The Circle (14 page)

“Don’t be. Get in here.”

Annie opened a door to a beautiful room, some cross between a buffet and a museum
and a trade show.

“How crazy is this?”

The room looked vaguely familiar. Mae had seen something like this on TV.

“It’s like one of those gift bag places for celebrities, right?”

Mae scanned the room. There were products spread all over dozens of tables and platforms.
But here, instead of jewelry and pumps there were sneakers and toothbrushes and a
dozen types of chips and drinks and energy bars.

Mae laughed. “I’m guessing this is free?”

“For you, for very important people like you and me, yes.”

“Jesus Christ. All of this?”

“Yup, this is the free sample room. It’s always full, and this stuff needs to get
used one way or the other. We invite rotating groups in—sometimes it’s programmers,
sometimes CE people like you. Different group every day.”

“And you just take whatever you want?”

“Well, you have to zap your ID on anything you’re taking so they know who’s taken
what. Otherwise some idiot takes home the whole room.”

“I haven’t seen any of this stuff yet.”

“In stores? No, none of this stuff is in stores yet. These are prototypes and test
runs.”

“These are actual Levi’s?”

Mae was holding a pair of beautiful jeans, and she was sure they did not yet exist
in the world.

“They might be a few months till market, maybe a year. You want those? You can ask
for a different size.”

“And I can wear them?”

“As opposed to what, wiping your ass with them? Yeah, they want you to wear them.
You’re an influential person working at the Circle! You’re a style leader, early adopter,
all that.”

“These are actually my size.”

“Good. Take two. You have a bag?”

Annie retrieved a cloth bag with the Circle logo on it and gave it to Mae, who was
hovering over a display of new phone covers and accessories. She picked up a beautiful
phone shell that was sturdy as stone, but with a chamois-smooth surface.

“Crap,” Mae said. “I didn’t bring my phone.”

“What? Where is it?” Annie asked, astounded.

“I guess at my desk.”

“Mae, you are incredible. You’re so focused and together, but then you have these
weird spacy lapses. You came to lunch without your phone?”

“Sorry.”

“No. It’s what I love about you. You’re like part human, part rainbow. What? Don’t
get upset.”

“I’m just getting a lot of input today.”

“You’re not still worried, are you?”

“You think it’s okay, that meeting with Dan and Alistair?”

“It’s definitely okay.”

“He’s just that sensitive?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Alistair? Beyond all reason. But he writes great code. The
guy is a machine. It’d take a year to find and train someone to do what he does. So
we have to deal with the crazy. There are just some nuts here. Needy nuts. And there
are those, like Dan, who enable the nuts. But don’t worry. I don’t think you’ll overlap
much—with Alistair at least.” Annie checked the time. She had to go.

“You stay till that bag is full,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

Mae stayed, and filled her bag with jeans, and food, and shoes, and a few new covers
for her phone, a sports bra. She left the room, feeling like a shoplifter, but encountered
no one on the way out. When she got back to her desk, there were eleven messages from
Annie.

She read the first:
Hey Mae, realizing I shouldn’t have gone off on Dan and Alistair that way. Wasn’t
very nice. Not Circly at all. Pretend I didn’t say it
.

The second:
You get my last msg?

The third:
Starting to freak out a little. Why aren’t you answering me?

Fourth:
Just texted you, called you. Are you dead? Shit. Forgot you forgot your phone. You
suck
.

Fifth:
If you were offended by what I said about Dan don’t go all silent-treatment. I said
sorry. Write back
.

Sixth:
Are you getting these messages? It’s v. important. Call me!

Seventh:
If you’re telling Dan what I said you’re a bitch. Since when do we tattle on each
other?

Eighth:
Realizing you might just be in a meeting. True?

Ninth:
It’s been 25 mins. What is UP?

Tenth:
Just checked and see that you’re back at your desk. Call me this instant or we’re
through. I thought we were friends
.

Eleventh:
Hello?

Mae called her.

“What the hell, spaz?”

“Where
were
you?”

“I saw you twenty minutes ago. I finished in the sample room, used the bathroom, and
now I’m here.”

“Did you tell on me?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you tell on me?”

“Annie, what the fuck?”

“Just tell me.”

“No, I didn’t tell on you. To who?”

“What did you say to him?”

“Who?”

“Dan.”

“I haven’t even seen him.”

“You didn’t send a message to him?”

“No. Annie, shit.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

Annie sighed. “Okay. Fuck. Sorry. I sent him a message, and called him, and hadn’t
heard back. And then I didn’t hear back from you, and my brain just put all this together
in a weird way.”

“Annie, shit.”

“Sorry.”

“I think you’re overstressed.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Let me get you some drinks tonight.”

“Thanks, no.”

“Please?”

“I can’t. We have too many things going on here this week. Just trying to deal with
this clusterfuck in Washington.”

“Washington? What about it?”

“It’s such a long story. I can’t say, actually.”

“But you’re the one that has to handle it? All of Washington?”

“They give me some of the government-hassle stuff because, I don’t know, because they
think my dimples help. Maybe they do. I don’t know. I just wish there were five of
me.”

“You sound terrible, Annie. Take a night off.”

“No, no. I’ll be fine. I just have to answer these queries from some subcommittee.
It’ll be fine. But I better go. Love you.”

And she hung up.

Mae called Francis. “Annie won’t go out with me. Will you? Tonight?”

“Out-out? There’s a band here tonight. You know the Creamers? They’re playing in the
Colony. It’s a benefit.”

Mae said yes, that sounded good, but when the time came, she didn’t want to see a
band called the Creamers play in the Colony. She cajoled Francis into her car, and
they left for San Francisco.

“You know where we’re going?” he asked.

“I don’t. What are you doing?”

He was typing furiously into his phone. “I’m just telling everyone I’m not coming.”

“Finished?”

“Yes.” He dropped his phone.

“Good. Let’s drink first.”

And so they parked downtown and found a restaurant that looked so terrible, with faded
and unappetizing pictures of the food taped haphazardly to the windows, that they
figured it might be cheap. They were right, and they ate curry and drank Singha and
sat in bamboo chairs that squealed and strained to stay erect. Somewhere toward the
end of her first beer, Mae decided that she would have a second, quickly, and that
shortly after dinner she would kiss Francis on the street.

They finished dinner and she did.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Did you just thank me?”

“You just saved me so much inner turmoil. I’ve never made the first move in my life.
But usually it takes a woman weeks to figure out she’ll have to take the initiative.”

Again Mae had the feeling of being clubbed with information that complicated her feelings
about Francis, who seemed so sweet one moment and so strange and unfiltered the next.

Still, because she was riding at the crest of a Singha wave, she led him by the hand
back to her car, where they kissed more, while parked on a very busy intersection.
A homeless man was watching them, as an anthropologist would, from the sidewalk, miming
the taking of notes.

“Let’s go,” she said, and they left the car, and wandered through the city, finding
a Japanese souvenir shop open, and, next to it, also
open, a gallery full of photorealistic paintings of gigantic human haunches.

“Big pictures of big asses,” Francis noted, as they found a bench, in an alley-turned-piazza,
the streetlamps above giving it the look of blue moonlight. “That was real art. I
couldn’t believe they hadn’t sold anything yet.”

Mae kissed him again. She was in a kissing mood, and knowing that Francis wouldn’t
make any aggressive moves, she felt at ease, kissing him more, knowing it would be
only kissing tonight. She threw herself into the kissing, making it mean lust, and
friendship, and the possibility of love, and kissed him while thinking of his face,
wondering if his eyes were open, if he cared about the passersby who clucked or who
hooted but still passed by.

In the days that followed, Mae knew that it could be true, that the sun could be her
halo, that the leaves could exist to marvel at her every step, to urge her on, to
congratulate her on this Francis, what the two of them had done. They had celebrated
their shimmering youth, their freedom, their wet mouths, and had done so in public,
fueled by the knowledge that whatever hardships they had faced or would face, they
were working at the center of the world and trying mightily to improve it. They had
reason to feel good. Mae wondered if she was in love. No, she knew she was not in
love, but she was, she felt, at least halfway. That week, she and Francis ate lunch
together often, even if briefly, and after they ate, they found a place to lean against
each other and kiss. Once it was under a fire exit behind the
Paleozoic. Once it was in the Roman Empire, behind the paddle courts. She loved his
taste, always clean, simple like lemon water, and how he would remove his glasses,
look briefly lost, then would close his eyes and look almost beautiful, his face as
smooth and uncomplicated as a child’s. Having him near brought a new crackle to the
days. Everything was astounding. Eating was astounding, under the bright sun, the
heat of his shirt, his hands on her ankle. Walking was astounding. Sitting in the
Enlightenment was astounding, as they were now doing, awaiting Dream Friday in the
Great Hall.

“Pay attention,” Francis said. “I really think you’ll like this.”

Francis wouldn’t tell Mae what the subject of that Friday’s innovation talk was. The
speaker, Gus Khazeni, had apparently been part of Francis’s child safety project before
he spun off, four months ago, to head up a new unit. Today would be his first airing
of his findings and new plan.

Mae and Francis sat near the front, at Gus’s request. He wanted to see some friendly
faces as he spoke, for the first time, in the Great Hall, Francis said. Mae turned
to scan the crowd, seeing Dan a few rows back, and Renata and Sabine, sitting together,
concentrating on a tablet laid between them.

Eamon Bailey stepped onto the stage to warm applause.

“Well, we really have a treat for you today,” he said. “Most of you know our local
treasure and jack-of-all-trades, Gus Khazeni. And most of you know he had an inspiration
a while back that we urged him to follow. Today he’ll do a bit of a presentation,
and I think you’ll really like it.” And with that, he ceded the stage to Gus, who
had the odd combination of preternaturally good looks and a timid, mouse-like
demeanor. Or at least it seemed that way, as he pittered across the stage like he
was tip-toeing.

“Okay, if you’re like me, you’re single and pathetic and forever a disappointment
to your Persian mother and father and grandparents, who see you as a failure for not
having a mate and children by now because you’re pathetic.”

Laughs from the audience.

“Did I use the word pathetic twice?” More laughter. “If my family was here, it would
have been many more times.

“Okay,” Gus continued, “but let’s say you want to please your family, and maybe yourself
too, by finding a mate. Anyone interested in finding a mate here?”

A few hands rose up.

“Oh c’mon. You liars. I happen to know that 67 percent of this company is unmarried.
So I’m talking to you. The other 33 percent can go to hell.”

Mae laughed out loud. Gus’s delivery was perfect. She leaned over to Francis. “I love
this guy.”

He continued: “Now maybe you tried other dating sites. And let’s say you’re matched
up, and that’s all good, and you’re headed out for a rendezvous. All good, the family’s
happy, they briefly entertain the idea that you’re not a worthless use of their shared
DNA.

“Now, the second you ask someone out, you’re screwed, right? Actually, you’re not
screwed. You’re celibate, but you want to change that. So you spend the rest of the
week stressing over where to take them—food, concert, wax museum? Some kind of dungeon?
You have no idea. The wrong choice and you’re an idiot. You know that you
have a wide variety of tastes, things you like, and they probably do, too, but that
first choice is too important. You need help to send the right message—the message
being that you’re sensitive, intuitive, decisive, you have good taste and you’re perfect.”

The crowd was laughing; they hadn’t stopped laughing. The screen behind Gus now showed
a grid of icons, with information listed clearly below each. Mae could make out what
seemed to be symbols for a restaurant, for movies, music, shopping, outdoor activities,
beaches.

“Okay,” Gus continued, “so check this out and remember it’s just a beta version. This
is called LuvLuv. Okay, maybe that name sucks. Actually, I know it sucks and we’re
working on it. But this is how it works. When you’ve found someone, and you have their
name, you made contact, you have a date planned—this is when LuvLuv comes in. Maybe
you’ve already memorized their dating-site page, their personal page, all their feeds.
But this LuvLuv gives you an entirely different set of information. So you feed in
your date’s name. That’s the start. Then LuvLuv scans the web and uses some high-powered
and very surgical search machinery to ensure that you don’t make an ass out of yourself
and that you might find love and produce grandchildren for your baba, who thinks you
might be sterile.”