Chapter 2/ Full Remote

The only thing I can think of for the half hour of lunch time that’s left between Zoom calls every day is a strange salad variation made from chickpeas, dried tomatoes, and tuna in olive oil. Super practical. Three cans. One big bowl. Sure, I could dice a red onion and add feta. Too complicated. The ideal version would be meal prep on Sunday. Everything for the week, portioned and boxed, lined up in the fridge like ammunition. That’s how most of my team lives. I can’t do it. The thinking, the planning, the Saturday mega shopping trip. No meal prep for me.

While I drain the chickpeas, I catch, in the corner of my eye, that Marie has sent me a WhatsApp message. Marie. My former co head of marketing at the corporation. The nemesis I quit my job over. Marketing Marie, the data dervish. I put the chickpeas down, wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, and reach for the iPhone.

I haven’t heard from the corporation in a long time. Some wise guy once said these giant companies are basically like high speed trains. You only feel the speed once you’ve stepped off. And nobody ever looks back at you. It fits. Neither Marie nor any other senior person has even visited my LinkedIn profile to admire my new startup title: Global Director Product Growth and Strategy.

And now Marie, on WhatsApp.

Her message: “Time for a quick call sometime in the next days? Best, Marie.”

Okay. Do not answer on impulse. The correct move would be to enjoy my olive oil protein bomb in peace, sit through one or two meetings, and reply later in the evening with a calm statement. The agile startup guy. Different velocity. Too many fronts. Two hundred messages a day. Bam. Bam. Bam.

But curiosity wins, as usual. I text her back: “Hi. I’ve got 20 minutes now. After that it looks pretty dark today.”

For a fraction of a second I’m convinced this message has punch. It says I’m busy. It sets a clear boundary. It signals importance.

Then, seconds later, I hate myself for it. My God. 20 minutes. It sounds like pressure. Like I’m desperate for the call. Maybe Marie just wants to talk without a timer. Marketing giants among themselves. Big ideas. Creative strategy. Maybe she has a technical question only I can solve. Maybe she’s so desperate by now she wants to offer me a consultant role. Weekly coaching. Me, guiding her through corporate marketing hell.

The iPhone rings. I pick up. Marie says, “Hi Torben. You okay?”

“All good. Totally okay.”

“Sorry to bother you. It’s just that HR contacted me again. It’s about the charging cable for your corporate laptop.”

“The charging cable?” I repeat, honestly confused. “I returned everything on my last day. Laptop, phone, badge.”

“Yeah. But the cable wasn’t included. You wrote in the questionnaire that you’d bring it in over the next days. That was almost two months ago.”

“Marie. It’s a USB C standard cable.”

“Yes. But without the original cable the MacBook can’t be resold, you understand? It’s incomplete. Those are the rules here. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”

“Sure. The cable.”

“Yes. The cable.”

“I’ll bring it by. Next week. Next week works?”

“Hey Torben, sorry, I’m getting another call. I have to take it. Next week is perfect. Bye bye.”

“When I’m there, we could grab a coffee or something,” I add.

But Marie has already left the call.

I have no idea where the damn cable is. Maybe I can buy one on eBay. Then I remember the corporation prints a little QR code on every piece of equipment, with a serial number embedded in it. Even cables. Like they’re tracking forks.

Another call pulls me out of my increasingly desperate cable thoughts. It’s Stephan, my boss. Him calling during the sacred half hour lunch break is unusual. So I pick up immediately.

“My man,” Stephan says, without irony. “My damn marketing machine.”

The Managing Director has developed a taste for perfecting his own little ghetto slang. Back when he was a Senior Business Strategy Analyst at Accenture, this was probably not on his schedule. Now it’s different. Everything is looser. Freer. More stupid.

“Hey Stephan,” I say. “Cool you’re calling. I just talked to the corporation again.”

“They won’t let you off the leash, huh? It’s hard for them that you turned your back and now you’re a startup ninja. A damn killer, Torben. Too much for them.”

“Well. It’s annoying when they keep calling for random info. But I’ll always be supportive. It’s about the network, Stephan. Leave no one behind, you know? Ninja wisdom number one.”

“Fuck yes, man. You are so right. And now I’m calling because we’re gonna finish your corporate friends. You know that monster tech event, The Kickdown, in three weeks in Cologne? You’ll be on the main stage. Prime time keynote. Five thousand people in the room. The big stage, Torben. And the best part is, I’m coming too. Party time. Ta ta ta ta.”

Okay. The thing about keynotes is this.

I have never given a speech on stage. Not in front of ten people. Not in front of five thousand. Not in Cologne. Not anywhere.

Some people have fear of flying. Some fear heights. I panic when I think about public speaking. Everybody gets a hobby.

In the past, at the corporation, I always found excuses to avoid the stage. Being overloaded. Or diversity. The age of old white men is over. Or a lack of interest in self promotion. It worked for years. So I try the same strategy on Stephan.

“Okay, Stephan, wow. What an honor. The Kickdown. But honestly, wouldn’t it be better if a cool young woman represented the company? You know. Sweep old white men off the stage, etc.”

“Torben, my friend,” Stephan says, and in that moment I already know my plan won’t work this time. “Torben, we sent young girls on stage for the last three hundred conferences. Pantsuits, sneakers, leggings, tattoos, updos, flared skirts, designer jeans. All done. With Series B in mind, it’s time to return to reality. Investors need to understand we’re a company that’s seriously rebuilding. Oh and one more thing. Your keynote title is: How Data And Analytics Unleash Innovation & Transform Uncertainty. Okay?”

“Top. Okay.”

“You do it, tiger.”

Then Stephan hangs up.

I cancel my next Zoom meeting and sit at my desk, silent.

At the corporation I could hide weaknesses because I controlled processes and I knew how to manipulate opinions. In the startup, that’s not possible. I can’t tell Stephan I’m afraid. I’m still on probation. Four more months. And in the interviews I repeatedly implied what a super extroverted personality I am.

So now. My first keynote. In front of five thousand people.

I once read an interview with a rockstar who said stadium concerts don’t make him nervous at all because he perceives the crowd as an amorphous mass. Maybe that works for my first keynote too.

Anna is a communication coach and the physical incarnation of good mood. Her whole thing is smiling and radiating. It’s almost unsettling.

“So your challenge is to deliver a really good keynote for your new employer,” Anna summarizes. “You have this event in three weeks. Five thousand people and a livestream. That is fantastic, Torben. That is wonderful. It’s a real opportunity. I will get you so ready for the big stage that people will think you’ve done this your whole life. That’s my job. And I love it.”

While she performs this small improvised speech, Anna stares at me the entire time and pours her insane glow into each word.

“And. I. love. it.”

“Okay?” I say, a little helpless. “And what do we do now?”

“We see what you’ve got. That’s how I work. No long talking. We do. Are you ready to blast?”

“Uh.”

“Now loud and clear. Are. you. ready. to. blast, Torben?”

Huge mega smile. Supportive hand gestures.

“We can try.”

“We blast. That’s the spirit.”

In her modest house on a suburban street in Ottobrunn, Anna has built an improvised stage in her living room. She quickly clears away children’s toys scattered everywhere and sets up a camera on a tripod. Then she asks me to hold a fictional speech. Off the cuff. Any topic.

So there I am in a living room in Ottobrunn, looking through terrace windows into a garden full of more colorful plastic kids’ junk, and I start talking about data while Anna films me.

“Uh, so data is the central asset for every new, let’s say, intelligent application. Smart things that don’t do exactly what you tell them, but act, kind of, autonomously. Yeah. And beyond that there’s social profiling, analyzing your likes and clicks and social interactions. Training data for intelligent predictions…”

“Do you watch porn?” Anna asks, suddenly. “Come on.”

“I, I mean, you can’t really say no to that,” I answer, visibly confused.

“Okay, okay,” Anna says, monster grin included. “There’s a lot that’s really good in the way you communicate. You’re clear. You hold space. But you get distracted very easily, hence the porn question. There are a few small things I’d like to work on.”

Then we watch the video of my improvised speech second by second. Anna finds countless opportunities for “small improvements.” Lift the head here. Pause there. Always smile. Control the hands. Be more personal. Speak slower.

“This is going to work,” Anna says at the end of the hour. “After four or five trainings you’ll rock any stage.”

In my head an ancient calculator starts clicking: This will cost the company about three thousand euros. Whatever.

So on four days over the next two weeks, after my home office meetings, I take the S Bahn to Ottobrunn. Anna drills me on body tension, voice volume, gestures, pauses. But I don’t get to the point. I can’t tell her that despite all the super tips I will have a panic attack on the Kickdown stage, followed by a heart attack, followed by death, followed by the video going live on YouTube.

Only in our last session do I finally confess.

“So you have the problem that you think you will choke on stage during a public talk, Torben,” Anna says. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

I nod.

“That is a problem, dear Torben. Maybe we should have addressed that earlier. But. Better late than never. Tell me.”

And finally I tell her the origin. It’s small. It’s ridiculous. But fear eats small things and grows them over years until they stand in your head like something massive and impossible.

Many years ago I gave a short presentation to a group of colleagues. Up to then it never bothered me. On the contrary. I was the laid back guy who showed up more or less unprepared and won everyone over with improvised talk. I remember there was a young woman in the room I really liked and I wanted to impress her.

I remember I wore black Chuck sneakers that day with patterned Burberry socks. I drank a coffee without sugar. I never do that. It’s all back instantly.

I started talking. I stood up because it felt cooler. Then I began a sentence. One single sentence. A normal sentence with no meaning. And in the middle of it, the air disappeared. Just like that. I tried to swallow. I couldn’t. I touched my throat, helpless, and no words came out. The colleagues looked at each other, unsure.

The young woman I wanted to impress was the first to react. She jumped up and asked if I needed help. She handed me a glass. I tried to drink water and still felt like I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Something had gone wrong with the unconscious process of breathing. I sat down. All color drained from my face. Someone slapped my cheek. “Torben, Torben, what’s wrong with you?” The pain was a signal. Like surfacing after a long dive, I inhaled. Long. Deep. As if I wanted all the air in the world in my lungs.

It lasted only seconds.

But those seconds have been playing in my head in Dolby Surround ever since, whenever I have to speak in public. I won’t get air. I won’t be able to swallow. Someone will bring water. I’ll pass out. I’ll probably die. How long can you survive without breathing? Two minutes? I’m not trained at holding my breath. There isn’t much time.

Everyone has an fear they avoid. Everyone wants safety. Everyone fears confrontation. I am on my way into my fear now. I can feel the tightness creeping up on me. We avoided each other for a long time. Now we’re doing Kickdown together.

“We have to break the cycle,” Anna says finally, after a long pause. “The anxiety cycle. The sequence of things. Many experienced singers and speakers know the problem. Dry mouth. The sensation of not being able to swallow gets stronger and stronger.”

“Okay. And then?”

“They keep a small cherry candy in the cheek,” Anna says. “It keeps saliva flowing. They all swear by Grethers Blackcurrant Silver, a Swiss product. Been around for a hundred years. And you can take Gelovoice tablets too. They moisturize the mucous membranes for a long time. That breaks the cycle. Trust me.”

“So I take cherry candy and I won’t die on stage in a panic attack.”

“You can’t think like that, Torben.” Anna practically dives at me and strokes my face with full empathy. “You. will. not. die. Nobody dies. Not at Kickdown. Not at any other event.”

An hour later I send Anna 2,500 euros via PayPal and order a yearly supply of Grethers miracle candies and Gelovoice lozenges on Amazon.

The trip to the Kickdown conference in Cologne is a challenge. I’ve never traveled for the startup. At the corporation everything was simple. You fly Lufthansa. Always. Now I’ve chosen the train. Eco friendly. Cost saving. Cool. First class. I picture myself sinking into a black leather seat, laptop charging, free WiFi, calmly polishing my presentation.

One problem.

In my entire professional life, I have never taken Deutsche Bahn.

You never stop learning.

First class on ICE 610 from Munich to Mannheim is fully booked. I am not alone in a comfortable leather throne. I’m at a table with three strangers who have an aggressive need to communicate. The WiFi works in fragments. The train is delayed from the beginning. The connection from Mannheim via Münster to Cologne, the conductor says, will not happen. He moves on, unmoved.

Again and again I open the MacBook Air and go through my Kickdown deck. The marketing team originally wanted a keynote made of huge images and strong slogans. It looks super cool. But I need more content. More words. Things I can possibly read on stage.

This is not about winning anymore.

It’s about survival.

Yesterday Stephan texted me that he isn’t sure he can make it to the keynote. But he spoke to the organizers and he’s sending a small video team to Cologne.

“Welcome to showbusiness,” he writes, with a row of upbeat emojis.

I let the twentieth Gelovoice lozenge of the day melt in my mouth. There is probably already white cherry flavored foam at the corners of my lips.

I arrive in Mannheim at one p.m. The train to Cologne is gone.

Great start.

The speaker dinner is at eight p.m. at the Neni restaurant on the eighth floor of the hotel The Circle, where the speakers are conveniently housed. I reach the hotel shortly after seven, after waiting two hours in Mannheim for the connection. My opinion on train travel has become more defined.

In the hotel room I spend a full half hour unable to decide what to wear. It’s insane. All day I sit in the same sweatpants in gray, blue, and green, plus Uniqlo T shirts, in front of screen and camera. Now I could finally wear the cool stuff that’s been rotting in my closet and I can’t think of anything.

At the corporation I used to dress like a person every day. Leather shoes, brown and black. It now feels bizarre. Like leather prisons for the feet. I wore trousers with belts. Blazers. If I put that on now, I feel trapped.

Why did God invent drawstring pants?

I choose Zegna tech merino sweatpants I once bought in a moment of insanity for 595 euros, plus a Uniqlo Airism T shirt, plus a Woolrich overshirt. Blue Hogan sneakers. If you add it up, it’s expensive. But it looks like I grabbed it blind and didn’t try too hard.

That’s the effect I want.

Neni in Cologne looks like a restaurant built from an influencer’s dream. Every chair a light reflex in shallow depth of field, red, green, orange. The view is a perfect city angle with the cathedral. Every dish is styled like a food shoot on gray clay plates with earth tones and coriander green.

I take a champagne from a charming student girl in a black stretch mini skirt and stand around, slightly lost, while the other speakers form casual groups. I recognize faces. Dirk Ströer. Werner Vogels, Amazon CTO. Former stuntman Jochen Schweizer.

Then a young woman approaches, professional looking, wearing multiple lanyards.

“Hi Torben. We do first names, right?”

“Sure.”

“Hi. I’m Tabea. Speaker support for tomorrow morning. Just wanted to introduce myself and ask if everything is okay with you.”

Tabea is early to mid thirties, but she looks older. I’d guess her life used to be one long party. Summer in Ibiza. Months lost in dark Berlin raves. The big resolution never arrived. Now she is junior project manager at the event agency running this circus. She eats only protein. Loves spinning class. One arm covered in tattoos.

I’m on my second champagne and I get the bad feeling I have to confess something to someone.

“The thing is, Tabea. I’m terrified. About tomorrow. I think I will die on stage.”

“We’re so excited for your presentation, Torben,” Tabea says, completely calm. “You’re the highlight of the morning. Your talk on data analytics. Everyone tells me how excited they are.”

“I will die, Tabea.”

“We all will sooner or later, Torben.” She smiles. “I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow in your room and we’ll do a few breathing exercises, okay? I always keep a meditation app ready on my iPhone. Now I really have to go. I’m looking forward to it. Really.”

I take another champagne and drink it in one swallow.

Then the editor in chief of Wired UK, whose group runs Kickdown, calls us to the table. Everyone rushes for name cards. The room gets loud. I sit next to a blond Swede and across from a young woman with Eastern European features who looks bored in a very precise way.

Greg from London, the Wired boss, gives a breezy opening speech. The spearhead of German innovation is in this room, he says. He hopes the chefs did everything right. Food poisoning would affect the DAX. Prince Charming. Everyone laughs.

For the starter, salmon tartare on watercress, the blond Viking tells me he is the affiliate king. He and his team hunt trends, preferably from Asia. Fidget spinners. Korean super cosmetics made from snake skin. First they test via landing page. If conversion starts, they scale hard. Dropshipping and Amazon warehouse, you know.

He asks what I do. I tell him I work for a startup with the next killer algorithm. Data. The next big thing.

He nods. “Data is the new oil, my friend. The new fucking oil.”

Main course is chicken shawarma marinated overnight in Greek yogurt. I turn to the Eastern European beauty opposite me. I’m now at three champagnes and two large white wines and I’m slowly accelerating into dinner entertainer mode. The young woman is, in fact, curator of Dirk Ströer’s private art collection. He collects Russian expressionists and enjoys them, in a large and serious way, in his South African villa at Lion’s Head.

I love Russian expressionism. I order another glass of excellent Pinot Gris.

Our conversation could continue, nicely lubricated.

But Wired management thinks it’s a great idea that for dessert we all move seats again for networking. Now I’m directly next to Frank Thelen, and diagonally across from Valentin Stalf, the long haired CEO of the neobank N26.

“Frank, it is a pleasure,” I start, cheerfully. “I do data. Big, powerful algorithms that reveal the future in their full beauty.”

Thelen looks around for an exit and realizes there isn’t one. So he plays along.

“Sure. Software is eating the world, as I always say.”

“Exactly,” I say. “And data is the new oil.”

“AI. Artificial intelligence. We were on that at Outbank. Predicting future behavior. What will the customer buy next?”

“Come on, Frank,” Valentin Stalf cuts in. “That’s cold coffee and it will never work. GDPR, man. Wake up.”

Frank won’t let it slide. “GDPR concerns personal data. I’m talking about aggregated streams. The big picture, Valentin. But maybe you should first try to get your customer management under control.”

“Fuck, Frank. You always act like the king because of your investor thing.”

“Höhle der Löwen,” I add, because I want to contribute. “He was on Höhle der Löwen.”

And now Frank Thelen actually stands up. A vein on his neck starts pulsing red. “Fuck all these neobanks,” he shouts, a little too loud. People at nearby tables look over.

Then Frank storms off.

I see Tabea run after him, shocked.

“So, what do you do?” Valentin Stalf asks me.

“Data. Smart data intelligence,” I say. “The new oil for the software that eats the world.”

“Man,” he says. “You’re going pretty hard.”

“And I hate GDPR, from the deepest part of my soul,” I say, slightly dazed, and I drink the grappa in my glass in one go.

“Okay, okay,” I add. “I get it.”

That ends our brilliant conversation. And the evening. I scan the room for the art curator. Maybe a drink. Maybe more. Then I give up and sway back to my hotel room.

It’s nine in the morning when I wake up. Next to me on the bed are two empty Johnny Walker Black Label mini bottles from the minibar. No idea how they got there. My head feels like it’s in a vise. In one hour Tabea will pick me up for my keynote. Shortly after that I will be on stage.

I jump up, clean the chaos, and get in the shower. I begin to overdose on Gelovoice lozenges. A pale white foam coats my tongue and floods my mouth. I rehearse the keynote for myself. As long as nobody listens, it goes fine.

I originally planned to go on stage in jeans, T shirt, and New Balance sneakers. Steve Jobs memory look. But the dinner outfits messed with me. So I decide to air out last night’s clothes and just wear them again. Who cares. Nobody will notice.

At exactly ten, Tabea knocks. I put what must be the twentieth blackcurrant pastille of the morning into my mouth. I can feel a cherry scent around me like an aura of artificial fruit. Before I open the door, I jump to the minibar, grab two vodka minis, and shove them into the inside pocket of my jacket.

Just in case.

Old school.

I open the door. Tabea wears three lanyards again. Practical pantsuit. Tumi belt bag. iPad mini in hand.

“My God,” she says. “You look really bad.”

The makeup artist is a heavyset gay man in oversized combat pants and a white tank top. He forces out a rushed hello and says nothing else. Next to the mirror his schedule for the day is taped up. If I count correctly, he has twelve more appointments. He tries to finish my face, and my under eye circles, as fast as possible. A light sweat smell mixes into his otherwise carefully designed aura. I do not want to be number twelve tonight.

The makeup slot is a gift from Tabea. Apparently it’s usually reserved for real celebrities. But hey, she says, I’m basically one too.

At 10:30 my heart starts racing. I stand behind the Kickdown stage and look into the crowd. A full room of young people. Not an amorphous mass, unfortunately. Individuals. Faces. I run to the bathroom and drink the first vodka bottle from the minibar in one swallow. For a fraction of a second I feel relief. Then the panic comes back.

Nice try, my fear screams.

I go back to Tabea backstage and tell her I’m leaving.

“Okay. I can’t do it,” I say, breathless. “I’m not ready to risk my life for this. For Kickdown.”

“Torben, please.” Tabea says. “The whole schedule is set. You’re next. We’d mic you. You’re not leaving. You’re staying. Please.”

But I turn and walk toward the exit. Tabea rushes after me.

“Torben. We do one more breathing exercise. We can do this.”

“I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Tabea digs through her belt bag, where she keeps all emergency items. She pulls out a tiny sachet with one pill, breaks it in half.

“This is Tavor, Torben. Absolute emergency only. Ultimate panic killer. Never combine with alcohol.”

I take the half tablet and wash it down with the second vodka mini I still have in my pocket.

“Oh my God,” Tabea says. “Fuck. You’ve got twenty minutes now.”

The Tavor hits fast with the alcohol. A soft wave dampens the negative thoughts. I feel like I’m walking on clouds. Weightless fatigue. Everything around me turns soft and fluffy.

This is cool.

A Kickdown staffer puts a headset on me. It feels amazing. His hands at my neck. The whole guy.

“Is it okay like this?” he asks. He wears beautiful three quarter shorts from Engelbert Strauss and a black Kickdown T shirt.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Everything is perfect.”

Tabea brings me to the stage entrance.

“You’re up next,” she says. “How do you feel?”

“Top. Really. Really, really top.”

“Oh my God, Torben.” She looks panicked. “I hope we survive this. They’re going to play a Rolling Stones song when you go out. Start Me Up. You know it. Music stops and you start. Okay with you?”

“Let the music run longer,” I say. “I really feel like dancing.”

“Please, Torben. Please. Please don’t dance.”

The music starts and I walk onto the stage with big steps. Light. Easy. The Stones wrote Start Me Up in the seventies. I remember seeing a video once with Mick Jagger doing Mick Jagger movements. It seems like a good idea. So I start to sway left and right on the Kickdown stage. The audience claps, here and there. Phones go up in the front row. I am live streaming on LinkedIn and Instagram. Whatever.

“Data. Start me up,” I chant, and I add my own lyrics.

“Data. Start me up. Data. Log me in.”

People in the first row stand and clap with the beat. Most hold phones. The sound pulls me in.

“Data. You are the data warriors,” I shout, dancing harder. “The warriors who storm palaces. That’s you. The damn data warriors. Say it. Data warriors. I am a data warrior.”

And the crowd answers. At first quiet. Then louder. Then the whole room roars.

“Data warriors!”

I think of Marie and decide it’s a good time to talk about the corporation.

“People in big companies only think about their charging cables. Not about data energy. You get it? Lose the cables. Get free. No more QR codes.”

This is fun now. I signal the sound tech to turn the Stones up more.

“You are the new oil,” I shout. “It flows through your veins. Data oil. In your bodies. Fill up. Go wild. War on the cable palaces. Peace to the algorithms.”

I float off stage. Applause crashes behind me. The kids have never seen anything like this. Tabea takes off my headset herself.

“Your career is over, Torben,” she says. “You’re dead. You can’t even imagine how dead.”

But my attention is on her hand at my neck, removing the headset. It feels like the right moment for intimacy. So I pull Tabea toward me and kiss her.

To my surprise she opens her mouth and kisses back. Weightless. Her tongue taking over. The technicians around us start clapping while I make out with the speaker support manager. Then Tabea tears herself away and runs off without a word.

That’s fine.

My career is over today, but nobody can take this kiss and this performance from me.

I turn airplane mode off. Eighty three new WhatsApp messages. A new one pops up almost every second. I open Stephan’s last message.

“YOU ARE A DAMN ROCKSTAR,” he writes. “Your keynote video already has over 17,000 likes.”

And Anna has written too: “Torben. Can I link your video on my website?”

Maybe my career isn’t over after all.

I’m on the train back to Munich. First class leather feels smoother with Tavor in my blood. I order a glass of Grüner Veltliner. It’s 12:15 and messages keep coming. I try to ignore it, close my eyes, and think about Tabea’s kiss. I am a kiss warrior. I stole a kiss. I still have it.

The phone rings. My wife. She wants to congratulate me.

“Hey,” I say. “Hey, hey, hey.”

“Torben, you okay? I’m calling to remind you about tomorrow. Couples therapy with Dr Windheim. On Skype at three. You’ve got that, right.”

“Uh. Skype? Why Skype? Who does meetings on Skype now?”

“See you tomorrow at 3:30. On Skype.”

Then she hangs up.

Skype is an interesting company, I think. I lean back and take a long sip of Austrian white wine. At the beginning of the pandemic, they had every card in hand. Everyone had Skype installed. Everyone had done video calls on it. Then Zoom comes out of nowhere and takes over online meetings completely.

It’s strange how clearly I can see it.

Maybe I should do a keynote about that.

I open my laptop and start a Google search.

Where can you order Tavor online?