Former.ly: Chapter One (Second Draft)

“146,357 people die every day. That’s 6,099 an hour, 102 a minute or five every three seconds. 53,456,894 every year. How about that for a target audience?”


Looking back, I should’ve anticipated an unorthodox interview. I mean, how do you deal with a man who reduces human life and death to numbers and statistics? And once you learn to deal with him, how do you laugh, talk, eat, live and work with him? Tech start-ups are notorious for their crazy founders, but John Mayers took the biscuit.


“Welcome to Former.ly,” my potential boss announced, gesturing to the chaotic room around him. “Sorry about the mess – we don’t have many visitors.”


“I wonder why,” I mumbled. The office looked more like a frat house – the place reeked of stale beer and sweat, and a pile of stinking clothes shuddered and then sat upright. He lifted a crusty hand in acknowledgement and said something vague about caffeine.


“That’s Kerry,” said John. “He’s our video guy. He’s a useless bastard, but give him a camera and he’s a machine. Morning, Kerry!”


“Morning, dude,” he replied, shuffling out of his rags and into a semi-respectable pair of khaki shorts, before hobbling over to meet us in the middle of the debris-strewn living room and coding area. He smelled even worse up close, somewhere between a cesspit and a brewery. “Don’t ask – it’s still encoding. I’m going to grab a shower.”


“Yeah, yeah,” John replied. “He always says that. Sometimes I wonder what we pay him for.”


I watched Kerry’s back retreat through a narrow doorway as John cleared a space for me on the sofa. I didn’t really want to sit on it, but I didn’t have much of a choice. It crunched as I sat down; I’m pretty sure sofas aren’t meant to do that.


 “So,” John said, clapping his hands together abruptly. “Let’s get straight to business. After all, we’re both men of business, when all is said and done.” As he spoke, a key turned in the latch and the front door opened, letting in the cold and the distant sound of a muffled conversation. “We’re looking for a front-end developer, and you more than fit the bill in terms of qualifications and experience. But what about culture? Dedication? Think you can match us there? Hey, Flick.”


I turned to look at the newcomer, a pretty blonde woman who strolled into the room, pulled a MacBook Air from a tartan satchel and prepared to start work. She smiled sweetly at the two men who faced her.


“Morning, John,” she said. “Abhi’s here, too – he’s making me a coffee.”


“Good lad. When he’s finished, tell him to come and meet Dan – he’s here about the developer job.”


“Hi Dan,” she said, as she logged into her machine. “I’m Felicity, but everyone calls me ‘Flick’.”


“Hi Flick,” I replied. “Nice to meet you. What’s your role? You don’t look like a typical programmer.”


“Thanks! I try not to. I guess I do whatever needs doing. I’m in charge of PR and office management, but I spend half of my time cleaning this place up and half of my time looking after the boys. That doesn’t leave much room for the rest of the stuff that’s in my job description. Not that anyone ever wrote one.”


“How do you fit it all in?” I asked.


“I do a lot of unpaid overtime,” she replied. “And you will too, if you join us. Good luck with that.” She smiled breezily and went back to her laptop.


“It’s true, you know,” John said, grimly. “I won’t pretend otherwise. This job will take over your life, and if it doesn’t take over your life, we’ll fire you and take on someone who’s more dedicated.”


“I’ve worked at start-ups before.”


“Not at this one, you haven’t,” John replied. “Ah, and here’s Abhi.”


“Morning Mr. Mayers,” he said, looming in the doorway with a cup of coffee in each hand. One of the mugs was emblazoned with a motto: ‘Trust me, I’m a developer’. He kept this for himself and placed the other mug in front of Flick, before turning his head to look at John. “How are you today?”


“Pretty good, pretty good. This is Dan, he’s applying for the developer role. Think you can work with him?”


“You like music, Dan?”


“Of course,” I replied.


“Then I like you,” Abhi said. “We can be friends.”


“Abhi is our back-end developer,” John explained. “So you’ll be working pretty closely with him.”


“That’s right, boss. Can I get you guys a drink?”


“No thanks,” John replied. “I’m sure you’ve got something to be working on. Besides, I need a real drink – you coming, Dan?”


“It’s 11 AM and I’m being interviewed,” I said. “So sure, why not?”


“That’s the spirit – time doesn’t really exist in this place. We work when we can, and we drink when we can. Let’s go.”



****



Flick and Abhi stayed at what can only loosely be described as ‘the office’, while I followed John out through the front door, across the road and along a narrow side-street. Two minutes later, we were walking through Camden Market, absorbing the dubious sounds and smells of the street dealers who sell grinders and poppers to teenage kids.


We cut through food the stalls, with their haunting aroma of fried noodles, strange curries and unpronounceable foreign cuisines, then turned right, along the high street. Further down the road, past the neon lights of the Electric Ballroom, we pushed through the crowd outside the station and moved on towards The World’s End – its imposing façade was partly-covered by a huge advertisement touting the latest iPad. John led the way inside and up to the empty bar; we were served by a tattooed behemoth of a woman, who looked like she’d rolled into work after a night at the Ministry of Sound.


“What can I get you?” she asked, without even bothering to say hello. Her breath smelled faintly of cigarettes and she reeked of cheap perfume – somehow, it was comforting, like when you’re walking down the street and a sudden smell sends you back in time.


“Pint of Stella for me, please,” said John, pulling a wad of notes from his wallet. “Dan, what’s your poison?”


“I’ll have a Guinness,” I replied. To tell the truth, I needed it – this wasn’t what the job ad had led me to expect.


“Guinness, eh? Good man.” Beckoning to the barmaid, he muttered something and handed over a couple of bank notes – she came back with a handful of loose change and a packet of dry roasted peanuts. We took our drinks and climbed a red spiral staircase on to a gantry, which overlooked the empty interior. We sat down at a table and sipped at our drinks.


“So,” said John, trying not to stare at me as I wiped foam from my lip. “You’ve met the team, or most of them – Peter is away at the moment, he spends a lot of time in Palo Alto. You’ve seen the office, and not many people see that – believe me. You should have a pretty good idea of our culture, and I presume you know about our product.”


“I’ve got a profile,” I replied. “Is that enough?”


“It’s a start. Do you have a girlfriend, Dan? A wife? A family?”


“I’ve not got much of a family – my dad passed away when I was seventeen. Heart attack. Mom remarried – her and my step-dad are retired now. I don’t see them much.”


“I’m sorry to hear that, Dan. But it might be for the best. Our staff don’t have much time for the living – it comes with the job. What about a partner?”


“Sarah? She’s a journalist at TheNextWeb. She works long hours herself, so she knows how it is.”


“Does she now?” mused John, absentmindedly. He sipped from his pint, smacked his lips, opened up a pack of pork scratchings and continued. “I wonder. This job will kill your social life, and many a start-up has ruined a marriage or a long-term relationship. I’m warning you, Dan, because it’s only fair – it takes a big commitment to join this company, and I need you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into before you take the job.”


“Does that mean it’s mine if I want it?”


“Perhaps. I’m going to call you in 24 hours – you’ll know it’s me. Until then, I want you to seriously consider your options – if you decide you want to take the job, then we’ll discuss it. But I warn you – once you join us, there’s no turning back.”


“What is this, Yahoo?”


“Not quite.” John picked up his remaining half-pint and downed it in one – all at half eleven on a Monday morning. “Listen, Dan, I’ve got to go – I’m the only one on the front-end at the moment, and we’re having teething problems with our new beta. In all seriousness, I hope you’ll join us. When you lift up the bonnet, it’s a mess – I’m more of a businessman than a programmer, and we need someone who can tidy the code up. Enjoy your drink.”


And with that, he walked out and left me with half a pint of Stella and half a bag of pork scratchings. I did what any sane person would do, and started playing Angry Birds while picking at the open bag in front of me. When I finished my first pint, I ordered another.



****



Sarah wasn’t in when I got home, so I booted up my machine and sat down in front of it to work on my journal and to play with some code. Technically, I’m unemployed (at least, that’s what the taxman thinks), but I do some freelance work on the side as both a writer and a programmer. It’s a good life, if you love language – it doesn’t matter to me whether I’m writing in English, French or JavaScript.


I’d been tucked away for a couple of hours, tapping away at the keyboard, when I felt a gentle rush of air and heard a soft click as the front door opened and closed. There was a jingle of keys as Sarah threw them on to the coffee table, and she entered the study soon afterwards. She threw a used copy of The Metro on to my desk.


“How did it go?” she asked. I kissed her, and she sat down on a bean bag beside me.


“It went well,” I said. “Or at least, I think it did. There’s a lot for me to think about.”


“Well,” Sarah replied, “I’ll love and support you no matter what you choose to do.”


“You say that now. But have you really thought it through? This could change both of our lives, for better or for worse.”


“I know,” she said. “But sometimes you’ve got to take a chance. Maybe this is one of those times.”


“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”


“You do that,” she said, kissing me on the forehead and straightening my tie – for some reason, most likely laziness, I was still wearing the suit from the interview.


“I will. Now get out of my office – this JavaScript isn’t going to debug itself.”


“Charming. I’ll see myself out.” To be honest, I was glad to see the back of her – it had been a long, long day, and I had a lot to think about.


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Published on September 16, 2015 14:37
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