I'll feel better once the monkeys arrive.
The habitat went in this morning. Two pleasant Asian gentlemen hung from the rafters installing a primate paradise. There are thick braided ropes dyed green to resemble vines. There are beams lathed like tree trunks. There's even a little monkey boudoir made of hypoallergenic netting.
There are, as of yet, no monkeys.
While I reviewed the invoice for netting and fake foliage and green rope, the younger of the Monkey Environment Specialists asked me where the animals would, you know, relieve themselves.
This is the kind of question that earns an accusatory stare when raised to Jerry. A stare that tells you he is a visionary, that it's his job to handle the view from 30,000 feet, and that while he'd thought you were riding shotgun in the purring airplane of his vision, your focus on such pissant details as the scatological needs of monkeys suggests he may have been wrong.
I told the Environment Specialist it was under control. As Jerry's right hand, I have a staff, and where the monkeys relieve themselves is an item I intend to delegate.
Also, I intend not to linger too long or often in the lobby.
Chastened, the men packed and left me alone in the drafty warehouse to imagine the world that will be born here: a visionary place, well-decorated, in which everyone can enjoy an unprecedented range of custom entertainment with the click of a mouse, all for a reasonable monthly fee automatically debited from any major credit card. From the womb of the new world I used my PDA to check my stock options, which were up up up. Buoyed by my burgeoning net worth, I put the monkeys out of mind and settled in to await the Pod Installation Specialists.
It was after midnight when I returned home to be greeted by banging noises. Nora was violently reorganizing our bedroom closet. Black clothes -- Prada tops, Gucci bottoms, Versace dresses -- covered the bed, which she used as a way station between the closet and a large suitcase.
"Hello, my love!" I said brightly, ducking the Cliniqué makeup kit she threw at my head. "What seems to be the problem? Is there an issue that we can, working together as a team, synergistically if you will, address?"
"Do you have to talk like that?" She continued shoving clothing into her suitcase, which seemed a rather amazing piece of luggage to hold so much designer apparel. I noted the brand.
"What way is that, my little partner, CEO of my heart?"
"Like you're at a self-help meeting at the Ramada. While licking Jerry's bunghole."
Unfair. My beloved was clearly displacing her own anger. However, she was also shutting her over-stuffed bag, climbing on top of it, and, sweating slightly on her shapely upper lip, wrenching the zipper closed. Without a glance in my direction she trundled toward the door.
Desperation seized me. "Nora! Wait."
She stopped, and I realized that there was the very real possibility of saying the right thing. The thing that would lead to us unpacking her remarkable suitcase and curling up for some post-stress nookie. My eye itched, and I scratched it with my little finger.
"Don't go." Good start. "Talk to me -- what is it?" I could see that she liked what she heard, so I cranked it up a notch.
"Give me a chance. I can change."
Success. She dropped the suitcase, scratching my floor, but I totally tuned that out to look deep into her eyes.
"Roger," she sighed, "What's the point?"
I edged closer and made cooing sounds.
"I'm tired of being in a relationship with someone who's always gone. You practically moved into the office when you started working for that prick."
I adopted my best sympathetic nod.
"It's like a threesome now, you, me, and Jerry. And now this party--"
"I think you mean experience."
"With this party," she said, glaring, "it's still a threesome, only I'm not in it. Just you and Jerry and the Cobalt party."
"I hear you, love, every word. Incidentally, it's just 'Cobalt', not 'the Cobalt party.' And it's a busy time, honey, that's all."
Just then my cell phone rang. Not the company jingle, either, but the Harvard Business fight song I programmed to let me know it's Jerry. So of course I stepped toward my desk.
She took a step of the same length toward her bag.
And I looked at her, and she looked at me, and then my phone rang again and I answered it.
Jerry has a brainstorm for Cobalt, and could I meet him at the 24-hour Starbucks on 9th? Because a triple-tall espresso and some mental elbow-grease are all that are required to push this concept through the birth canal into the real world, only without the blood and the mess and the heavy breathing, and Nora has picked up her bag and walked to the door and slammed it behind her, and would half an hour be okay?
Sure.
So here's the download on Cobalt. Nora was being intentionally hurtful when she called it a party. Parties are disposable. We've got bigger plans.
Let me put it this way. Two months ago, when we were lining up Skyy Vodka and Parliament Cigarettes as corporate sponsors, Jerry was going through his pitch. A gaggle of vice presidents sat around the retro-chic conference table that used to be a garage door. At the beginning they seemed distracted by the levers of their Herman Miller chairs, but Jerry was on fire, painting a vision of monkeys and lingerie models on trapezes, and the Pod People who would be month-long citizens of the party, and one by one, the VPs stopped fiddling and started staring, the way people do when they haven't quite grasped The Concept.
It's the same with our business model. Unqualified people are always confused. Who, they ask, will watch our custom web feeds? Who will watch Trout Trading, our weekly flycasting / finance program? Stockbrokers that fish, that's who. The answers are right in front of you if you have the vision to look.
Anyway, a VP with spotty skin and bargain shoes cleared his throat and asked why in the world a party needs to go on this long, and besides, weren't there enough Y2K parties?
A moment of silence. Then Jerry rose.
"Gentlemen," his voice solemn, "We're not talking about a party.
"This is a birth. The old giving way to the new. Like horses put to pasture to what-do-you-call-it, graze. And why did the horses graze the sweet clover of failure? Because the automobile arrived. And how did the automobile arrive? Was it meek and quiet and apologetic? It was not. It was aggressive. It was noisy. It produced copious and unapologetic exhaust.
"Those fumes, my friends, smell like progress. And if a few people of small vision chose to cling to their ways, to prefer the smell of horse crap to exhaust, did we stop them? We did not. We simply asked that they keep to the side with their carriages and ugly clothing, and leave room for the future to roar past.
"But," he said, winking at the most senior of the VPs, "I'd rather be in my BMW Z4."
He sat. They signed.
This is the New Paradigm. We're dealing in the future as a commodity, buying and selling and shaping the world that is to be. In this world, you're visible or you're dead. And that's why every player in Manhattan is going to spend Millennium Eve with us.
Second week of December, and still no monkeys.
I called the VP of Primate Shipping, who swore they would arrive shortly. As we hung up, I heard him mutter something disparaging in which the words "dotcom" and "wacko" were clearly audible. I considered calling back to ask how much his stock options were worth, but I decided to be the bigger man.
However, monkeys or no, the insurgency that is Cobalt has begun. At the moment it's solely the Pod People, who live in rooms equipped with cameras that cover every angle of their lives, from their compact Pod Beds to the communal Pod Toilet. All of it streams live to the web for subscription viewers. Another marketing masterstroke. Check the holy trinity:
WIRED Magazine: "It's the End of the World as We Know It
(And The Pod People Feel Fine)"
Business 2.0: "Pods and Profits"
The Industry Standard: "Ringmaster for a New Millennium"
Thus far the numbers are a bit lower than projected, it's true. But they'll grow.
Rejoice, fearless Pod People! You are the vanguard of a better world.
December 12th, Millennium Eve minus nineteen. Traded voicemails with Nora.
Beep. "Nora, it's me. Wanted to know if you felt like some good old-fashioned interfacing. I'll be out of pocket the last part of the month, so if you wanted search for a synergy, maybe we could do it stat?"
Beep. "Roger, you're frightening me. Please don't call unless you promise to speak English."
ME minus fifteen. No monkeys. I got hold of the vendor's CEO and reminded him the world is full of monkey providers. He asked me to hold, and five minutes later returned apologizing, saying that wires had been crossed, signals missed, and somehow the monkeys bound for lower Manhattan ended up in lower Manchuria. Their crates had been sitting alongside a rail station at Kinchow for nearly a week. However, he thought he could probably get those crates to us by month's end if he really hustled.
I said we'd like new monkeys, fresh monkeys, monkeys with a pulse.
Sometimes I'm amazed the old world worked even well enough to feed and clothe all the generations of people required to give birth to this one.
ME minus thirteen. Lunch with Jerry. He's not pleased about the monkey situation, but he's got bigger things on his plate. He's lined up the U.S. Women's Volleyball team to play a winner-takes-all match of Trivial Pursuit against the Canadian Curling Team. Carried live over to subscribers, of course.
This is a great idea, but I have to admit some concern at the continuing weak viewership of the Pod People Channel. We're significantly below projections.
Of course, brilliance can take a while to infect the average viewer. The numbers will spike soon.
(voicemail)
"Nora, it's me. It would mean a lot if you came to Cobalt. Notice how I'm speaking? Call me."
(voicemail)
"Roger," (sigh) "..." (sigh) "I don't think it's a great place for us to talk, but if it means that much, I'll go."
(tone)
"Seriously though, you need to think about this job. Your message was dated 3:17 in the morning! Normal people aren't working at 3:17 in the morning, Roger. Especially not a couple of days before Christmas.
(tone)
Anyway, let me know when and where. Or let my voicemail know. Whatever."
December 25th, ME minus six. Jerry is a terrific boss. This morning he announced today would be a half day. I stayed. There's still so much to do. We'll soon have positioned ourselves as the player in the webcasting marketspace, and that's going to mean a big boost to the old portfolio.
That's what Nora never got. These days going to work is like playing the Lotto, except instead of six balls with sixty numbers, there are like two balls with four numbers. Or probably more than that, if it were that easy then everyone would win, and not everybody does. But the point is, the odds are good, very good, that if you have vision and are willing to sacrifice the things that distract you, then however many balls it is, they will drop into the slots with your numbers facing up.
Paged the CEO of Monkeys at home. No response.
ME minus one. No monkeys. Held a brainstorming session, considered hiring small, hairy children to swing around on the ropes, but am concerned about contracts.
Can't believe Cobalt is going to be monkey-free. I really pooched it.
"The End is Now!!!" According to the hand-lettered sign on the guy's chest, this was because "Y2K = 666!!!"
ME minus zero. Millennium Eve. Cobalt in full swing, and I was sharing a street corner with an exclamation point fetishist. I clutched my half-caff latte for comfort.
It was 10:52 when Nora arrived. But she wore a Dior dress, dark hair up, and my chest tightened like I was swimming at the bottom of the pool. She smiled, I offered my arm, and she took it.
So I started thinking maybe things would be okay after all.
We met two blocks away, but even from here, you could see Cobalt was attracting a lot of attention. Traffic had slowed to a crawl as drivers stared at the lingerie models swinging in the big factory windows. Our Designer had hit them with a red spotlight from behind, so all you could see were shapely silhouettes penduluming back and forth, quite an effect. The cabs were going crazy, everybody honking. High visibility: good, good, good.
We strolled up the stairs past the pro wrestlers hired as bouncers, goosebumpy in their Spandex outfits, and I let Nora into the new world. Unfortunately, the first thing you were supposed to see were the monkeys, but the habitat was dark, so we hustled through to the main room, a cavernous open space with not one but two DJs, who perhaps would have worked better on different floors. One played the electronic thumpa-thumpa music you expect at an industry party, but the other blared what sounded like Icelandic folk songs. Of course, though the room was packed, no one danced. Get enough visionaries in one room and it's all about talk; marketing plans and IPO's and funding, always funding, the conversation rising with the curling weather pattern of cigarette smoke. In a casual survey I spotted analysts for three of the city's hottest V.C. shops, a producer who destroyed the Earth in his last film, four entrepreneurs with stock options valued over twenty million apiece, and the Lieutenant Governor of New York.
Nora seemed unmoved.
Okay. Just warming up. We fought through the crowd to the bar, a huge rectangle of carved ice. It was spectacularly backlit and glowing, though the lights seemed to be melting it swiftly, and the servers looked sort of surly standing in the puddles, but whatever. I got us Cosmopolitans and took her upstairs to the Activity Floor. Skee-Ball didn't seem quite apropos, and the Moonwalk had become a makeout room, so I led her to the Arena.
The Trivial Pursuit match was in full swing. It was a tough competition. The Women's Volleyball team sported maybe a hint of a lead on the Curlers. However, the audience seemed unaware of the tension, gathered as they were in corners, exchanging small tablets that looked like mints but probably weren't. That made for plenty of space on the bleachers, but a glance at Nora told me this wouldn't do it either.
Fine. The main attraction. I escorted her to the Pod Village.
True explorers, our Pod People, frontiersmen and women. For the past thirty days, they'd been living on camera twenty-four hours a day, the first time a community of people had made so bold a statement about the nature of entertainment in the future, a future in which we won't just watch the shows, we'll be the shows. A visionary future brought to you by Jerry.
Nora couldn't have cared less. "Can we find a place to talk without," gesturing in a circle and grimacing, "all this?"
To be 100 percent truthful, the Pod People weren't much to see. Several slept, one did a Times crossword. In the Pod Kitchen, a pioneer of the new era scrambled eggs. It had been like this the whole time.
While the ToiletCam had a dedicated following, overall the project hadn't met expectations.
It irked me that Nora was so dismissive. But frankly, I felt a little tired myself. So I unlocked the door to the habitat.
It was dark, only a red glow filtering up from the lobby. We found spots halfway along the thin balcony and dangled our legs.
"No show here?" Nora smiled. "Shouldn't there be, I don't know, a juggling nun? A snowball fight with the Swedish Bikini Team?"
"This is the monkey habitat. Or it was supposed to be."
"Monkey habitat?"
"See the vines?"
"Ahh. Where are the monkeys?"
I shook my head. Nothing had worked out as planned. Attendance-wise, Cobalt was a success -- the lobby thronged with people trying to make it by midnight -- but I found I didn't care.
"You look beat, hon."
I nodded.
"It's a great party. A little weird, but a great party."
That word again. Like this was just another industry to-do, another occasion to get drunk on sponsored vodka. Nora moved on to our relationship, something about missing me and hoping we'd have more time to spend together, but I was still processing that word.
"You're just too far in, Roger, you can't see out."
A trapeze model let go with one hand to answer her cell.
"This isn't real life. It isn't about parties and gimmicks. You used to know that. Don't you remember?"
It was the monkeys' fault. If that had gone smoothly I would have had time to iron out other details. Like polishing up the Pod People, maybe ask Jerry to give a little speech re: Being Interesting. Ixnay the Trivial Pursuit, opt for something more electrifying. Operation, maybe.
"It's not too late, though, hon. If you choose us."
Then two things happened at once. First, I realized that Nora had asked me something, and though I hadn't caught the question, her face told me an answer was expected. And second, my mobile rang. I shot an apologetic look to let her know I'd return to our emotional tête-à-tête ASAP.
Over the static roar of New York traffic, a gruff voice informed me that he was out front with a truckload of monkeys, and that if I wanted them I better hurry because he was blocking the street.
It might not be too late.
"Nora, gotta motor, let me get back to you on that," and then I was charging down the hall, shoving Pod People aside, taking steps two at a time to the main floor. Half an hour to midnight, the lobby absolutely packed, but in the midst of everything sat two large crates.
"You Roger?" A tall, bearded man thrust a clipboard for me to sign. "Where do you want 'em?"
Monkeys.
I led the delivery crew up the back stairs to the habitat. Nora was nowhere to be seen. I'd find her once the monkeys were in place, and then she'd see. Cobalt would click, she'd realize how all of the pieces she had individually dismissed comprised a larger whole. I anticipated swooning.
The delivery guys cracked the faces off the crates. The monkeys seemed to be feeling shy, a problem the driver solved by tipping the boxes until a stream of fur and tails and tiny black fingers poured out. Primates writhed and scrabbled, fighting to disentangle themselves while simultaneously attempting to hide behind one another. They were spooked, and I was afraid all was for nothing until one of them spotted the paradise we'd built. An obvious leader, a monkey of initiative and drive, he climbed to the railing, his little tail curled for balance, and with a leap, found his home. My heart soared. Everything would be fine. Better than fine.
Visionary.
And as I walked back down, taking the long way this time, I could see that things had improved already. One of the Pod People had caught another using his face razor to shave her legs, and they were hurling shaving cream and personal insults at one another, terrific viewing. The Curling team was staging a last-second comeback with an Arts & Entertainment question. Runoff from the melting bar had kissed one of the DJ booths, extinguishing the Icelandic music in a fountain of sparks.
In the utility closet, I paused to savor the moment. With closed eyes and pounding heart I flipped on the habitat floodlights, and was immediately rewarded with loud "Ooooooohs!" from the lobby.
I had done it.
Five minutes to the millennium, and everybody stared upwards. Even the wrestlers seemed touched. Jerry moved beside me, wearing a smile that offered trust, and brotherhood, and bonus stock options, and together we looked at the monkeys. The new world we'd dreamed was perfect.
"Who belongs to the truck?"
The voice was loud, with that particular aggressive officiousness of the government sector. NYPD.
"Bad enough you got Lady Godiva in the window there." The officer with the mustache spoke, the other standing behind him in that bulletproof-vest chest-cock that makes them look pudgy. "Now you got traffic backed up to City Hall."
The lobby was compact, and as people clued in, one of those eerie crowd silences descended. Escape routes were gauged. The chairman of a major V.C. group edged towards the door. The movie producer gestured for his assistant to create a diversion. Now, at the moment of triumph, Cobalt was in danger.
"Anybody got a permit to show me?"
Uh-oh.
"Certainly, officer." Jerry. "No trouble. Are we lawbreakers? We are not."
"You the driver of the truck?"
"I am not. My name is Jerry Harrison. You may have heard of me if you read the trades, follow the business page of the Times."
"Look, it's New Year's, we're willing to cut a little slack for wackjobs, but that goddamn truck of yours is blocking traffic both ways, you got a naked woman in the window--"
"Hey, look -- monkeys!" The other officer chimed in helpfully.
"--Plus the monkeys. And is that gunfire I'm hearing?"
"It's an art exhibit, officer, by what we think is a very talented young--"
"I'm waiting on that permit."
"Certainly." Jerry smiled his magazine-cover smile. "We're all about compliance, one-hundred-and-ten percent in favor of the law of the land and its designated officers. Roger, would you fetch our documentation?"
"Umm, yes, well." My sphincter puckered distressingly. "The thing is, the paperwork, it's umm--"
Jerry took the hint. "What my associate means to say is that of course we have everything filed, in triplicate, but--"
"Regulations, buddy, you need a permit, it's gotta be on the premises."
Then somebody yelled "Fifteen seconds!"
Millennium Eve. The future almost upon us.
The whole crowd looked at watches, voices rising to chant the numbers, a few for fourteen, a herd at thirteen, thunder by twelve. The police looked like they had more to say, but the noise drowned them out. The countdown to a better time overwhelmed everything else. Above us, the lingerie model swung to the beat, really putting in an effort for the team, and my heart swelled to see everyone caught in the spirit of the thing, the new world being born right in front of our eyes. Surely even the cops would understand what was happening here.
Then, as the crowd reached three, a motion from above caught my eye.
Up in the habitat, something was happening. For an instant I remembered standing in this very spot a month ago, listening to the Monkey Environment Specialist's irritatingly narrow-minded question, the kind of foolish detail, like securing permits for a party, that big thinkers are too busy thinking big to worry about. And falling through the air in a tumbling stream was the answer to his question, a bundle of small details and pissant nitpickery, twisting, slow, agonizing in its dark descent, and as the crowd reached zero, hooting Happy New Year and blowing kazoos and splashing champagne, just as the new world struggled to arise from the old, the shimmering perfection of vision born from the boring pedantic grime of details, just then the monkeys solved the problem of where to poop in a wet gray splat across the head and shoulders of a decidedly non-big-thinking police officer.
And quick as the bursting of a bubble, it was gone.