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Seven

T rainwreck.

Disaster.

The Titanic ramming the iceberg over and over is an understatement. Lounge chairs slide off the Titanic’s deck and into the water; the lights flicker. The passengers scream.

The director of engineering—“Call me Bob”—sits at one end of the conference table. There are strategically empty chairs on either side of him because no one wants to get too close. That’s the kill zone. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he wears a surly glower.

“Who peed in his Cheerios?” Rosie whispers. She sounds worried.

Zoomed to Godzilla-like size, our bug queue is projected on the screen.

I’m an engineer who fixes things, but our software is unfixable.

As soon as we fix one line of code, another breaks.

Not only can our testers not successfully book a trip, but the travel recommendations are wrong.

Bob searched for tropical vacations, and our algorithm recommended a cruise to Antarctica.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. We haven’t built a brilliant new travel app—we’ve constructed a new circle in hell.

“I’ll pitch my travel buddy alternative. He’ll love it,” I lie. Bob is clearly incapable of loving anything.

Rosie clears her throat and leans forward. “Remember Shonda. She will guide us.”

I admire her optimism. Noah fishes for a flip-flop under the table.

He has two hundred bugs in his queue. Casey has three hundred.

I have twelve, but I also haven’t got more than two hours sleep in the last week.

I’m holding my eyes open with my fingers.

Lying down under the table and snatching a quick nap would boost my productivity by 500 percent.

Bob cuts into the attempts of Fiona, our project manager, to minimize the colossal number of errors that we’ve uncovered. “No,” he snaps.

He is not a Shonda fan.

Fiona blinks. She opens her mouth.

“This is unacceptable.” Bob rolls over her. “How do you plan to fix this? How are you getting this project back on track?”

Rosie nudges me. I inhale. Go time. Pitch, pitch, PITCH! “I—”

The room explodes as everyone talks at once.

Noah unhelpfully mimes a bomb exploding; Rosie sits bolt upright on her chair, talking over everyone.

I think she might be trying to intercede on my behalf.

Six engineers, one director, a random woman in a very nice pantsuit, and the guy who delivers bagels (who has stuck around for no discernable reason) launch into diatribes about what is wrong with Engineering.

They have plans, ideas to sell. Loudly. There is hand waving and f-bombs that are entirely inappropriate in an office setting ( but I feel you, Noah, I feel you ).

Casey diagrams a piece of code on the whiteboard that looks like it could launch a nuclear missile.

I wait for a break in the noise to share my travel buddy plan.

And wait. And wait some more. The director’s scowl has carved deep grooves into his forehead and alongside his mouth.

He radiates his displeasure as he snaps his laptop shut.

He glances at his phone. Tosses his coffee cup in the recycling bin.

We’re losing him. Oh God, he’s leaving. His next stop will be HR and we’ll all have an email. You’re fired, effectively immediately.

“I need a talking stick,” I mutter. There’s no getting a word in edgewise. No one is listening to me.

“A big club,” Rosie agrees instantly. She’s listening to me. She’s an excellent multitasker. “I can shut them up.”

She jams her fingers in the mouth—rainbows on her nails, a glittery moon on one thumb—and whistles.

All heads swivel toward us.

Silence falls. Okay, so I really didn’t expect that to work.

“Pandora has the floor,” Rosie says firmly. “She has an alternative proposal to share with us.”

But…my brain freezes, and no words come out of my mouth. Everyone is looking, and looking, and looking, and my slide deck has not magically jumped off my desktop and onto the projector screen. This is the most intensely uncomfortable moment of my life.

Rosie nudges me hard. “Do you want me to run your deck?”

God. Do it. Also, please read the words and give my presentation for me. Director Bob is half out of his chair and Pantsuit Lady has drifted toward the door. I nod frantically at Rosie. “YES.”

Rosie is up for the challenge. “Travel buddies! A world-class matching algorithm! Dum, dum, dum, DUM DUUUMMMMMMM.”

She attempts a drumroll on the tabletop. Noah lends her an assist, tapping a percussive rhythm on his side. Bob looks like he may not wait until he’s in the HR lady’s office to fire us. The Titanic nosedives into the deepest crevasse in the ocean.

Visualize your audience naked. Google promises this works for presentation anxiety.

I inappropriately strip my coworkers to their underwear, naked being a bridge too far (plus: Bob).

For absolutely no reason, Ozzy pops into my head.

I see him sprawled on my sofa, one thick, muscled arm behind his head.

The other slides down his chest and into the front of his pineapple-print briefs.

He cups his massive banana of a dick and… Am I drooling?

Rosie nudges me again. She may have cracked a rib. I glance down at the bear Post-it that is stuck to the left of my trackpad for no discernable reason.

Shonda , Rosie mouths.

I try to pretend I am a super successful, highly creative media executive as I stand up. Semi-convinced, my knees hold. Shonda can walk to the front of the room. Shonda is not worried that her shirt is riding up and her pants are stuck in her butt crack. I trip over my own foot, but I make it.

Conversation is starting to resume as I stop in front of the whiteboard and erase Casey’s code. It would never execute. There’s a logic error in the tenth line.

“Who are you?” Director Bob’s backside (which I am never, ever imagining naked) hovers over his chair. He’s leaving. Walking out. My opportunity is rapidly vanishing.

“Pandora Fyffe. I’m the chief play officer’s replacement.” I’m the whole wheat bagel the coffee shop offers when they’ve just sold the last cake pop to the customer in front of you. I’m second choice. Better than nothing.

“Make this work and the job is yours,” he quips and I nod. We have a deal. He sits down—all the way—and looks at me. His face telegraphs, Don’t think we’ve met.

Spoiler: we have.

“Yes. Slide, please,” I say to Rosie. She dramatically punches a button on my keyboard. “I have an alternate proposal for you, one that will get us to our goal of launching a revolutionary new travel-booking engine.”

My voice is thinner than a model at New York Fashion Week. My TripFriendz T-shirt, the open button-up shirt, and blue jeans—these suddenly seem insufficient. I want a pantsuit. A makeover. Armor.

“When’s Margie back?” He talks to Pantsuit Lady, as if I’m not presenting. He’s so rude. “Soon?”

Pantsuit Lady bends down and whispers something in his ear. They both look slightly constipated.

I forge ahead with my presentation. This Shonda imitator needs to pee when nervous, so the sooner I start, the sooner I can finish and run to the unisex restroom.

“We’ve been trying to come up with a recommendation algorithm that pairs people with trips.

” I point to my slide that lays out our current project goals in Times New Roman sixteen-point font: tell people where to go, sell them trips to said locations, rake in the cash.

The sunshine-yellow background (which Google promised me is cheerful) ruthlessly swallows up my bullet points.

“I am aware.” Bob’s voice is drier than the Sahara.

There’s a wave of laughter. Someone should have brought popcorn.

I plow ahead. Nod to Rosie, who advances the slides. “But that’s the wrong problem.”

“Pretty sure it’s not,” Bob rumbles. He looks personally affronted. Oh God. Was this disaster his idea?

There’s no way to go but forward.

Briefly, I entertain a plan to run out of the room, down the stairs, and onto the street.

I can move into a cardboard box and earn an income begging passersby to fill my empty coffee cup with spare change.

Which no one even has anymore because who carries cash?

It’s all Venmo and Cash App and probably some new payment app that just launched yesterday but that my entire engineering team will use to split the bill if we ever have time to go out to lunch.

“Instead of matching travelers to trips, we’ll match them to their perfect travel buddy.”

Reaction ripples through the room. Bob frowns. My currentAnxietyLevel increments.

I move to my next slide. I’ve put together compelling stats on the number of solo travelers out there, the atrociously high single supplement charged by so many travel providers, all the reasons why it’s cheaper, safer, and just gosh darn easier to travel as a couple.

I graph the data points: every year more single people venture out into the world.

The straight line goes up and up and up…

but the question really is: do they actually want to be on their own?

I force myself to look around the room. To make eye contact. “Stop me if you’ve heard any of these when you travel solo. ‘Is it just you?’ ‘We need a minimum of two people.’ ‘Aren’t you lonely? Don’t you have friends ?’”

There are head nods. Confirming noises. Noah googles on his phone.

I round second base, running for home. “How many times has someone you know blown up your phone with a thousand vacation pics? They’re doing it because they want someone else to share the experience with.

They want to talk about it. They don’t want to be alone .

It’s not that they don’t have friends—it’s that their friends don’t have the same time off or maybe the same interests or even enough cash to tag along.

There are good reasons why our solo traveler is alone. Case in point…”

Rosie advances to the next slide.

“Noah sent us five hundred pictures of the cookie dough croissant he enjoyed in Paris last month.”

“I would have loved a travel buddy,” he instantly confirms. I now love Noah, in a completely platonic, workplace-appropriate way. “And yes, I have friends.”

He looks anxious, so I move on quickly.

“If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? If you’re the only one who sees something really cool, does it count? Will you remember it?”

Rosie is nodding enthusiastically, her head whipping back and forth like a bobblehead doll in a hurricane. She’s all in. Color her convinced.

“We’re going to find you your perfect travel buddy. We’re Trip Friendz . And then once we’ve matched you to your new trekking friend or sightseeing partner or whomever, we’ll sell you the perfect trip the two of you can take. Together.”

Rosie is clapping enthusiastically. “It’s matchmaking for the travel set!”

“And this is how we’re going to do it,” I say.

And then I tell them.

I lay out the algorithm I’ve come up with. The wireframe. The databases we’ll need. The enormous tables of data we’ll require to make this all meaningful. The engineers look part sick to their stomachs, part enthused.

Calling this a technical challenge is like opting into a short stroll after Thanksgiving dinner and finding yourself at the base of the Matterhorn with nowhere to go but up.

There will be dead bodies (hopefully not mine).

Painful scrambles across rock. Way too much snow and ice.

Fingers and toes may have to be sacrificed.

“But we can do this.” I round into my conclusion. I’m sliding toward home plate and a ball is streaking toward my head. I’m so close. “I already have a working prototype for the algorithm.”

Bob blinks. Frowns. Blinks some more.

Pantsuit Lady leans in. “How will we get the data points for the travelers? It will have to be opt in, but is it a blind date or do you get to swipe left and right on your potential buddies?”

That feels suspiciously like signing up for a threesome.

“It will not be a popularity contest,” I say firmly. “We’re going to ask meaningful questions and analyze your responses. And then we’ll find you your perfect travel buddy and send you off on a trip together.”

I sit down. My knees tremble and I have to stress pee urgently. Presenting sucks.

There is a moment of silence and then the usual explosion of noise. But…they’re talking about my idea.

Five minutes later I have a green light and a week.

Bob walks up as I’m gathering up my things. Rosie thumbs-ups me behind his back. Then she draws the letter u in the air. Or maybe it’s a boat? A slice of cantaloupe. Smile , she mouths.

Oh. Right. I do my best.

“Nice job, Firth. I see you do want to be the next chief play officer. Make this work and it’s yours.”

He nods brusquely and steps away. Pantsuit Lady falls in beside him. They’re almost inappropriately joined at the hip.

Her question drifts back to me as they walk away. “Do you think she can handle Margie’s job? You wanted someone who can lead.”

I’m going to brain her with my titanium reusable water bottle.

“I know. But she’s motivated.” Bob moves toward the door. He may not know my last name, but he does know that I can hear him, right? “And she’s here.”

I’m stale Cheetos when you need a midnight snack.

A paper towel when the toilet roll is empty.

The last middle seat on the plane. I turn toward the door.

I need to stand up for myself. Sell myself.

Do something . Pantsuit Lady shoots me an assessing look over her shoulder.

And a smile. That seems like positive feedback.

“You can do it!” Rosie sings in my ear. She is my cheerleader. The mom clapping for her awkward five-year-old at gymnastics class.

“I can.” It’s a vow. I inhale. Believe in myself. I’ll nurture the tiny seed of my algorithm plan until it sprouts like Jack’s bean stalk.

All of you will see who I am .