How Working At a “Start Up” Almost Killed Me- Part Two

To read part one, click here.

Originally, we were supposed to return to New York. Somehow, the West Coast became the target. First Santa Monica, then Los Angeles, and then, because some random douchebag opened his mouth and encouraged our foreign CEO’s… we ended up in Palo Alto, the single most expensive place to live on the planet.

The powers that be rented out a mini mansion to serve as our office, and our home. It was like one of those hacker houses on Silicon Valley; the HBO show that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the horrific injustices that occur here.

Our boss was fired a week before we left for California. He was “invited to leave” after a skirmish that was probably about money. Don’t quote me. (Ed. Don’t worry, we won’t)

An interim replacement was appointed, and basically uprooted to run a team he had no investment in. I was starting to think the CEO’s didn’t have any investment either.

In an attempt to keep my job, I held my tongue. We got to the house, and were stunned by its size and beauty. We were told it would be furnished and ready to go. We opened the door, and saw that nothing was ready for us. No desks, and no chairs. Nothing. There was a futon and three beds. It looked like a crack dealer’s house. The echoes of a family that should have lived here invaded my mind. We were getting dropped on our asses again for the third time. The excuse was, “well, we’re disorganized because… it’s a start up.”

The median income in this area is well above 122k per year¹. Our salaries didn’t rise. Our CEO’s couldn’t be bothered by the cost of living or rent averages. The kicker was we had to pay partial rent for the office. Each of us, 700, 900, 1,000, and 1,200 per month.

Of the 10,000 dollar rent, we were paying back 33 percent. Essentially, we were paying them to allow us to work for them.

About a month in, our interim leader returned to Korea, and a woman was brought in who had worked at several video game companies. She used to know our CEO’s in college. She was kind, thoughtful, and attentive. I knew the company would eat her alive.

After our boss departed, I took over a few of his duties. One of them was “viral marketer.” I was now creating ad campaigns on Facebook in an attempt to bring monthly active users to the site.

I had no training. I was acting on one hunch and instinct after another. Yet, I was good.

A month or two passed without incident, and then we lost a team member. Unable to withstand the workload and the move, she left to be with her boyfriend. We all made fun of her for it.

We worked through Christmas, and were given no time off for the holidays. Our boss, being a kind soul, offered us New Year’s Eve as a consolation. We took it, and celebrated in Mountain View California with some tech bros from Google and Facebook. We went to a crowded bar, with too many lights, and not enough alcohol.

The page view numbers started going down in January, and our budget got cut in anticipation of our next round of funding. I wasn’t nervous though. They’d invested too much in us to shut us down, right? The plane tickets, the training, the 13,000 dollars worth of salaries for seven people. It would be a terrible business decision to get rid of us. Right? Right?

Then we learned our CEO’s husband, who ran a venture capital firm, was arrested for defrauding investors of over 4.6 Billion Korean Won, which translates to a little over three million American dollars. Who knew South Koreans and U.S. venture capitalists were so much alike. I guess corruption is the international language of business.

We were stunned, and assured that the allegations were false, and that it had nothing to do with our company. It was the sister venture capital firm that was called into question.

A week passed.

We were uneasy.

Another week passed.

Things returned to normal.

Suddenly, and without warning, on a random Thursday, I received an email from my third boss: “Tess, can you instruct the viral team to suspend all campaigns. We’ve run into a financial issue.”

That was the first in a string of events you couldn’t write if you tried, they were so abrupt and strange.

The following Monday, we were notified that all of our part and full time remote members would be let go. Our investors got spooked, because of the fraud charges associated with our CEO’s. They pulled the investments from our company, and our latest round of funding was canceled. I couldn’t blame them. Anyone who risks investing with a fraudulent company (whether guilty or not) is a fucking moron.

The aftermath was terrifying. I was fielding messages from employees I oversaw, but had little to no information for them. There were no messages from the CEO’s. They were tossed on their asses with a day’s notice. They’d be lucky to receive a check.

I walked into the kitchen of our mansion, and the four remaining members of the team had the same looks on their faces. It was the fear creeping up in each of them. The fear of being homeless, the fear of having nothing to return to, and the fear of their parent’s basements. It was palpable. The clear California air couldn’t mask it.

I grabbed a glass of water, and stood in the middle of them; the empty drug dealer-like house still nearly empty, months after our Ikea nesting instincts wore off:

“You know what; she’s going to walk in here today and fire us.”

They all laughed, and assured me I was being too negative. Then they actually thought about it.

Two hours later, she arrived, and confessed she didn’t know how to break the news. “There was an emergency board meeting last night, and they have decided to shut down US operations.”

She was fired too.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t cry. I didn’t look at anyone. I knew the moment we landed in Seoul that something like this would happen. We’d been polishing the brass on the Titanic. That sinking feeling wasn’t us, it was the company, which unbeknownst to us young, hungry, and impressionable kids right out of college, had been operating illegally for sometime.

With the CEO’s reputation’s trashed, and the platform losing more and more users by the day, nothing seemed to matter. Yet, we’d still be forced to work for our measly paycheck, until a random Wednesday in May, our last official day.

Still, our boss defended the integrity of the CEO’s, until she broke down, and confessed that she didn’t know who they were anymore. The people she knew in college wouldn’t fire 15 people in two days without warning. Apparently they’d changed.

We were given a month to vacate the house, but were expected to pay the next month’s rent. Obviously, giving the company another 4K was of paramount importance.

It wasn’t easy leaving the people I’d spent all this time with. The team became close, we were relocated three times. Twice domestically, and once internationally. We went through hell and back in an attempt to build something beautiful. For some reason, we weren’t valued, taken seriously or respected enough to be saved.

The CEO’s never sent an email, or a thank you for our work. I doubt I will ever hear from them again.

But hey, “It’s a start up.”

 

¹ Amount corrected from earlier error.

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Tess F. Stevens is a young writer and musician based in the Bay Area. She operates on gin and tonics, indie rock and Gonzo Journalism ideals. Her writing has stunned millions on different platforms including online publications and print. She also loves baseball, makes rock music, paints and practices her craft on her 1960’s era Royal typewriter.

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