The server took our dinner orders while we shared easy and friendly conversation.
Over dinner, Kerry told a few bizarre and uncomfortably funny stories about working with AI engineers. For example, she had a female colleague who’d named her AI “Bitch” and would say things like: “Bitch, what time is it?” and “Bitch, I asked you a question.” And she had a male colleague who’d named his AI “Disappointment.”
While laughing at one of Marcus’s stories about purposefully getting people’s names wrong on their Starbucks cups, I realized that I really liked both of these people.
Kerry reminded me of Matt. A lot. She had a na?veté about her that was exactly him. For example, the way she asked questions, which often felt like overly personal non sequiturs. Also, like Matt, I got the sense she didn’t realize some of her questions were inappropriate for having known me less than two hours.
Where do you buy your bras? Do you want to get married? Why do you think men like doggy style? Do you like doggy style? Is that your real hair color?
Once I made the connection—that she and Matt shared this peculiarity—her questions didn’t catch me off guard quite as much.
Whereas Marcus reminded me of my brother, Abram. They were both artists—Abram was a musician, Marcus was a painter—and I could sense the tender heart beneath the sardonic fa?ade, especially in the way he looked at his wife.
The server had just removed our dinner plates and brought me my fourth lemon drop when the conversation turned to Matt’s decision to move to Chicago last December.
“Matt hated working for corporate. He’d prefer to be a hero and take a huge pay cut, which I call the do-gooder tax.” Kerry sneered at Matt, like he or his decisions smelled bad.
“Why do you hate corporate? The politics?” I guessed. The haze of alcohol made looking at him easier.
He shook his head, glancing from his tequila to me. “Politics are just as bad in academia. Maybe even worse.”
“Then why?”
“Because of the, what’s that phrase you use all the time?” Kerry poked at Matt. “Not broken enough culture?”
My eyes locked on Matt’s and he nodded once, holding my gaze captive. “That’s right. I call it not broken enough.”
I knew he was thinking back on our dinner in New York, when I’d referred to Zara’s lack of motivation to change her circumstances as “not broken enough.” I hadn’t said it at the time, but I viewed Matt the same way, choosing the safety of crutches and Band-Aids rather than the risk of actually loving someone.
“Broken? Referring to what?” I questioned, ignoring the wake of goosebumps tickling my skin.
Matt returned his attention to the table. “It’s their mentality, the ‘It’s not broken enough’ mentality of for-profit companies.”
“What do you mean?” Marcus asked.
“It means he’s a snob,” Kerry grumbled. “A nerd purist.”
I licked the sugar off the rim of my lemon drop, glancing between the three of them.
“It means, in corporate America,” Matt’s gaze darted to my mouth, then away, then to his friend, “there is no benefit to solving a problem or finding the best solution to a problem. There is only benefit—monetary benefit—in making a problem less irritating, or less pressing. This is because if a company actually solves a problem, or solves it with the best solution, the company will ultimately lose money.”
“Give me an example,” I asked, taking another sip of my drink.
“I can give you hundreds. Take dating websites for example. Every time they successfully pair a couple, they’ve lost two customers. Therefore, it’s in their best interest to find the sweet spot of maximizing profit—by not pairing too many couples successfully too quickly—and being just slightly better than their competitors. Dr. Merek and I theorize, though we cannot prove it because we haven’t been given access to this data set, that these dating websites are using the same psychology that’s used by casinos to keep people coming back. Meaning, they match people even if they’re not actually a match, with random actual matches thrown in so customers have some good experiences, but not too many to actually pair someone.”
“It’s like that experiment with those pigeons and the button, where pressing the button would randomly give the pigeons food.” I made the comparison to Skinner’s famous experiment in the 1960s, noting that my words were starting to slur.
“Yes. Exactly. Casinos use that psychology with great success, as do most other for-profit companies, if they’re smart. Facebook’s algorithms don’t show you what you want to see; they don’t show you what you’ve explicitly told them you want to see. They show you what will keep you on their site for the longest period of time, so they can display as many ads as possible. For every one post you’re interested in, you’re shown thirty shitty updates. We’re all the pigeon, scrolling through our newsfeed for a random nugget of food.”
“Ugh. That’s depressing. You’re depressing. Boo.”
Kerry sent me a big grin. “Did you just boo Matt?”
“Yes, I did.”
She giggled.
Matt’s gaze warmed as it moved over me and he bit his bottom lip briefly before continuing. “It makes us good consumers, and suspicious of solutions that actually work. Think about it. Drug companies make billions selling products that manage symptoms. But how many actual cures or preventative agents come from Big Pharma? Whereas, how many cures or preventative agents have come from government-funded research or through non-profit patient-advocacy groups?”
“The March of Dimes funded the polio vaccine research, right?” Marcus asked.
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “I’ve been researching the origins of vaccines for a series I’m working on.”
“So this is why Matt left his cushy corner office in sunny Palo Alto for his cramped office in windy Chicago.” Marcus grinned at his friend.
“And cheerfully pays the do-gooder tax,” Kerry added, tossing back the last of her margarita with flourish.
Matt smiled at his ex, rolling his eyes at her good-naturedly. “We all pay eventually. I’d prefer to pay with cash now rather than my soul later.”
“Ouch.” She gripped her chest, mock-wincing. “Be careful, Matt. You might force me to leave and cry on my big pile of money.”
“So you’re not taking the job offer with Gamble?” I asked before I thought too carefully about the question.
Matt’s gaze cut to mine, surprise flashed behind his eyes, and he frowned.
“Who told you about the job offer?” He sounded irritated.
“Um, Fiona did.”
“When?” he demanded, his eyes somehow both wide and narrowed.
“Three weeks ago, I guess.” I shrugged, waving away the topic because—even with the numbing cushion of alcohol sustaining my spirits—I still felt a pang of hurt that he hadn’t told me about it himself.