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Saturday, Nov 22, 2008
We three founders had previously nixed the idea of a companywide meeting to make the announcement. The thought of seeing 40 faces simultaneously crumple with disbelief was too much for us to bear. On the other hand, telling people one by one would be even worse.
We decided to gather small groups together, by department. That way, we reasoned, people would have their close colleagues at hand and would still have enough personal space to digest the information. More important, we hoped that our thin veneer of bravery would hold up.
The first group came in quietly, sensing that something was wrong. We fidgeted, cleared our throats, straightened up papers on the desk.
I kept thinking that someone was missing, someone who was more competent, who could do this the right way and make everything better. Who were we to do something this grave, after all? Rookies. Dreamers. Losers.
The carefully rehearsed words didn't flow smoothly and instead came out sounding like a campaign speech by Al Gore.
"The unimaginable has happened: The term sheet fell through, so we didn't get the funding we were counting on."
"You've all done a fantastic job, but we didn't quite make it."
"We're just as shocked as you are."
Included in the first group was employee No. 5, who had been with the company almost from the beginning. She helped me pick out the Ikea office furniture; she accompanied me to Costco for the first load of sodas and pretzels for the kitchen; she spent hours planning the open house. She got to the office early and stayed late, and was the company's biggest cheerleader. She liked to talk about what could happen when the company made its IPO and we all became rich.
The news shocked her. Her eyes widened and then filled with tears. I handed her the tissue box before I looked away. There was nothing comforting to say; I felt small and incompetent.
An invisible barrier arose in that room in the space of just a few moments. Where all of us had previously been on the same side, now we looked at one another from across a chasm. It was us vs. them now.
There were questions of final checks (soon), severance pay (none) and the possibility for a miracle (slim). There were expressions of frustration as to why we didn't give them more warning, why we had maintained optimism, why we hadn't done more to preserve the company.
Why, indeed?
What happened, exactly, to this brave new world that so many embarked upon with such enthusiasm? No one seems to fully understand what happened to the Internet economy in the year 2000. Everyone has different opinions, all possessing varying levels of plausibility. Someday in the future, people will write detailed accounts of these times, the years that the Internet expanded and contracted like a burgeoning New World. They will posit and theorize, and perhaps they will find bits of truth.
Whatever these future historians decide, no answer will entirely suffice. A certain kind of violence is inherent in birth, and dizzying highs and lows must occur before equilibrium is reached. Miracles and injustices happen in equal measure. We had done everything we could think of to do, but it hadn't been enough.
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