Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Ethan
Ethan paused to admire the building that once housed the Magellan Theater, its Art Deco facade a beautiful relic from a bygone era.
Its central tower descended from the sky in graceful steps, as if it were a waterfall carved from stone.
The original marquee remained intact, but instead of movie titles and matinee times, it now displayed a backlit panel bearing the name Orison.
The logo was styled as a sunrise, the O rising above a dark blue slash.
The theater definitely had more appeal as a potential workplace than some sterile, featureless skyscraper.
But working at the same company as his father – where he would always be “Howard’s son,” no matter how hard he tried to distinguish himself – left him cold.
He’d promised he would listen to Jerry’s pitch, though, so with a sigh of resignation he entered through one of the etched glass doors.
Inside, Orison was a curious mix of old and new.
Like most modern tech companies, it had an open floor plan with no cubicles.
Desks and tables dotted the space, arranged in intimate groupings.
A recreation area with vending machines and beanbag chairs was tucked into a corner near a ping-pong table.
Although the stage and rows of plush seating were gone, hints of the theater’s grand past remained.
The bold starbursts in the vaulted ceiling, once resplendent in scarlet and gold, had been painted over and reimagined in cream and muted teal.
Just inside the door, the original ticket window had been repurposed to serve as an information desk.
Ethan approached the young woman seated at the desk. “I have an appointment with Jerry Wyler?” He wasn’t sure why he asked it as a question; maybe he was hoping she’d say no.
She pointed toward the glass-walled offices that lined the building’s west wall. “Jerry’s office is second to last.”
He thanked her and crossed the vast space, sticking close to the row of offices so he wouldn’t disturb the casually dressed employees clacking away on their laptops. A few glanced his way before returning to their screens, completely uninterested in his presence.
The offices all looked identical – executive fishbowls decorated with warm wooden furniture and fiddle-leaf fig trees in ceramic pots.
His father was seated in one of the middle offices, speaking into a headset and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.
When he saw Ethan, he gave him a thumbs-up before gesturing wildly with his hands and swiveling his chair so he was facing the room’s window.
Near the end of the row, one of the office doors stood ajar. White vinyl lettering on the glass read Jeremiah Wyler, Project Director. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed goatee stared intently at his laptop while his fingers moved restlessly over the keys.
Ethan knocked lightly on the door. “Mr. Wyler?”
The man looked up with a grin and motioned him inside. “Jerry, please. It’s first names only around here.” He came around his desk and shook Ethan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure finally meeting Howie’s son.”
Ethan pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. He’d never once heard anyone refer to his father as “Howie.”
“Have a seat.”
Ethan sat and scanned the office while Jerry rolled his desk chair over so they could sit next to each other on the same side of the desk.
A banner over Jerry’s desk read: Tomorrow’s ideas, built on yesterday’s foundations.
“This is an exciting opportunity, and as an intern, you’d be getting in on the ground floor.” Jerry handed Ethan a folder of information.
Ethan paged through the glossy documentation while Jerry explained the program.
“We’re building co-working spaces that utilize a suite of specialized software solutions, to allow entrepreneurs and small business owners to scale up their operations.
We’ve secured a few properties throughout the city and are building them out now. ”
Jerry handed Ethan an architectural illustration, labeled Page Street. The building might have once been a library but now had the Orison logo plastered across it.
“You see, we scout for properties with character, that have that old-time San Francisco feel to them. It’s the facade that’s the selling point. Then we gut the place and rebuild it to our specifications.”
We gut the place. Like a predator. Old buildings were repurposed, renovated, and modernized all the time, but it was something about Jerry’s wording that made Ethan’s skin crawl.
He placed the illustration back on Jerry’s desk. “You gut old buildings that have history and character?”
Jerry smirked, as if he’d fielded that question countless times with his optimistic new hires.
“Look, the best part of old buildings is the outside shell. Inside, they’re always cramped, dark, and drafty.
We want bright, open spaces, where everything is new and modern.
Like what we’ve built here. Stuffy offices and cubicles are out.
No one wants to come to work at a place like that. ”
Ethan gave a curt nod and tightened his grip on the folder in his lap, digging his nails into its glossy finish.
“I could get you started in our Haight location. We had a project underway closer to your neck of the woods but we hit a snafu.”
“A snafu?”
“Yeah.” Jerry rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. “We were going to buy the current tenant out of his lease, but he changed his mind at the last minute and one of the owners transferred the lease to a new tenant.”
Ethan’s mouth went dry. “Which building?”
Jerry sorted through a stack of binders on his desk and handed one to Ethan, which was labeled Dolores Street. “Some rundown firehouse.”
His palms sweating, Ethan paged through the binder.
It was the second time in the last forty-eight hours he’d looked at inspiration sketches for this building.
But whereas Blake’s sketches celebrated the quirkiness of the space, finding clever ways to work around its odd floor plan, the Orison sketches were sterile and rendered the space unrecognizable.
The old garage bay, Virgil’s office, the locker room that served as the dancer’s dressing room – they were all gone.
All that remained was a vast open space with thick pillars holding up the second floor.
It was as if Blake’s dream had been erased. Gutted.
“Just a temporary setback,” Jerry said. “We’ll have it soon enough. Drew, one of the owners, is on our side. He says this new guy doesn’t have a lot going on upstairs, so we can wait him out. Most businesses fail in their first year.”
Ethan snapped the binder shut and set it on Jerry’s desk. “Can’t you just leave him alone and find another building?”
“Why bother? This one’s got it all.” He tapped the binder with his index finger. “Right size, right location. We can afford to wait. Orison always wins, Ethan.”
Jerry launched into his upbeat description of the internship, as well as the numerous benefits of working for Orison, but Ethan tuned him out.
He stared down at the folder in his lap, tracing the Orison logo with his thumb.
The O was stylized to look like the rising sun.
Now Ethan saw it as a gaping mouth, consuming everything in its path.
His mind kept returning to Blake’s binder, overflowing with drawings, and photographs, and magazine pages. Curated with love and passion. Blake’s idea for the club was a bold vision that shone with his talent and courage.
If Ethan had to choose between helping a kind, passionate man bring something beautiful into the world, or helping a soulless corporation bulldoze the past, his choice was clear.
“Any questions for me?” Jerry asked.
“No,” Ethan said. “I have everything I need.”
After shaking hands, Ethan calmly left Jerry’s office.
As soon as he was out of Jerry’s sight, Ethan picked up speed, wanting to get out of the building as soon as possible.
When he passed his father’s office, Howard was still facing away from the door, so Ethan scurried past. Breaking into a jog, he crossed the open floor, dodging a few jeans-clad guys, and burst through the etched glass doors to the sidewalk.
He tossed the Orison folder into a nearby public trash can and pulled out his phone.
I have to talk to Blake.