Gloria picks up with a well-practiced, “We believe that with our range of ages and skin colors we could really help you ...ehrm.”
“Pitch,” Mrs. Eisenberg not-so-whispers in my mother’s direction to help her out.
“Pitch Brown Butter, Baby! to the judges,” my mother finishes.
“You want to be my wing women on the show?”
“Sure?” the two women claim, puzzled, clearly unfamiliar with the term.
“I will triple your mother’s contribution, so you have absolutely no incurred costs for the trip to LA.”
“Have you even been cleared by your doctors to travel?” I ask Mrs. Eisenberg with concern. I can see by the turn down of her mouth she takes my question as an insult.
Shaking her cane at me, she says, “Of course. I’ll just have to find someone new to drive me through the airport since you will be busy. And no, it won’t be scented Liam.” Dismissing any misconstrued offense, Mrs. Eisenberg laughs at our inside airport joke, and I join her with a giggle of my own. I can tell my mom is a little miffed she’s not in on it with us.
“We do have one more request,” my mom says, getting our conversation back on track by plucking her paycheck out of my hands. I’m notsure these women get that there is no offer on any table to negotiate, but I humor them and listen.
“We’ve got the eighty-, sixty- and forty-year-old women covered right here.” Reflexively I want to correct my mother that I am, as she surely knows, not yet forty, but I choose to withhold the trepidation of my looming decade milestone in exchange for brevity.
“We need Zwena to join us for our model in her twenties, and her skin tone as well. Kenyan, Afro-Puerto Rican, ethnically ambiguous—that would be you,” Mrs. Eisenberg says as she points to me, clearly proud of herself for recalling lingo that Zwena and I bat around. “And of course me with my olive complexion. The four of us are the complete package of your product rainbow.”
“The show only pays to fly me down and put me up in a hotel, and Zwena’s saving up to go back to Kenya to see her family next year. There’s no way she can afford a trip to LA.”
“I talked to her this morning,” Gloria cuts me off from coming up with more excuses. “Zwena is going to travel as Sylvia’s guest, and they will share a room to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” Mrs. Eisenberg affirms, keeping her ego intact. “I just have a bit of trouble with my shoes and buttoning my blouse, so Zwena will be there to assist me.” Both elders in the room nod their heads in unison, informing me that the three women have it covered and come as a packaged deal.
“What do you say?” my mom presses, a little too needy.
“There is nothing to say, Gloria.” Mrs. Eisenberg bangs her cane like a gavel on the faux hardwood floor, not allowing further deliberation. “All the pieces are in place. The deal, done.” I have now experienced a crystal-clear glimpse of the unyielding and decisive lady boss Mrs. Eisenberg must have been all those years ago running Maxwell Street Records. And I am smart enough not to say no.
AUGUST
THURSDAY, AUGUST 22
After nine years of going to school with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, but no boys, Lou and Coco begged to pursue the nonsectarian academic path otherwise known as public high school. I couldn’t argue against the free tuition, and with Simon’s midlife penchant for praying at the altar of Hindu deities, it seemed more than justified that the Evans girls be allowed to step off the Catholic conveyor belt.
It’s just over two weeks until the taping of myInnovation Nationsegment and, instead of being at home choreographing my pitch that integrates three willful women with competing visions for the most important eleven minutes of my life, I am skirt deep in school orientations. Tuesday and Wednesday Lou and Coco had their introductions to Palo Alto High School. While they perused the multitude of club tables, from Model United Nations to Girls Who Grill, I was introducing myself to their counselor as the mother she won’t be able to shake until graduation. My first order of business, right there in the high school hallway, was how I could get the girls out of the California state requirement of speech class. The twins have been to the middle school state debate tournaments the past three years. In my opinion they have nailed eye contact and cadence, so the class would be a waste of their time on the path to an AP-packed schedule. Counselor Greenberg looked at me with complete indifference andshared that, in Silicon Valley, she has been up against the grizzliest of parental demands, and I do not scare her. Then she yawned in my face and informed me that Lou and Coco will have sixth period speech fall semester.
Following high school orientation, today I am back in the auditorium at Saint Anne, a school and its accompanying judgments I was ready to leave in the rearview mirror. Graduating at the top of the eighth-grade class and recognized as Saint Anne’s first Puerto Rican American alumni, Lou and Coco had been asked by Father Egan to speak at the incoming families assembly. The twins were coached to thread the rhetorical needle by championing their academic and religious experiences at Saint Anne without mentioning their decision to cut their Catholic education short in favor of free dress and Darwinian instruction.
The Sunday morning Ash showed up in my garage ruined Simon’s hope for a threesome with me and IKEA. I had been juggling around a few ways to tell Simon that I, too, had been offered a slot on Season 18 ofInnovation Nation, but the news being personally delivered by Ash Eisenberg was not one of them.
With my “yes,” Ash gave me an unexpected toothy grin and thanked me for keeping the executive producers happy with him in his first season on the show. I assumed this relief was so the showrunner didn’t place him in one of the outside panel seats. From my detailed episodic research, I discovered the two judges sitting in the middle chairs had their offers accepted 18 percent more times than the two judges sitting on the outside. The reason for this phenomenon I can only attribute to the contestant sight line.
Immediately following my acceptance of Ash’s kindness, the atmosphere in the garage palpably shifted with Simon’s darkened mood. In the moment, I wasn’t sure if his brooding was because I would be in direct competition with him for seed funding or because he learned Ash Eisenberg is a friend and therefore might choose to invest in Brown Butter, Baby! over Best U Man. It’s possible Simonconcluded his odds of gaining funding dropped by 25 percent before he even set foot on the show. I was beating Simon before the contest had even begun.
To add to our already strained relationship, a week after Ash’s visit, Simon and I were informed of what I thought would never happen. We were two of the three founders slated for the finale of Season 18. I couldn’t disagree with Simon’s incessant reminders that I got onInnovation Nationwithout having to do the same amount of hoop jumping as he had to. But his claim that Brown Butter, Baby!’s success at the farmers market could in no way compare to Best U Man’s growing cross-country clientele teetered on haterism.
The final blow to our tenuous partnership comes while sitting elbow to elbow in the Saint Anne auditorium waiting for Lou and Coco to be called to the stage to speak. Scrolling our phones at the end of Father Egan’s opening remarks, we land on the same email fromInnovation Nationconfirming our filming date for the finale and exact contestant lineup for the show.
Simon complained for weeks that he drew the short straw by filming on the last episode of the season. That while he didn’t want to be called to the studio first when the new season and new judge were working out the kinks and investing conservatively, he did think Best U Man deserved to be on the third or fourth episode. As he cooked a Friday night family dinner, Simon worried loudly about investor fatigue and shifting market trends over the course of recording the show. Then just as loudly he attempted to convince us that Best U Man is an evergreen opportunity. Becoming your best self is a timeless endeavor, therefore who doesn’t want the opportunity to build a company that is investing in personal perfection. The rationale sounded perfect to Simon.
I nudge Simon, and he removes his elbow from the armrest to avoid being touched by the enemy. I elbow him again so he can’t ignore me. He reluctantly looks at me, and I point to my phonescreen. There it is. I confirm with Simon he is the first CEO on the episode, I am the last.
More than once since finding out I, too, would be joining the show, Simon, looking to secure an advantage over me, has implied that while filming in the last episode is not ideal, a worse fate is being the third out of three contestants. The first slot, judges feel like they have full pockets to spend. By the last slot, more than likely their money has been depleted. The coffers are empty and you, which now means me, are sunk. No longer espousing the awakened philosophy of there being enough positive vibes to go around, Simon has become a karma hog.
The Gods shine on those who are righteous and live an honest life, Simon types into his Apple notes section, fingers tense. He turns his phone to me, keeping his eyes locked on the stage. Of course. Simon is convinced that I am appearing on the show thanks to a favor rather than worthiness.
