CHAPTER THREE
THIS IS NOT A COWBOY
“Don,” said Austin to his speakerphone, “I think what we should do is follow the strategic plan.”
Austin listened with half his attention as Don protested this idea. He and his partners were spending a fortune to retrofit an old office building, and they didn’t even own it.
“What we need,” said Don, “is a building of our own.”
Pneumatics gave a gentle sigh as Austin leaned back in his office chair and put his feet up on his desk. He had been through this so many times before.
“Don,” he said, “we have a big performance benchmark coming up. We don’t have time to build you a new headquarters.”
“About that benchmark. I’ve got some ideas for new implementations —”
“No, Don,” said Austin. “Follow the business plan.”
“Just listen,” urged Don. “This is great.”
He explained his new ideas at length. Austin let his gaze drift to the window. Century City sat in the middle distance below, white modernist perfection above L.A.’s cap of smog. He thought about Jackson Hole and the sight of snowcapped mountains and the smell of pine, and for a moment he wished he were anywhere but here, going through this scenario yet one more time.
“That’s all good,” Austin said when Don paused for breath, “but we can save all that for Release 2.0. Right now we need to follow the strategic plan.”
“But wait!” Don said. “This will make it so much better. It’ll be really cool.”
And on and on, for another five minutes or so.
Austin listened vaguely to the speakerphone and thought about trout fishing. He thought about high mountain streams and wildflowers and cowgirls in faded Levi’s and flannel shirts and straw cowboy hats.
On reflection, he changed the fantasy to girls in chaps and fringed vests and hats and nothing else.
Don went on and on.
This, Austin thought, was the problem with geniuses. They got bored too easily.
And most business was boring. You set goals and you worked hard to meet those goals and then you started working on the next set of goals. It was all too plodding for creative types, who came up with half a dozen new ideas every single day and wanted to bring them all into being instantly.
Don paused to take another breath.
“Listen,” Austin said. “What’s your job title again?”
Don paused as his mind shifted tracks.
“I’m chief technology officer,” he said.
“Right,” said Austin. “And what’s my job?”
“I don’t know what your title is.” Don’s voice was suspicious.
“Never mind my title,” said Austin. “What’s my job?”
“You’re VC,” said Don.
“Right,” said Austin. “I’m venture capital. Which means that I and my associates have invested in dozens of start-ups. Hundreds by now. And that means that we’ve seen a lot of strategic plans, successful and unsuccessful. And so what I am telling you now is that you need to follow the plan to which we all agreed.”
He congratulated himself on his sweet reasonableness, that and the excellence of his grammar, avoiding the dangling preposition even in speech.
“I can talk to my partners about the changes,” Don said. “And they’ll be okay with it.”
“Ask yourself,” Austin said, “if they’ll be okay with finding another source of start-up money after I refuse to give you any further capital.”
“But we agreed . . .”
Austin’s reply was lazy, airy, while he thought of cowgirls.
“Why do I have to follow the agreement, Don, when you don’t?”
While Don, with greater intensity, explained his ideas all over again, Austin thought of cowgirls riding in slow motion through fields of daisies.
“Don,” Austin finally interrupted, “if you follow the business plan and achieve every benchmark and every deadline, and the firm establishes itself in its market niche, and the IPO happens and everyone leaves rich, you can buy all the buildings you want. And hang around and make all the new implementations that strike your fancy. No one will argue with you— you’ll be rich.”
“ But —”
“So for now you need to follow the strategic plan. And if you don’t”— Austin smiled at the thought— “I will join your partners in voting you off the board, and you’ll get nothing. And please don’t think I can’t do it, because I can. Ask Gene Kring.”
There was a moment of puzzlement.
“Who’s Gene Kring?” Don asked.
“Exactly my point,” Austin said.
Honest to Christ, he thought, this guy was almost as bad as BJ.