From n+1:
Morale is down.
We are making plenty of money, but the office is teeming with
salespeople: well-groomed social animals with good posture and dress
shoes, men who chuckle and smooth their hair back when they can’t
connect to our VPN. Their corner of the office is loud; their desks are
scattered with freebies from other start-ups, stickers and koozies and
flash drives. We escape for drinks and fret about our company culture.
“Our culture is dying,” we say gravely, apocalyptic prophets all. “What
should we do about the culture?”
It’s not just the
salespeople, of course. It’s never just the salespeople. Our culture has
been splintering for months. Members of our core team have been
shepherded into conference rooms by top-level executives who proceed to
question our loyalty. They’ve noticed the sea change. They’ve noticed we
don’t seem as invested. We don’t stick around for in-office happy hour
anymore; we don’t take new hires out for lunch on the company card.
We’re not hitting our KPIs, we’re not serious about the OKRs. People
keep using the word paranoid. Our primary investor has funded a
direct competitor. This is what investors do, but it feels personal:
Daddy still loves us, but he loves us less.
We get
ourselves out of the office and into a bar. We have more in common than
our grievances, but we kick off by speculating about our job security,
complaining about the bureaucratic double-downs, casting blame for
blocks and poor product decisions. We talk about our IPO like it’s the
deus ex machina coming down from on high to save us — like it’s an
inevitability, like our stock options will lift us out of our
existential dread, away from the collective anxiety that ebbs and flows.
Realistically, we know it could be years before an IPO, if there’s an
IPO at all; we know in our hearts that money is a salve, not a solution.
Still, we are hopeful. We reassure ourselves and one another that this
is just a phase; every start-up has its growing pains. Eventually we are
drunk enough to change the subject, to remember our more private
selves. The people we are on weekends, the people we were for years.
This
is a group of secret smokers, and we go in on a communal pack of
cigarettes. The problem, we admit between drags, is that we do
care. We care about one another. We even care about the executives who
can make us feel like shit. We want good lives for them, just like we
want good lives for ourselves. We care, for fuck’s sake, about the
company culture. We are among the first twenty employees, and we are
making something people want. It feels like ours. Work has wedged its
way into our identities, and the only way to maintain sanity is to
maintain that we are the company, the company is us. Whenever we see a
stranger at the gym wearing a T-shirt with our logo on it, whenever we
are mentioned on social media or on a client’s blog, whenever we get a
positive support ticket, we share it in the company chat room and we’re
proud, genuinely proud.
But we see now that we’ve been
swimming in the Kool-Aid, and we’re coming up for air. We were lucky and
in thrall and now we are bureaucrats, punching at our computers, making
other people — some kids — unfathomably rich. We throw our dead
cigarettes on the sidewalk and grind them out under our toes. Phones are
opened and taxis summoned; we gulp the dregs of our beers as cartoon
cars approach on-screen. We disperse, off to terrorize sleeping
roommates and lovers, to answer just one, two more emails before bed.
Eight hours later we’ll be back in the office, slurping down coffee,
running out for congealed breakfast sandwiches, tweaking mediocre
scripts and writing halfhearted emails, throwing weary and knowing
glances across the table.
I skim recruiter emails and
job listings like horoscopes, skidding down to the perks: competitive
salary, dental and vision, 401k, free gym membership, catered lunch,
bike storage, ski trips to Tahoe, off-sites to Napa, summits in Vegas,
beer on tap, craft beer on tap, kombucha on tap, wine tastings, Whiskey
Wednesdays, Open Bar Fridays, massage on-site, yoga on-site, pool table,
Ping-Pong table, Ping-Pong robot, ball pit, game night, movie night,
go-karts, zip line. Job listings are an excellent place to get sprayed
with HR’s idea of fun and a 23-year-old’s idea of work-life balance.
Sometimes I forget I’m not applying to summer camp. Customized setup:
design your ultimate work station with the latest hardware. Change the
world around you. Help humanity thrive by enabling — next! We
work hard, we laugh hard, we give great high-fives. We have engineers in
TopCoder’s Top 20. We’re not just another social web app. We’re not
just another project-management tool. We’re not just another payment
processor. I get a haircut and start exploring.
Most
start-up offices look the same — faux midcentury furniture, brick
walls, snack bar, bar cart. Interior designers in Silicon Valley are
either brand-conscious or very literal. When tech products are projected
into the physical world they become aesthetics unto themselves, as if
to insist on their own reality: the office belonging to a home-sharing
website is decorated like rooms in its customers’ pool houses and
pieds-à-terre; the foyer of a hotel-booking start-up has a concierge
desk replete with bell (no concierge); the headquarters of a
ride-sharing app gleams in the same colors as the app itself, down to
the sleek elevator bank. A book-related start-up holds a small and sad
library, the shelves half-empty, paperbacks and
object-oriented-programming manuals sloping against one another. It
reminds me of the people who dressed like Michael Jackson to attend
Michael Jackson’s funeral.
But this office, of a media
app with millions in VC funding but no revenue model, is particularly
sexy. This is something that an office shouldn’t be, and it jerks my
heart rate way, way up. There are views of the city in every direction,
fat leather loveseats, electric guitars plugged into amps, teak
credenzas with white hardware. It looks like the loft apartment of the
famous musician boyfriend I thought I’d have at 22 but somehow never
met. I want to take off my dress and my shoes and lie on the voluminous
sheepskin rug and eat fistfuls of MDMA, curl my naked body into the Eero
Aarnio Ball Chair, never leave.
It’s not clear whether
I’m here for lunch or an interview, which is normal. I am prepared for
both and dressed for neither. My guide leads me through the communal
kitchen, which has the trappings of every other start-up pantry: plastic
bins of trail mix and Goldfish, bowls of Popchips and miniature candy
bars. There’s the requisite wholesale box of assorted Clif Bars, and in
the fridge are flavored water, string cheese, and single-serving cartons
of chocolate milk. It can be hard to tell whether a company is training
for a marathon or eating an after-school snack. Once I walked into our
kitchen and found two Account Managers pounding Shot Bloks, chewy cubes
of glucose marketed to endurance athletes.
Over
catered Afghan food, I meet the team, including a billionaire who made
his fortune from a website that helps people feel close to celebrities
and other strangers they’d hate in real life. He asks where I work, and I
tell him. “Oh,” he says, not unkindly, snapping a piece of lavash in
two, “I know that company. I think I tried to buy you.”....
....MUCH MORE