Last night's 12th cup of coffee has pooled, for some reason, in two of the toes of my left foot. My right hand is contracted into a claw and feels like it's asleep. Too much mousing, I guess. I hobble over to the shower and manage, despite the deformed hand, to get a toasty shower going.
And I thought working at an Internet start-up would be fun.
Off to work. Walk to the bus and ride across town. It's mostly kids in jeans, arty East Village types and old ladies with shopping carts. Being at a start-up means never having to be at the office by 10. There's some advantage, at least. Oh, yeah, but it's Sunday.
Walk down the subway corridor past the familiar posters for more Dot Coms, pea-sized stomach churns and compacts to the density of a neutron star. Walk quickly by the newsstand averting eyes from the stacks of newspapers. Must not think about the economy, must not think about the economy.
Doze in the subway car until a lurch brings me awake. Bleary gaze falls on the business section of the Times someone has left thrown open on the car floor. Dot Com headlines immediately glow and leap off the page, turn into swirling ghosts and spin around my head laughing -- "You are over-valued. You are over-valued. Forget the new Audi, the vacation to Mexico. Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Imagine what the headlines will be saying this time a year from now:
"Life After the Crash: Silicon Alley High-Flyers Try to Pick Up the PiecesNew York, Sept. 14, 2000 -- Stan X, 31, was on his way to being worth over a million dollars just six months ago. But that was on paper. Now, gone is the condo in TriBeCa and the gym membership. He's had to move back in with his parents in West Orange, N.J.
'I guess as a Gen-Xer I always knew I was doomed, that it couldn't last,' says the black-clad, balding former Web producer. Asked about his future, 'It's back to Kinkos...' he said.
Arrive at work, click on computer. Check email. Get coffee. Stare at computer. It's hard to avoid the Net when you've got a 20" monitor backed up by a T-1 in your face all day. Nevertheless, studiously avoid surfing the Net -- my nerves can't take it anymore. Still eyes wander. Someone sitting next to me is checking out the site of another start-up doing something similar to what we're doing. Even if the economy doesn't crash before Tuesday, competitors are popping up like weeds in a nightmare. At least once a day, the guy who sits next to me shakes his head and says with certainty: "We are dead, we are dead."
Nevertheless, big-wig potential CEOs circle us. Today, one takes a nice Sunday drive to our office in his 100K Mercedes SLK with his girlfriend and shakes all our hands. For him, becoming our CEO would be a fun game and maybe a shot at catapulting himself from the ranks of the really rich to the ranks of the so-rich-people-write-about-you-just-because-you-are-so-rich rich.
The engineers program night and day. One of them actually lives in the office. Rolls up his futon during work hours.
Feeling tired and scared, I drift off and my head falls forward and hits the keyboard, accidentally causing my mail program to fire off the following message to all 129 people in my address book: "a'[ufey a';gojMGV.apu9hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"
When I finally come to my senses, I find myself lying in a bed, surrounded by people I think I should know. "Honey, it's your mom. And here's your dad. You remember your sister and your brother..." says the kind-looking woman. I know you haven't seen us in several years, ever since you got that job working for a Web site. But did you know your sister here got married?"
"Oh, and, honey," she says, "The doctor says it would be good for you to get back out in society. I lined up a job interview for you at Kinkos..."
