The Startup Wife(83)
The image on the TV screen is static. SOCIAL MEDIA PROMPTED YOUNG MAN TO ATTEMPT SUICIDE, the headline reads. “Just a minute,” the correspondent says, “I think Cyrus Jones, CEO of WAI, is here to talk to Stephen. He’s being led through the police barrier by an officer.”
Cyrus is here? The camera shows him being led to the entrance of Utopia. Then a few minutes later it cuts to the scene on the roof, and I see him in a corner of the frame. Stephen raises his arms up and down. The camera tries to zoom in, but he’s too small and grainy to make out much beyond an outline.
The image changes, and now we’re in the studio with the newscasters. “We have a social psychologist and expert on social media here to comment on the situation. Dr. Sharma, you’ve spoken publicly before about the dangers of these types of websites. Is this the result of being overly dependent on the internet for the kinds of social connections we used to enjoy in person?”
“This platform claimed to be more responsible,” Dr. Sharma says. “They were quick to ban people who went against their values or shared content that was harmful. They were overtly progressive—the Woodstock of the internet, we were told. But at the end of the day, they’re all the same—the whole sector needs to be regulated.”
The presenter nods, citing all the ways we had sold people a fantasy. I don’t know what bothers me more, the suggestion that we’re like everyone else, or that we tried to be different but failed.
They go back and forth for a while, and when Dr. Sharma runs out of things to say, they cut back to Cyrus and Stephen. There’s a photo montage of Cyrus—Cyrus being greeted by a raptuous crowd, Cyrus shaking hands with Bill Gates, radiating his confident CEO smile, Cyrus glowing as if he’s been dipped in caramel. Then, for a little while, the virus story takes over. Pictures from Wuhan, where the streets are empty and everyone is under lockdown. Time moves slowly and it’s two a.m., then three. Jules and Gaby sit quietly on the sofa, their eyes glued to the TV, while Ren and I monitor the platform. Suddenly, the broadcast ends and cuts to commercial.
I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I think he’s done it.”
Li Ann turns up the volume on the television. “I’m very sorry to report that Stephen Grant, the thirty-two-year-old man from Bridgeport, Connecticut, who’s been standing on the roof of Utopia, a co-working space in Chelsea… I’m sorry to say we have just learned that Stephen has ended his life. We go live now. Chris, tell us what happened there in the last tragic minutes.”
Chris, the newscaster, is on the sidewalk across the street from Utopia. “Well, Dan, the scene here is heartbreaking. It seems that the CEO of the social media platform, WAI, was trying to talk Stephen out of his actions, but ultimately, Cyrus Jones was unable to persuade the young man to come down, and as you know, Dan, he took matters into his own hands.”
I feel a ripple, a tear in the membrane that surrounds us; everything is muffled and strange. Jules is crying softly in a corner. Ren has stopped typing and is sitting with his hands folded in front of his computer. Tina has brought me a glass of water, and I drink it. “How do we— How do we know Cyrus is okay?”
“There are a lot of firefighters up there,” Li Ann says. “They’ll take care of him.”
I’m suddenly very tired. I want to close my eyes and sleep through the next few hours, but Tina won’t let me; she’s nudging me, giving me things to do. “One of you has to start getting on top of the story. You decide who. I’ve got all the networks lined up for interviews. Asha, maybe you want to go on Today, and send Julian to some of the afternoon shows. I’ll have my team make a schedule with talking points.”
Ren is back at the computer; Li Ann is breaking open a bag of peanuts. She looks up, meets my eyes, and gives me a short nod. “Okay, Tina,” I say. “I’ll do the interviews. I’m not sure if Cyrus will be up for talking, but it’s probably better if he addresses the community directly.”
“You’re keeping coolheaded,” Tina says. “I respect that.”
“This is my company,” I say. “I built it with my own hands.”
* * *
Dawn is cracking open over New York. The building is safe, the firefighters have said. We can’t go to the roof, but we can return to our desks. There’s a stretch of Tenth Avenue that’s cordoned off, but here on the fourth floor, it’s like nothing ever happened. Jules, Ren, Gaby, and I are waiting for Cyrus to come down. He’s being supported, one of the firefighters tells us. “But is he okay?” I ask. “Did he—did he get hurt?”
“No,” the firefighter tells me. “He’s just in shock.”
We wait in silence. Every once in a while Jules gets up, walks around the room, and sits back down. Our teacups clutter the surfaces. Eventually, Cyrus comes in, walking very slowly. I wonder if he is hurt, but he shifts his weight and I realize it’s not an injury, at least not one I can see.
Our eyes meet, and before I know it, I’m crossing the room and wrapping my arms around him, telling him it’s okay, that it wasn’t his fault, that he did everything he could. Jules reaches for us and we all hold each other for a long time. Cyrus is crying softly. “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “You did everything you could. And I’m sorry too, Cy, I’m sorry for what I said. I’m so sorry.”