and no. This year was too crowded, but it wasn’t nearly commercial enough, in the truest sense of the word,’ he said, placing the printouts on the tray table and resting his hands on his belly. Trent couldn’t help noticing the Panerai on the man’s wrist. His jowly face was slightly flushed and his thick grey hair stood to attention, trimmed to disguise the beginnings of a retreat. ‘Plenty of ideas on sale, but everything was very US-centric. Nothing looked ready for market. All a bit frustrating, really. What were you looking for?’
‘General research. I’m in strategy and business development,’ Trent unrolled a shirt cuff. ‘Medtech is our core focus, but we’re always looking to diversify. We have a few ideas currently in development. One or two of them are very promising.’
‘Sounds like you’re warming up for a pitch,’ the older man laughed.
‘Well, no, we’re not looking for funding –’
‘Oh, trust me. Everyone’s looking for funding, only most people don’t realise it yet. Sooner or later, you learn the only way to bring something new to market is with OPM.’
‘OPM?’ Trent shook his head.
‘Other People’s Money.’ The cabin lights started to brighten and the flight attendants began bustling behind the galley curtain. ‘If you don’t mind, old chap, I’ll visit the little boys’ room before we get told to strap in for landing.’
Trent stashed his laptop, swung his tray into the armrest and stood in the aisle as the older man wedged himself out.
‘Might have overdone it on those Texan Ribs,’ he patted his sides as he turned and shuffled past Trent, ‘but they were so very tasty.’
Trent considered pulling out his laptop to finesse his presentation. If the fat man was right about scaling with Other People’s Money then Trent would need to revise his ask upwards. And while his father was a soft touch and would probably approve the funding straight off the bat, his billfold was limited. If Trent wanted more, and he realised now he probably did, he’d have to take the proposal to his mother, who controlled all the major decisions – and the major money – but was far less inclined to indulge him. To the point of basically not at all.
He had been with Mediclinical for almost two years now, in a sales and development role hastily arranged by his father and grudgingly approved by his mother to cushion his return from London. He had arrived on their doorstep, yet again, with precious little in the way of entrepreneurial success or financial stability. His parents had been rescuing him from unemployment ever
since he left med school minus a degree but with the makings of a crushing student debt.
Susan and James Carlisle owned most of Mediclinical through their holding company, but had little to do with the day-to-day operations of the business. As far as Trent could tell, James no longer had much to do with the day-to-day operations of his marriage to Susan, either. She had an appetite for detail that simply could not be satisfied, wearing out several CFOs in the first few years of the business before finding one with the stamina of an oil rig and the soul of a calculator. They made beautiful finance together. His father was far more interested in making speeches and handshakes, spending his time on hospital boards, chairing advisory committees, consulting to university research projects and drinking Scotch. Trent was always going to find it difficult to measure up to his mother’s idea of success. Thanks to his two much older and more successful sisters, both in medicine, the bar was now set to stratospheric.
‘That’s a weight off, thanks old chap,’ Trent’s window-seat companion returned, looking fresher. ‘Made any progress on your pitch deck?’
Trent pulled up short for a minute, wondering if he’d been thinking aloud. Or maybe talking in his sleep.
‘Didn’t mean to pry, but it was up on your screen when you passed out. I closed it down for you. To save the battery, of course,’ he landed heavily in his seat and began to re-cuff his sleeves. ‘It’s also a matter of professional interest. Charles Archer-Ellis. I connect inspiration with liquidity to create opportunity.’
Charles extended a newly-cuffed hand and Trent grasped it in return.
‘Trent Carlisle, VP at Mediclinical.’
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t see anything of material import on your screen,’ said Charles, settling back in. ‘Even if I did, the idea’s not really the valuable thing, you know.’
‘It’s not?’
‘Ideas are everywhere. In fact, the market is entering an ideas surplus. What we’re short of is people.’
‘Why aren’t there enough people?’ Trent asked, trying to appear interested rather than out of the loop.
‘When I say not enough people, I mean not enough of the right people. It’s not difficult to get ideas off the ground if you have the classic startup trio.’
An attendant advised that they’d be starting their descent soon and offered a final refreshment. Trent ordered an Evian and Charles requested a glass of champagne.
‘Been up all night. Need something to put a spring in my step,’ Charles winked.
‘Whatever works for you, Charles. What’s your take on the trio? Do you favour the “operational pillar” model?
‘The operational stuff is boring. Even worse, it’s hard work. I recommend you outsource anything that’s uninteresting or difficult immediately.’
‘You don’t think I should keep those things core?’
‘Trust me, I’ve made a career out of avoiding the heavy lifting. The trio everyone’s looking for now are the three H’s: the hustler, the hacker and the hipster. Ah, breakfast. Thank you, my dear,’ Charles smiled at the attendant as she poured the champagne. ‘The hustler is someone with vision, plenty of chutzpah and an eye for a shortcut. They may or may not have had the idea themselves, but the hustler always leads the deal and puts the team together. The next person you need is a hacker, someone who understands the technology and isn’t afraid of hard work. Which is crucial, because they’ll be doing most of it.’
Trent nodded, making a mental shortlist. ‘And the hipster? What does he do?’
‘Well he could be a she, you know. It’s far too easy to get yourself branded as sexist in this day and age. Ok, the hipster is someone who really understands what’s cool. They don’t have to have the full single-origin beard themselves, especially if they are a girl,’ Charles laughed, ‘but they need to understand that scene. Or whatever scene went viral in the four hours since we boarded. You see, your product has got to pass the cool test when you launch, and you only get one shot at that. Just look at what happened to Hometown last year.’ Charles knocked back the remainder of his glass.
‘Not sure I’ve ever heard of Hometown,’ admitted Trent.
‘My point exactly. So your hipster, for want of a better handle, makes sure your product looks and feels cool enough to be considered completely cool by all the cool little people who run around deciding what’s cool this week. It’s like fashion: incredibly arbitrary, mostly tedious and absolutely vital.’
‘And that’s it? That’s the team?’
‘As far as leadership goes, yes. Everyone below that is basically interchangeable. Even better if they are outsourceable. Honestly, any half-decent idea can get funding with a rock star trio at the helm. Venture capitalists don’t invest in ideas, they invest in people.’
‘Is that how you invest?’ asked Trent.
‘Absolutely I would,’ Charles raised an eyebrow. ‘If I were a VC myself. I’m more of a facilitator. An agent, if you will.’
Trent looked past Charles to the small slice of the horizon offered by the aircraft window. The wing dipped slightly to reveal the lights of New York City, shimmering like glitter in a carpet of dusty ink.
‘I heard the VC money was getting a lot more cautious. At least that’s what my friends in the valley are telling me,’ Trent lied as he started collecting his things from the seat pocket.
‘The only people still talking about the valley are the guys who’ve never left it. The real opportunity is in the east.’
‘Is that why you’re based in New York?’ Trent nodded out the window.
‘Far East, old chap. This is all very nice,’ Charles gestured out the window as the plane descended, ‘but Manhattan is no longer the centre of the universe. There’s more money in Shanghai, or Singapore for that matter. The deal flow in Jakarta has to be seen to be believed. There’s an extraordinary amount of wealth chasing a limited number of legitimate opportunities. I’m just catching up with an old friend in New York to help with his book launch. He’s written a how-to guide for startups. Zero to Launch in 30 Days. Terrific book. I even gave him some of the ideas in there. I’m going to a couple of launch events, a few parties, then I’m off home.’
‘And where’s home for you?’
‘Hong Kong. Amazing place. You should come have a look sometime, Trent. It’s all happening. Incubators, tax breaks, investors, great talent and so much cheaper than anywhere in the west.’
‘Maybe I will,’ said Trent.
‘I mean it. I’m going to give you my card, which I only do if I expect the recipient to use it,’ said Charles, lifting a thick, linen-textured business card from his jacket pocket. ‘Want to know why I’m prepared to give you my card?’
‘I do.’
‘You ask questions and you listen to the answers.’ Charles gripped the armrests as the tyres kissed the runway. ‘But the thing that impressed me the most? You didn’t try and pitch me straight away. You’ve got a bit of class, Trent, and that’s also in short supply.’
Trent afforded himself a little smile. During the entire descent he had ignored the little voice in his head screaming at him to pitch his brilliant life-swap idea and ask for funding. The only way he could stop himself was to fall back on his sales training – ask open-ended questions, nod encouragement and let the target do the talking.
‘Thanks, Charles, I really appreciate your insight.’ Trent studied the card briefly then made a show of putting it in his pocket, patting it for safety.
‘If you do find yourself with a team and a pitch deck to go with that idea of yours,’ Charles winked and put his hand out, ‘do me a favour, will you? Please get in touch.’
The business class cabin devolved into a scrum of passive-aggressive jacket straightening and aggressive-aggressive luggage swinging. Trent stepped into the aisle and was swept along by the crush. They stampeded the aerobridge like wounded bison and rushed the luggage carousel like rhinos to a waterhole, only to find it turning gently, completely barren of luggage. The assembled passengers
then fished phones from pockets, bent heads and began scrolling.
Trent nodded as he spotted Charles strolling past with his carry-on. The older man gave a half salute and disappeared through the exit. Trent could feel only admiration for a man who could survive over a week on the road with just the contents of a regulation cabin bag to sustain him. To be fair, though, Charles’ roll-on looked a couple of sizes beyond regulation. Much like Charles himself.
The contents of cattle class began to fill the spaces around the carousel as Trent scrolled his phone. A bunch of emails, a few @ mentions, some likes, several swipes and a text from his father: Heads up. Your mother is looking for you. Call me.
‘Dad, what’s up?’ Trent held the phone with his chin as he unwrapped a stick of gum.
‘Oh Trent, good morning. How was your trip?’
‘Really good. I’ve something to talk to you about. And mother. I’ve got some plans. An idea I want to pursue. Could be great timing.’
‘I’m not sure it is, Trent.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I really should let her talk to you first, but she’s unhappy with your sales technique.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Dad, I’m not in sales anymore. I have a plan that I think you guys are really going to like.’
‘Trent, I’m happy to hear you’re figuring out what you want to do. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to be working for your mother your whole life. But I’m also telling you she’s not in a receptive mood right now.’
A buzzer spat and the carousel lurched into action, inciting the crowd, now six deep on all sides, to move as a pack. Trent spotted his luggage as it tumbled out the chute.
‘Seriously, when is she ever? Hey listen, Dad, good to speak but I gotta go. Talk soon.’
***
The cab wound its way towards the city as the rain fell and traffic thickened. Trent watched as early-morning commuters and contractors argued with the radio, sipped coffee and sent texts. Maybe it was time to get out of Manhattan for a while. Take the funding from his parents, move to San Francisco, set up the office in a converted warehouse space and find a couple of co-founders. Maybe live in an Airstream for a while. If what Charles had told him on the plane was true, he’d probably be spending half his time in Asia. So a West Coast base would make more sense anyway.
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