Over the weekend I told everyone I knew about the Product. The nature of the Product as I understood it. The present and future names of the Product and the launch date of the Product. I told them about the shot clock hanging on the wall and the number on it. Family. Friends. Everyone. In sobriety and in inebriation. I told it all to everyone.
On Monday, as I swam at the New York Sports Club pool on 91st Street and Third Avenue, my heart grew heavy with dread. Surely they'd find out. The mysterious little company in Chelsea would never contact me again. Or worse, initiate some obscure litigation. It was just my luck. To be so lucky and to fuck it up. Out of vanity. Intemperance.
Back home, I somberly checked my emails. There was one from Bob, responding to the ideas I'd sent him – an impressionistic, somewhat rambling document that alluded in equal measures to ironic postmodernist culture, retro-'50s style motifs and Japanalia. It was written in his language. He loved it.
I was hired.