“Go,” Cyrus says, shooing us away.
The problem is, there is room for only two people at each table, so every time the buzzer rings, Jules has to carry an extra chair with him, and we spend a lot of time explaining that we are co-founders and that Cyrus, over there in the long hair with the martini, is also a co-founder but isn’t really willing to talk to investors. We cycle through seven or eight white men in suits who appear interested for the first fifteen seconds and then start crossing their legs and leaning back in their chairs to discreetly yet clearly look over our shoulders at who might be next. Then we meet Harriet, who appears with a truly excellent blow-dry, and I’m crushing on her so hard I completely flub the pitch. Jules takes the next one, another man in a suit, somewhat older, with a weak chin and a thinning patch of blond hair. He speaks in a low, almost sweet voice when he asks Jules to repeat the name of the company.
“WAI,” says Jules. “Pronounced ‘why.’?”
“Why is it called WAI?”
“Because we want people to ask something fundamentally different of their online experience. Not what—as in what can I get from this moment, what can I buy, sell, display, say about myself. Not who—as in who am I following and who is following me, and who likes me and who is indifferent. But why, as in why am I here, and what am I doing with the small amount of time left to me on Planet Earth?”
“Also,” I chime in, “it stands for We Are Infinite. And it nods to the AI framework that’s at the heart of the platform.”
The man—I see from his tag that his name is Frank—turns to me and asks about the framework, and I start talking about the Empathy Module.
“You seem to know a lot about the engineering side.”
“I coded it, so, yeah.”
“Ah, I see.”
“She’s from MIT,” Jules says.
“Media Lab? What year?”
Jules says, “When we realized the commercial possibilities of the platform, it seemed a shame not to monetize sooner rather than later.” How does he do that, I wonder, how does he make being a dropout sound so desirable?
Frank nods. “What are you looking for?” he asks, and Jules launches into the valuation, the team size, and our expected launch date. I wonder if one of them might turn to me and ask what I think is a realistic timeline, given that I’m going to be the one to deliver it, but they don’t, so I look over at Cyrus, who appears to be on his second martini. Then the buzzer rings, and we go through the rounds with two other people I wouldn’t be able to distinguish in a lineup except that one has a slight paunch and the other boasts that he only eats in a two-hour window in the middle of the day and that it makes his head clearer than the bells chiming in St. Paul’s Cathedral. That’s in London, he says, as if I hadn’t aced AP Geography.
“It was the martini,” I say to Cyrus when it’s all over. “I told you it had to be a highball, and you went off script.”
“Such small things our fates depend on.”
“Actually, it was me. I sucked.”
“You were great,” Jules says, patting me on the back.
We both know that isn’t true. “You should do them yourself. I just don’t have the charm.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”
Destiny bounds up to us. “I think I did it,” she says, brandishing three business cards. “How’d you make out?”
“Zero.”
“Oh, shit, did you fall flat?”
“Like a vegan pancake.”
“It’s not you,” she says. “It’s the system. It’s rigged against you. Look at you, your fucking nose is pierced. And your name is Asha.”
“I think I just bombed.”
She turns to Jules. “What do you think?”
“I think we need to practice.”
“Maybe Asha needs a little more white male privilege.”
Jules shakes his head. “Don’t make this about me.”
“I’m not saying it’s you, it’s just that you have to face reality, which is that no one is going to bet on Asha running the show.”
I agree. “Yeah, Jules, just do that ‘See you on the golf course’ thing and get the money, and we can worry about our souls later.”
Cyrus isn’t going for that. “We’re worrying about our souls now, remember?”
“I don’t mean it that way. I just mean let me out of the whole pitching thing. Cyrus, you and Jules do it.”
“I’m the Researcher,” Cyrus says.
“You’re the one who lends credibility to the framework,” Jules says to me. “Without you, I’m just a guy with a crazy idea.”
“A white guy with a crazy idea,” Destiny says.
I nod. “I’m with her.”
I’ve set Jules off. “Shit, Asha get off your high horse and work with me, will you? Maybe try not to look so sarcastic next time someone asks about your engineering chops.”
“Oh, so now you just want me to roll over when people assume I’m the window dressing?”
“It’s just a game we have to play. Anyway, you could try practicing a little.”
He’s right. I totally crashed out with Lady Blow-dry. “Okay, you got me. I’ll be rehearsing my speech in front of the mirror from now on.”
“I’ll be your mirror,” Cyrus says.
“You, my friend, are in the doghouse. Talk about sipping cocktails while watching the house burn down.”
* * *
Destiny buys me a consolation drink called a raspberry shrub, which tastes like raspberries that have been sitting around in the back of the refrigerator. I secretly wish Destiny had crashed out too, so we could moan about how terrible it is that the patriarchy makes the world go round, but I can’t kill her mood now.
“Tell me how you did it.”
“I told them I was at the cutting edge of the post-MeToo moment and that at some point, the culture was going to decide we needed better safeguarding tools, and men would be too ashamed to say no. It’s the women we have to convince first, then there’s a tipping point and it will become universal. I have graphs to back it all up.”
“Maybe we need more graphs. But to prove what, that people are all feeling like they need a little non-God god around?”
“They probably don’t do surveys for that.”
“No. But maybe something related, like whether religion is seeing a resurgence—I’ll get Jules to look into it.” I wish I’d talked to Destiny before showing up here, and now I’m leaving with zero business cards and my hair smelling like a Mars bar. We part with Jules and Destiny on the sidewalk, and Cyrus and I make our way to Penn Station.
* * *
Cyrus falls asleep on the train while I keep cycling through the evening in my mind. I think about the parade of suits I just met, and the fact that from now on they are going to be my audience, the people I have to sell to, and this makes me sad and annoyed at myself. I start to feel a tickle of longing for Dr. Stein and her transplanted eyes. At least she bothered to be disappointed when I sold out. I had dragged a reluctant Cyrus along with me based on the notion that we were going to change something, yet what I saw tonight was more of the same, the same people with the same power to look straight through me as if I haven’t spent my short life making myself uninvisible. “Fuck you, Frank,” I whisper under my breath.
We get to the station and I nudge Cyrus awake. Our bikes are parked there, but I’m so tired I call us a cab, and soon we’re unlocking the back door and throwing ourselves into bed.
* * *