Counter Offer
It was 10 a.m., and Mitch Lowell’s calendar was empty for
the next two hours. It was a fact; the hole was right there in Microsoft
Outlook. He leaned forward in his chair, all coiled energy. Sometimes the
scheduling fates were kind, and he got some time to himself. Today, that meant
a trip to Nordstrom’s. For something.
That
reminded him. Mitch needed to tell his assistant Edgar to stop filling his days
with wall-to-wall appointments. Didn’t he know the CEO of a hot ticket company
like Adorenation required recovery time between all the glad-handing and
PowerPointing? Actually, Edgar wasn’t to blame for the overcrowded schedule.
No, it was Mitch’s old-fashioned hubris that drove him to appear at every trade
show, GeekWire party, exhibit opening.
Mitch’s
office was light on furnishings. “IKEA-Zen,” Fast Company had called it
in a recent profile. It was a space for deep thinking, where he could pop CBD
gummies and hatch market-disrupting ideas. On adjacent walls were paintings by
Marlon Hayworth and Xiu Ying Wang. And unlike some executives in the building,
none of Mitch’s pieces were on loan. He was into collecting, not generic
staging.
On his desk
was a flute-like Malaysian instrument called a Shehnai, part of a budding fascination
with exotic musical instruments. Mitch liked to tell visitors it was for
charming visiting software industry snakes. Today, he ran an index finger along
its cool wooden surface and pressed the landline speaker button with the other
hand. “Edgar,” Mitch spoke into the air, “I’m heading out for a few.”
“I’ll keep all your calls at bay. Need anything else?” replied a bright, compliant voice. "No, I’m all set, Ed” he replied. The nickname was new—a chummy display he’d been trying out the last few weeks.
Although
Edgar had been working at Adorenation for two years, Mitch knew very few
details about the guy beyond a penchant for quirky bowties and a boyfriend who
worked at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. But Edgar instinctively
understood his boss’s moods and predilections, the bedrock of an exceptional
executive assistant. Mitch felt cared for by him. He’d never admit that this
sense of security had anything to do with Edgar’s sexuality but it did.
Mitch pushed
open the lobby doors and sucked in some brisk, briny air. It was important to
get outside. The Adorenation office was fun—video games, artisan coffee—but no
matter how many fancy distractions, work was still work.
In the
window of Cherry Street Cafe, Mitch glimpsed his reflection and felt a familiar
dissatisfaction. Mitch hit five feet nine inches in 7th grade and, despite
prayers and parent promises, never grew past that height. His plain face, the
result of generations of Caucasian interbreeding, boasted no distinguishing features.
Mitch learned early to use the only thing about him that was above average: his
mind.
It was only
two blocks to the Art Deco building that housed Nordstrom’s flagship store and
corporate office. While the Pacific Ocean was invisible from this stretch of
downtown, Mitch still liked to think of himself as part of Seattle’s maritime
history. Minutes away, fishmongers tossed salmon at Pike Place Market—just like
in the movies.
He pushed
open Nordstrom’s doors and sauntered over to the watch counter. Tracing the
glass, he paused at a few midrange pieces—Michael Kors, Fitbit—then kneeled to
inspect the Movados and Guccis. He could afford any of them. As a youngish CEO
at a buzzing startup, he knew it was accessories that separated him from his
staff. More than indulgence, a watch was a status-definer.
“What about
this one?” asked a tall brunette with artfully frizzy hair and a septum
piercing. She tapped above a silver Tissot in the $300 range.
The
brunette’s nametag read Sophia, and she and the watch both filled Mitch with a
sense of irrational possessiveness. The same covetousness had followed him
since childhood when he first discovered how good it felt to collect, discard,
and control—not always in that order.
His
appetite for accumulation began with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys, moved
onto snowboarding gear, and by senior year of high school had advanced to
pricey sports photography coffee table books. Mitch displayed these prized
belongings with a connoisseur’s reverence.
His two older
sisters were the adventurous ones: tie-died clothing that reeked of weed, trips
to Europe, and yearly pilgrimages to the Gorge Amphitheater to see Dave Matthews Band.
He stuck close to home in Redmond, stacking internships, honing his coding
chops, and saving money from his job bagging at Whole Foods. It’s not that he
lacked buddies or girlfriends, but Mitch’s hobbies and ambitions formed the
center of his life.
So, no, fashion
wasn’t what brought him to Nordstrom’s watch counter—Mitch was happy to stick
to his Seattle uniform of REI-outerwear and jeans—it was the challenge. Getting
a girl like Sophia to notice him was like claiming the CEO position from the
board. Two years ago, he’d wrenched success from the hands of the other
candidates, lack of height and average looks be damned. Mitch knew how to talk
until he made people believe, and he believed he could do that with Sophia.
“I like
it,” Mitch said. “It’s subtle, right?”
“Totally
subtle.”
Mitch knew
she was only parroting, a classic sales trick. He’d have to try a little
harder. “Do you think it would be good for a gala?”
“Oh
definitely,” Sophia nodded three times while keeping her eyes locked on Mitch,
then crossed her arms and placed a leg in front of the other. “It’s lowkey but
will pair well with a formal suit. That watch will pop, is what I mean.”
“I guess I’ll take it.”
“Good
choice. I’ll wrap it up.” Sophia brushed a falling curl from her forehead and
placed the watch in its elaborate home: an orange and black box that opened into
something that looked like a miniature couch, complete with a pillow.
She set the
item in the container using the talon tips of her index fingers, each lavender
nail crowned by a mandala design. Mitch wasn’t familiar with the look, but he’d
long relegated himself to the sidelines of style.
Mitch
locked eyes with Sophia. “When’s your lunch break? I’d love to grab some food
if you’re into it.”
“Debit or
credit?” she asked, avoiding Mitch’s stare.
“Credit. Here
you go,” Mitch replied. In a smooth movement, he extracted the Amex card from
his Fendi wallet and flicked it onto the glass.
“Wonderful.
Let me just run your card—”
“I’m serious,”
Mitch said, pressing on. “Let’s grab a coffee.”
She swiped
the plastic and briefly met his eyes. “And you are?”
“Mitch
Lowell. I’m the CEO of Adorenation.” He placed both hands in his pockets and
pushed himself up in his sneakers, adding a few inches. “We just went public.”
Sophia slid
the machine over to him.
He had to
try something else. “Also,” Mitch laughed, “I have 45,000 Twitter followers.”
“I don’t
use Twitter anymore, but I’m on Adorenation,” she said. “You own the company?
That’s pretty cool.”
“Well, I don’t own it, but the app was my
idea.” Were her eyes twinkling a little? Sophia’s makeup was thick, like a
mask, which made her expression difficult to read.
“You know
what?” Mitch said. “I’ll wear it out.” He popped open the box and removed the
Tissot from its resting place. The watch left a lonely indentation in the
cushion.
“Very
cool,” Sophia said, nudging the now-empty container the few inches between
them. She used both hands to puff out her curls. “CEO of Adorenation. Nice.”
Mitch slid
the Tisson over his wrist and adjusted its band, maintaining eye contact. “Sophia,”
he began, “I get that you can’t take a break right now, but would you mind if I
asked for your phone number?” He wrinkled his forehead, a docile display he’d
learned which differentiated him from meathead pickup artists at college
parties
A moment
passed before Sophia smiled. “That’s fine,” she said, looking to both sides
before producing a Nordstrom’s-branded notepad. She wrote out her first name,
followed by a pair of dainty parentheses, a 206 area code, and seven other
digits.
“Here you
go.” She passed the paper to him.
His sisters always mocked Mitch for his
“nonexistent game,” and he’d let their opinions stain his self-image. If they
could see him now. “I’ll text you mine when I get back to the office.”
Sophia gave
a little smile. “Or you could just add me to your Adorenation deck,” she said, referencing
the virtual little black book that was the app’s most popular feature.
“I’ll do
both,” Mitch said and pocketed the note.
He exited
the store and walked into classic Seattle drizzle. As he started his stroll,
Mitch rolled up his sweatshirt sleeve and scrutinized the Tisson’s slim hands
and minimalist design. Hopefully, the thing wasn’t too subtle.
Upon his return,
Edgar greeted Mitch with a smile. “You couldn’t stay away from us, could you?”
He leaned over his desk. “Nice watch, but don’t you have three exactly like
it?”
“I have a
few,” Mitch replied.
“A few?”
He wasn’t
thrilled with Ed’s tone. “Can you pull the info for the new Biz Dev hires? I
need to give the ‘Welcome to Adorenation’ spiel this afternoon.”
Intuitive
boy that he was, Edgar seemed to understand their conversation was done and
focused on his computer screen. “I’ll shoot that over to you right away,” he
said, typing up a storm.
Back in his
ergonomic desk chair, tablet in front of him, Mitch pulled out Sophia’s
carefully creased note. Ten digits and the name of a Nordstrom’s counter girl
who was utterly, objectively, out of his league, at least in terms of looks. He’d
used every trick in his playbook to obtain the number: high-limit credit card,
CEO title dropping, toxic male pushiness. All the effort made the next part more
satisfying.
He reached
around the desk and fed the paper into a waiting shredder. Mitch watched the
machine chomped clamorously on Sophia’s deets. The sacrifice was imperative,
like feeding the dragon.
As the shredder gobbled away, Mitch thought
about how he abhorred every aspect of dating save for one: the hunt. It
wouldn’t take a therapist long to deduce why he’d invented Adorenation, an app
that gamified the whole imbecilic ritual.
But Mitch
didn’t enjoy analyzing his desires. He’d leave that to the journalists who
pestered him for interviews and published think pieces about him in the
industry rags, to the string of exes who complained about how quickly Mitch
Lowell lost interest, to his two sisters who chastised him for not settling
down but fetishized his single urban lifestyle.
No, none of
them needed to understand, like, even accept, the way he insatiably craved more
for more’s sake. That childhood was Mitch’s personal business, and by the looks
of the NASDAQ exchange, business was good.
Ari Rosenschein
Ari Rosenschein is a Seattle-based writer whose essays and fiction appear in Entropy, Noisey, Drunk Monkeys, Roland Articles, Observer, KEXP.ORG, The Big Takeover, The Bookends Review, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch Los Angeles. A lifelong musician, Ari currently records and performs with his bands The Royal Oui and STAHV. He lives with his wife and dogs and enjoys the woods, the rain, and the coffee of his chosen region. Coasting (Magnolia Press) is his debut collection.