“You can either try to get money out of this Eisenberg guy, or you can go ahead and sleep with him. What I’ve heard from you and Z, either is possible.”
“What?!”
“Or do both. Though getting the money first, then sleeping with him, is the safer way to go. You don’t want to feel like he’s paying for sex if you win on the show and Brown Butter, Baby! gets funded. Or if the sex ismeh, you don’t want to have to see him again.”
“He’s not interested in me like that,” I insist. I think Krish may have hit the open bar a little too hard in addition to the surf and turf tables.
“Of course, he is. You flash him your boob in class, and the next time he sees you he gives you his number to ‘talk business.’” I can feel Krish’s air quotes over the phone. “Then, at his grandmother’s house, he pours out his family history and invites you to coffee soon after. He tells you he’s not married and—for a dude—shows an abnormal amount of interest in your kids, but he doesn’t tell you he’s now on your favorite show.” The timeline of events Krish repeats back to me is true.
“I’m a guy, he’s a guy. I’m telling you it doesn’t track that he just wants to mentor you.” Krish saysmentorwith a hard hit of sarcasm. “He’s more interested in getting in your pants than he is into your business plan. But sure, go ahead and try out for the show.”
“Toni, what are you doing on the floor?” My mother stares down at me quizzically. I didn’t even hear her traipse into my room, which I’m pretty sure was intentional. “Simon and the girls are waiting for you downstairs.” I can hear her accusation that I’m the one holding up the Rockwellian family portrait waiting for me in the kitchen.
“Just think about it, Toni,” Krish says in my ear. “You’re not the only one who understands chemistry.”
“Krish, I think you’re making this up.”
“No, I’m telling you the truth.”
SATURDAY, MAY 18
When Ash texted earlier in the week that he was on his way back through SFO, and would I like to grab dinner after work if I was free, I lied and said that it was my day off and I had plans with Lou and Coco. I made sure to be nowhere near the United terminal when his plane landed. In fact, I hid in a Hudson News way over by the Delta gates downing a share-size bag of Skittles. I scuttled out when I knew for sure that the baggage from Ash’s United flight had been delivered and all the passengers had most likely cleared the airport. For the thirty-five minutes of occupancy, Sharon, who was working the register, made me scroll through dozens of pictures of her recent trip to El Segundo to meet her first grandchild. I’m happy for Sharon, but all newborns and all palm trees pretty much look alike. It’s also fascinating how many people have to buy emergency toothbrushes at the airport. Isn’t that an obvious item on every traveler’s pack list?
Reviewing Krish’s words in my mind, I decide it’s not that I’m opposed to going to dinner with Ash, but rather that since learning he’s a judge onInnovation Nation, I’m not sure what I might ask from Ash Eisenberg the next time I see him. Once we got past the awkward hellos and small talk the few times we’ve been together, Ash did ease into conversation I found interesting. Over coffee, he told me about the high-speed battery charging station company for electric cars inrural America that his firm is considering investing in. And the science behind a new sealant they just funded that decreases the glare of solar roof panels is exciting. Ash generously answered all my questions about stored energy and how utility companies can incentivize homeowners by offering rebates. With Ash, I can nerd out with my sciencey questions about the products and their viability, and he enthusiastically answers all my probing without a hint that he has somewhere better to be.
Regardless, mentioningInnovation Nationmay come across that I am after Ash’s money, and that is not the case.Ithink.For every small business loan I’ve applied for, thenosandbest of luckshave become the soundtrack to my life. As a trade in kind, my boss has reluctantly agreed to give me Saturdays off to attend the Alemany Farmers Market if I keep her Samoan skin lubricated with a bimonthly supply of Theobroma lotion for her and her sister. They are not small women, so they power through a lot of lotion in a short time. To make up for my boss’s freebies, I am counting on selling out at the market. My success there is all thanks to Zwena’s skills at strong-arming people who walk by my booth.
“We’ve been here a couple of Saturdays, and I still can’t remember the names of your lotions, let alone pronounce them. And there are only four,” Zwena complains, juggling three jars from my perfectly curated display I’ve designed to look like a molecular structure. Her fanny pack full of ones, fives, and coin change bounces against her hip, keeping time with her tosses. I’m in charge of Square and Cash App sales, since Zwena decided it’s not as fun as handling real money.
Though the fog is rolling through, bringing with it a damp spring chill, Zwena is rocking a cropped hoodie to my puffy jacket. She swears the more skin she shows, the more product people will buy, but looking at her makes me shiver. This morning alone, Zwena has lured a half dozen men in, misleading them on what they were getting, but, as she is always able to miraculously do, they leave with a smile and a couple of jars of lotion for their girlfriends or mothers. Zwena is for sure Brown Butter, Baby!’s number one employee. Even better than me if sales arethe ultimate measurement of success. Too bad 50 percent of our gross goes to paying for a prime spot at the market, 50 percent to supplies, and Zwena’s only cut is my continued gratitude, friendship, and reliance on her saleswomanship. If this thing ever gets funded, stock options and a paid job as my number two are hers. Zwena thought stock options meant she gets the pick of any of my products. I assured her she already has that.
“Can I get you two anything?” Simon asks, looking from me to Zwena. He arrived at the market with Coco and Lou, but it’s clear they dropped him the minute he parked the car and gave them each a twenty. I’m disappointed the girls didn’t come by to see my booth and say good morning to me and Zwena before setting out to get breakfast. They could have at least feigned interest in their mother and then left, taking their father with them.
“Would you like a hot drink or a croissant?”
“Go away, Simon, we’re busy here,” Zwena demands, grabbing an innocent passerby and pulling them into our currently empty stall. I apologize to the customer we just lost for being woman-handled by my best friend and give her a free sample as she scurries away. Zwena initially met Simon when I asked her to pick up Lou and Coco from his place one day when I knew, if I saw him, I would rip into him for buying the girls’ forgiveness with Nike Air Force 1 sneakers. I didn’t want to know where he got the money, and I didn’t want to hear the girls gush about their generous father compared to their miserly mother.
Since that afternoon Zwena has not softened one bit toward Simon or our current state of marital limbo. At her age, I probably would not have had any patience for it either. Without the addition of kids, homeownership, joint credit, and shared history, it’s easy to draw definitive boundaries when it comes to relationships. In your twenties a relationship is between two people. In midlife it consists of multiple characters, including your mortgage officer, shared friends, and Catholic mothers.
“Nice to see you, Zwena,” Simon says flatly, making it clear his interest in my friend is mutually nonexistent and that the offer of ahand-delivered breakfast was not aimed at her. Lucky for Simon he’s mature enough to recognize he needs to keep it civil because he is still working hard to get back in my good graces, and Zwena is already and forever there.
“On second thought, I’ll take a large macchiato from Blue Bottle, a baguette from Rolling in the Dough, and some sharp cheddar from Foggy Bottom Creamery. Oh, and a few apples from whatever organic farm stand looks the most expensive. I’m starving,” Zwena orders, not handing over any money to pay for her grocery list. Simon looks to me to stop Zwena’s snack bullying, but I shrug. It feels good to have Zwena act out the aggression I often feel toward Simon but have to keep in check due to our daughters.
As I’m grabbing more lotion from under the table to fill in my molecular structure, I hear Simon say, “Here you go. Oh, and you too.” I look up, confused.
“What’s that?” I point at my table to a pile of cards where a jar of Nephelium should go. I recently sold the two display ones to a nice mother from Brisbane with three boys under four. She looked in need of some self-care. Zwena picks a card up, reads it, and promptly tosses it in the trash can with an unamused huff out her nostrils.
“Since you have the booth here, I thought I could leave a pile of Best U Man cards.” I look at Simon quizzically. “Listen, you’re already here selling self-care, so why not help me out? Plus, let’s be honest, there’s way more financial upside in Best U Man than your couple of bottles of”—Simon picks up one of said bottles—“how the hell do you even pronounce this?”
I grab the jar out of his hands, my eyes stinging. Simon sees that he’s struck a nerve and that Zwena looks about to throw a punch. Backtracking, but still with an air of arrogance, he says, “I’m just saying, if you look at spending trends and financial analysis of wellness products, mental health is where people are spending their money these days, Toni. Desperate for help, folks are throwing cash at anyone who can guide them to find their purpose and get them on the road tobecoming their best self. The market proves it, so why shouldn’t some of that money be thrown at me? At us?”
“What does it even mean to become your ‘best self,’ as if anyone knows what that is?” Zwena cuts in. “I mean, how do you even know if you ever get there? Is there a bell that rings and confetti falls? And once you are there, how long can you stay there? It’s only a matter of time until someone like yourself comes along and kufanyika, done!” Zwena claps her hands together for emphasis. “You just can’t help but tell them to bugger off, and then you are right back where you started, an average human doing what they can to get along in this crazy world.”
Ignoring Zwena’s analysis of his business pitch, Simon continues, “If you want to have a successful company, Toni, you have to follow the money. Remember, I worked as an investment banker all those years you were home with the girls, I know where the money is and who has the purchasing power.”
Is this Simon’s way of saying there is no value in my products? Or is he saying that I am not the person to lead this enterprise?
“Look at you, Simon. You had two whole years to find your best self, and you came up short,” Zwena concludes, stepping in between Simon and me, not allowing herself to be excused.
