The Startup Wife(20)
And just like that, we are Utopians.
* * *
We don’t have the faintest idea what to do next. We consider our row of desks and twelve pristine ergonomic chairs.
“So?”
“So.”
“Here we are,” I say.
Cyrus nods. “Living the dream.”
Jules, who has taken in the tour without a word, erupts. “Oh my God, Cy, you look like you just stepped in dog shit. You’re going to ruin this whole thing. Did you hear what she said? Free food! Free desks! Free yoga!”
“You hate yoga,” Cyrus says.
“Not anymore, my friend, not anymore.”
I had worried about the wrong thing. I didn’t expect Cyrus to be won over by Utopia, but I thought he would at least be a little impressed with Li Ann and her doomsday prepping. But he had hated it on sight. I’m seeing it through his eyes now, everything shiny and engineered, the expensive artwork, the reminders that we are products of extreme privilege, solving problems that most people would be lucky to have. I feel bad, because of course he’s right, but I also resent him for taking the air out of my moment.
“What do you think it will be like?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “I mean every day.”
Cyrus doesn’t care. “Do you know, Jules?”
“Not really. I ran Sellyourshit.com from my bedroom.”
“It won’t be like we’re running a hamster wheel, right?”
“No, Asha, it totally won’t be that,” Jules assures me. “It’ll be like it was before, except with other people.”
“What other people?”
“The people we have to hire.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that.
“We get to choose the people.” It’s becoming clear that none of us knows anything about starting a business. We’ve hardly even had jobs.
“Let’s make a plan,” I say brightly.
I spot a whiteboard on the wall, but if I stand up in front of it, Destiny and her Consentify team will see me writing down my inane thoughts, so I rustle around in my bag and take out a pen and a notebook.
“I need coffee,” Jules says. “Let’s go downstairs.”
The cafe downstairs is vegan, nut-free, gluten-free, and actually free. All you have to do is fill out a survey on your way out. We get three coffee hemp mylkshakes with extra CBD shots and settle ourselves in a corner with a view of the Hudson.
Cyrus is gazing out the window at the pier. I can feel him silently judging me. He’s here but he’s not here—he’s said yes, he’s shown up at Utopia, he’s moved into my parents’ house, and now he sees the whole thing for what it is, a shallow and pointless adventure.
“I’m going to start working on v2 of the platform,” I say, falling back onto what I know best. “That’s obviously the next step.”
“I’ll get into the business plan and start thinking about fundraising,” Jules says.
Cyrus breaks away from staring at the Hudson and turns to us. “I think we should take a step back and put everything on the table,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want us to talk about our deepest fears. Jules, can you take notes?”
I say, “I’m worried my parents will hear you and me having sex.”
“I’m not going to write that down,” Jules says, groaning.
“Please take it seriously, Asha.”
“Okay, fine. I’m worried Li Ann is going to kick us out when she finds out how normal we are.”
“I’m worried I’ll embarrass myself again,” Jules says.
“I’m worried we’re going to become evil like everyone else.”
“This is great,” I say. “This is super productive.”
“You don’t just become evil,” Jules says. “It’s not contagious.”
“I’m worried it will get away from us and we’ll lose our moral compass.”
“With you in charge? No way.”
“I’m not in charge, remember?”
“Right.”
Cyrus continues. “I’m worried people won’t have anywhere to turn to if something goes wrong, if the ritual they get isn’t right or they want to change something,” Cyrus says.
At least he’s trying. “Good idea,” I agree. “We need some way for people to talk to us, and to each other, about how the ritual is working for them.” I scribble Messaging service on a piece of paper to remind me later.
“Maybe they can upload photos,” Jules suggests.
“I don’t want to turn into Instagram,” Cyrus says.
“It’s not Instagram, it’s insta-religion.”
“It’s not religion.”
We have the debate all over again. The whole point is that we are giving people an alternative to religion, but we always have to skirt around religion in order to do that. And every time we mention it, talk about God or fate or creation, Cyrus freaks out, as if we’re handing him a crown of thorns.
“People need to hold on to something,” I tell him. I am thinking about my mother, how for years she had refused to enter a mosque, but lately, I’ve found her peppering her sentences with “Inshallah, God willing,” and once I even caught her kneeling on the carpet in her bedroom, her body angled in a direction which I assumed was east, toward Mecca. “When they get old, or when something bad happens to them, people need belief systems.”