An embarrassing errand. A visit to a friend’s start up. A whizkid with an incredible workplace requirements. An unexpected gift…
Even though I was made redundant a year and a half ago, I’m on my way back to my old office, again. This time I’m picking up some clothes I left behind, maybe a sweater.
(In my dreams, a variety of events compel me to return to the office in perpetuity, forcing a series of increasingly awkward farewells.)
But before I complete that embarrassing errand, I’m meeting up with my friend Andrew, who recently quit his senior role at a well-known corporation to join a promising startup.
As I approach him I notice he’s wearing a stylish dark tan macintosh and that he has a focused, confident air.
The startup is a bootstrapped operation, and there are only three members of staff. Andrew will handle marketing, while one of his old uni friends (who I’ve met a few times before, but don’t know very well) will handle operations.
Then there’s the third guy – the young visionary without whom the whole enterprise wouldn’t be possible.
Andrew needs to pop into the office and he invites me to join him. He wants me to meet this genius, just to see what he’s like.
The Third Man
Andrew warns that his co-founder is a bit of an oddball, but I assure him that I can talk at his level. For some reason, I’m confident that I have the intuitive pastoral skills to deal with this difficult character.
The team has rented a space in a scruffy little office building, chosen purely for its affordability, until they have some product to ship.
They’re based in a single cramped and shabby room, not much wider than a galley kitchen. Bar lights cast an artificial glow; there’s some pine veneer panelling on the dado, and a couple of old PCs on a low countertop. It really is a barebones operation.
Andrew’s mate from university sits staring at a monitor, making steady if uneven progress through the late-afternoon slump. All the energy of the day has been spent, but he seems pretty chilled out. I guess he’ll just push on into the evening and beyond.
We exchange greetings and, as he starts to catch Andrew up on the afternoon’s developments, I move down the small office to meet the third founder.
Crazy office perks
Andrew had implied the guy was a savant, but I wasn’t prepared for this: the second half of the office has essentially been outfitted as a young boy’s bedroom.
The grubby office walls disappear beneath Ninja Turtle wallpaper.
The grubby white office walls disappear abruptly beneath retro Ninja Turtles wallpaper. A bed, covered with a juvenile blue duvet, is positioned against the furthest wall. A flatscreen TV has been mounted on the wall above it.
I’m shocked by the degree that Andrew and his friend need to cater to this manchild. Really: this is what he requires just to operate, even with their business barely off the ground?
I introduce myself to the whizkid, who happens to be in his mid-twenties. He has a certain blankness that I quickly attribute to him living with some level of neurodevelopmental disorder.
I realise I’m out of my depth – I can’t possibly try to connect with him. He barely responds to my ill-judged attempts at conversation. Judging by what I see here, I worry about the future of the business – in the unlikely event that it proves successful, it surely won’t be without enormous stress first. It seems like an enormous gamble.
Andrew and I say our goodbyes and head out into the city. I stop briefly to check my bag – I want to see if my lunch is in there. (It must have been earlier in the day than I’d previously thought.)
For the first time, I realise that the satchel I’m carrying is entirely made of a kind of hardy, sustainable waxed paper.
Without realising it, I’ve been using some sort of innovative recycled product. My wife or my parents must have bought this for me as a nice surprise.
I’m really touched by the gesture, although I wonder how well the satchel will hold up in the rain.
