Kapitoil (22 page)

warehouse eyes = an example of a metaphor that may not have a directly logical meaning

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: DECEMBER 13

Rebecca didn’t contact me the remainder of the weekend, and on Monday I avoided her in the office. In the morning I received a response from Mr. Ray that Mr. Schrub could meet me that afternoon for lunch. I was nervous of course, but I also felt confident that my epidemiology proposal would intrigue him.

The restaurant had an Italian name and was in the Financial District, so I walked there. Every table was full of business-people, but it was also very quiet and partially dark even though it was lunchtime.

I waited for Mr. Schrub at the bar and ordered a Coke, and in ten minutes he arrived and the main guard led us to a long table in a private section behind a door. Most of the eaters watched him as we walked past but pretended not to, and I felt their eyes observing me as well, and although attention usually makes me feel uncomfortable, now I felt stronger and sexier.

“I already arranged to do the chef’s menu,” Mr. Schrub told me. “And I made sure your food is vegetarian and otherwise appropriate.”

I reminded myself how much he had given me and that he was considering my needs and how luxurious the room we were in was, with paintings of apples and pears on the wall and a very white tablecloth that was simultaneously rigid and soft, and I told him I appreciated it.

Our waiter was probably the same age as Mr. Schrub, although he looked older. After he gave Mr. Schrub the wine menu, I said, “I have a new idea relating to Kapitoil.”

He put down the menu. “George said you hadn’t come up with anything.”

I felt foolish that Mr. Ray had said that, and it validated my fear that they were less impressed with me now, so I quickly explained how the epidemiology program would work and how my test results were robust so far.

Then, to conclude on another positive, I said, “I believe its applications are something your wife would find especially intriguing, as it can significantly enhance quality of life in the Third World.”

“How would you develop the program if, as you say, you don’t know much about epidemiology?” he asked.

“I would write the concept and reveal the algorithms for Kapitoil in an academic paper and release it to the public.” I turned my eyes to the wallpaper’s complex repeating pattern design of flower petals. “This means we would lose our monopoly on the program and it would no longer be valuable on the oil futures market.”

The waiter returned. “I don’t like to talk business over good food,” Mr. Schrub said quietly to me. “We’ll discuss it after the meal.”

He continued looking at the menu, and after 20 seconds the waiter said, “We have an ’88 Chianti that perfectly complements chef’s menu.”

Mr. Schrub didn’t look up from the menu, but his facial muscles compressed and he said, “If I wanted a recommendation I would have asked for one.”

The waiter’s face was already pale, but it seemed to turn paler. “I apologize, sir,” he said.

Mr. Schrub ordered a different wine I had never heard of, and the waiter said “Excellent choice,” and exited quickly.

Mr. Schrub didn’t discuss the contract at all while we ate, and he didn’t even talk about finance. Instead, he told me about the food we were eating. He and Mrs. Schrub owned a house in Tuscany and they went there every summer for at least a week and bought food at local markets and cooked together. “I recently cooked my first Italian meal,” I said. Then I added, “I taught myself.”

When I ate several gnocchi and grilled zucchini ASAP, he said, “Don’t just gulp it down like a philistine. You have to rotate between the flavors, savor them.” I decelerated my pace and was afraid he would find other flaws in my method of consuming and that it would somehow hurt my chances of convincing him to pursue the epidemiology project. “Break the taste apart into discrete essences—the fresh sweetness of the basil against the earthiness of the gnocchi.” This is why I could never be a restaurant critic, because my only descriptions for food I liked were “delicious” or “flavorful” or simple adjectives in that class, and if you lack specific vocabulary to describe something, it is almost as if you are also restricted from specific thoughts, parallel to how if you do not know a coding command, not only are you prevented from implementing the idea, but you may not even innovate the idea initially.

After we received coffee I thought we were finally going to discuss my idea, but the owner of the restaurant entered and greeted Mr. Schrub.

“You must be a very important young man if you’re lunching with Mr. Schrub,” the owner said after Mr. Schrub introduced me, and I did feel like a VIYM again.

“He’s only as important as I let him be,” Mr. Schrub said. They both laughed, and the owner asked about our meal. Mr. Schrub said the food was excellent. “The waiter was perhaps a little big for his britches. You may want to have a word.”

The owner apologized and said he would speak with him, then left us to drink our coffee. Mr. Schrub didn’t say anything for almost a minute as he breathed on his coffee, and I was afraid of deleting the silence. He was like Barron in that way, because when they were mute I knew they were having thoughts they were withholding but I didn’t know what the thoughts were, except Barron usually made me feel relieved after.

I finally said, “Have you thought about—”

He put up a finger as he poured milk into his cup. After he tasted it and licked his lips and dried them with his napkin and replaced his napkin on his lap, he said, “The epidemiology proposal sounds like a brilliant idea. But before we do something that rash, I think we should investigate further. Why don’t you give my programmers access to the code, they can bring it up with some confidential partners who know more about this subject, and we can figure out if this thing really does have a fighting chance.” He retrieved the contracts from his briefcase. “We’ve also gotten you some more money.”

There was something about his “Why don’t you” sentence that bothered me besides the fact that it was less a question and more a statement. I looked at the contracts that I still didn’t 100% understand on the rigid white tablecloth. The solitary thing I did understand was the amount of money, which was boldfaced and double the initial amount.

“If it is all right with you, I prefer to update my prototype further before I release it to your programmers,” I said.

He replaced the contracts in his briefcase as efficiently as if he was a printer feeding paper. “I understand,” he said. “You’re a perfectionist. So am I.” He discussed the snowstorm expected next weekend, and we finished our coffee and he refused to permit me to pay for my share and told me to recontact him when I was ready.

I walked slowly back to the office. I replayed his sentence that bothered me, and I deciphered what caused turmoil for me: He used the phrase “my programmers,” but
I
was also technically one of his programmers. Later in the sentence he said “we can figure out,” so he should have also said “our programmers.” It was a minor word choice, but it indicated something negative to me.

I had to consult with someone. There was only one person I could think of who was not upset with me now and who I thought could help me.

“No, you’re not bothering me,” Barron said on the telephone after I told him I didn’t require a ride. “How’s your lady friend?”

I said Rebecca was fine. But I truly wanted to speak about Mr. Schrub, although of course I couldn’t reveal the full details of the situation to Barron. So I said, “Barron, what do you advise in a situation like this: Another party has given one great trust, and one would like to trust the other party, but one slightly believes one possibly should not trust everything about the other party.”

Barron said, “Slow the hell down. If you say the words ‘trust’ and ‘one’ and ‘the other party’ one more time, I’m going to hang up. This is about Rebecca, right?”

This would be a convenient way to discuss Mr. Schrub, but I didn’t want to lie to Barron. So I said, “I would not like to identify the party or parties involved.”

“You don’t make this easy,” he said. “Let me ask you: Are you the kind of guy who doesn’t usually trust people?”

I stood in the middle of a cluster of business people waiting to cross Pine St. “No, I believe most people have positive values and goals and merit faith.”

“That’s a nice attitude, but it’s dangerous. Especially in this city—it’s full of phonies.” I asked what phonies were. “Fakes, frauds, exploiters, if that’s a word. You’ve got to watch your back. And if you think someone’s trying to stab it, you have to turn around and confront them.”

I was afraid Barron would say this. Typically people know what the correct answer is when they search for advice, but they need someone else to state it first. It is similar to flipping a coin to make a decision but knowing what decision you want to make independent of the outcome. Or possibly of praying for an outcome that ultimately you have the power to influence.

“On the other hand, Rebecca is no phony,” he said.

“Rebecca is not the other party. Please do not hang up.” It was time to ask him for a major-league favor. “I have a contract someone wants me to sign, and I am uncertain about its contents. Are you skilled at deciphering legal language?”

“What, because I’m a cabbie I can’t read?” he asked.

“No, I only meant that the language is—”

“I’m messing around with you. You don’t always have to fear the wrath of the black man,” he said. “I’m okay with that stuff. But my wife deals with it all the time. You could fax it to her.”

“I would prefer not to transmit it via fax.” I thought for a few seconds. “Would you and your family like to come to my apartment for dinner?”

“Your place?” he asked.

“Well, shit, like I said, it’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to come over here.” He was surprised and confused by my words. “That is the same sentence you used when you permitted me to do Thanksgiving at your place. I was messing around with you as well.”

He whistled and said, “You’ve got a steel-trap mind there.” He told me he would have to check with his wife but he was fairly certain they could come. I gave him my address, because he drives so many people around and therefore does not have a steel-trap mind for that.

I prepared the same pasta meal I had cooked with Rebecca but utilized gnocchi this time and also blended the multi-fruit juice Michelle enjoyed at Thanksgiving. Barron and Cynthia brought nondairy cupcakes for dessert. It pleased me to be utilizing all four chairs for the first time. We had a pleasant conversation until they discussed what instrument Michelle should learn next year in school.

“Barron wants her to take saxophone,” Cynthia said. “He used to play it. Horribly.”

“And you’d rather have her learn the flute?” Barron said.

“I didn’t say it had to be the flute,” she said. “I said a
woodwind
.”

“The saxophone
is
a woodwind!” Barron said. Michelle was creating scalene triangles by lining up pieces of gnocchi on her plate. “I don’t want my daughter playing the flute. The flute is…” He shook his head and cleaned his mouth with his napkin.

“What?” she said. “Say it.”

He removed the napkin. “It’s bougie,” he said. “It’s a bougie instrument for bougie music that bougie people listen to.”

“I
listen to classical music,” Cynthia said.

“I’m not attacking you. But we do enough bougie shit already. And I never complain. You want to spend a grand on a couch, I don’t complain. You want to fly to Paris for Christmas, I don’t complain. This is the one thing I’m asking for.”

“Daddy’s
asking
for,” Michelle said, which was illogical, but children often repeat statements they hear without consideration, even if they are illogical and lacking context. Frequently I had to correct Zahira.

Cynthia was quiet. Then she said, “Let’s talk about this later.”

“No, let’s talk about this now,” Barron said. “Let’s ask Karim what he thinks.”

“Don’t bring him into this,” Cynthia said, and I mutely agreed with her, but Barron was looking at me and I felt I had to provide some input because I was asking them for help as well.

Michelle was resuming her triangles. “Possibly it is best to present her both options, and see which she is interested in and excels at,” I said.

“And she’ll be interested in the sax, like any intelligent person,” Barron said. “Good advice, Karim.” Cynthia looked upset. “Fine, we’ll discuss it later,” he added. “Okay?” Cynthia quietly said okay. It wasn’t the ideal parenting technique, but in some ways it is preferable for both parties to state their opinions, even if it produces arguments.

I said loudly, “I hope the gnocchi has enough earthiness.” No one responded for a few seconds until Cynthia said it was very tasty.

After the cupcakes, I made tea and Cynthia read my contract and I discussed politics with Barron, who knew much about American history and taught me about the 1960s political movements, which was another area I wanted to broaden my knowledge of.

Finally Cynthia said, “The language is complicated, but it looks to me like if you sign this, you’re transferring ownership of the intellectual property to the company.”

She explained the details, but I didn’t 100% listen to them. I was mute for several seconds before I remembered to thank her. I didn’t want them to ask more questions about what the intellectual property was, and fortunately Michelle yawned and Barron said they should get going. I walked them to the door and closed it behind them and sat down on my floor for several minutes.

Mr. Schrub had lied to me, or he had not told me the complete truth. And possibly he had only invited me to spend time with him not because he liked me, but because he wanted me to trust him enough to sign the contract.

I thought of what Barron said about confrontation. I emailed Mr. Ray again:

Then I understood that although Barron’s advice wasn’t about Rebecca, and although she wasn’t a phony like Mr. Schrub was, it was applicable to her to boot. It was cowardly of me to not contact her. You have to confront obstacles and not hope they will be resolved without hard work.