With the envelope tucked under my arm, I head to my car. If I’m going to be on time, I’ll have to read it at the stoplights.
My usual commute-time entertainment is the news, but I can’t stomach it today, so as I pull out onto Ventura Boulevard, I let the radio scan through static, evangelical stations, talk shows, and blaring rap music. I really need to get a new radio, the kind with a plug for an iPod. Finally the tuner lands on an oldies station, and by the time I enter the 101 freeway, I’m jamming with Mick as he and the Stones sing about not getting any satisfaction. I grin. At least last night I was one up on Jagger.
I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don’t leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven’t looked at the envelope, and if it’s about the presentation, Carl’s going to expect me to know the details cold.
I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of Forbes falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There’s a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine. I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn. There’s no signature, but the From the Desk of Damien J. Stark stationery is a big clue.
I’m still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he’s tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can’t let this go any further.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.
“What are you grinning about?” Carl demands as I push through the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn’t really want my answer. He’s already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, “Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I’d give you money. So long as you don’t screw up the slideshow.”
“I won’t,” I say, grateful that he’s not mentioning last night or Damien or late night phone calls.
Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he’s completely revamped our presentation outline.
I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.
I’m in heaven. I’ve reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn’t my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Damien Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I’ve been toying with since my last year at UT.
Today I’m going to get to see two entrepreneurs in action. Carl, who rarely fails to get financing for any project he pitches. And Damien Stark, who has never said yes to a project that didn’t ultimately exceed expectations and make a fortune for both him and the underlying company.