Uncanny Valley

The startup hosted a monthly salon for the data curious, a catered happy hour with presentations from product managers and engineers, sourced from our customer list, about how to use analytics to run A/B tests, or growth-hack, or monitor user flows. Though I had loved going to publishing parties, where chatty editorial assistants quickly eschewed professional networking to gossip and gripe, nibble on stale pretzels and drugstore holiday cookies, and drink too much cheap wine—which always gave these evenings a coursing undercurrent of peculiar sexual energy—I had not been to tech networking events in either New York or San Francisco. I was curious, the day of my first big-data happy hour, about who would voluntarily spend their evening in someone else’s office listening to a sponsored presentation about mobile analytics.

The event was packed. Almost all the attendees were young men in startup twinsets, branded hoodies unzipped to reveal T-shirts with the same logo. Not that I could judge—we all wore our own branded T-shirts, most of them snatched from the supply closet, creases from the folds still visible. A small team of caterers worked furiously in the kitchen, arranging platters of cheese and replenishing coolers with beer and bottles of local white wine. There was a six-pack of root beer for the solutions manager, who was Mormon. I found the root beer moving.

The men roamed in clusters, like college freshmen during orientation week. They stood near our cloth-covered lunch tables and loaded compostable plates with charcuterie and fruit, crudités and hors d’oeuvres: lamb sliders, steamed barbecue-pork buns, tiny shrimp spring rolls. There was not a coursing undercurrent of peculiar sexual energy, or any sexual energy at all; everything was straightforward, up front. The attendees were clear about what they wanted, which was for their companies to grow. They were excited to talk about their startups, and all small talk was prelude to a pitch. I was guilty of this, too: I was proud of where I worked, and we badly needed to hire.

Our team was penned off in a corner of the office, at a cluster of tables marked with a sign that read SOLUTIONS ZONE. I stood in the Zone and felt powerful. Because the products of our labor were intangible, meeting customers felt amazing—validating. They approached, gave us their company names, and asked for help running reports. We never asked for their corporate ID cards or any sort of validation, and none of them ever questioned why it was so easy for us to pull up their data sets. Their companies had customer-support teams, too.

The presentation that evening was top-shelf: a fireside chat between two venture capitalists. There wasn’t an actual fire, but the VCs looked sweaty, close to pitting out. Even from the back row, the office felt moist. I’d never been in a room with so few women, so much money, and so many people champing at the bit to get a taste. It was like watching two ATMs in conversation. “I want big data on men talking about big data,” I whispered to one of the engineers, who ignored me.

After the event, we traveled in a group to a bar around the corner. The bar was subterranean and meant to look like a speakeasy, with heavy velvet curtains, a live jazz band, and bartenders who referred to themselves as mixologists. The faux speakeasy, on the edge of a neighborhood filled with paperless offices, was newspaper themed. Newsprint that looked like it had been soaked in black tea lined the walls. Typewriters were scattered about as decorative objects.

My coworkers looked glossy, exhausted, proud. They took shots, jostled against each other, jockeyed for the CEO’s attention. I found myself at a two-top with him, briefly, drinking something heavily garnished with mint. “I want you to eventually lead Support,” the CEO said, leaning in. “We need more women in leadership roles.” I basked in his attention. When I finished my drink, I let the ice melt, and then I drank that, too. I didn’t think to mention that if he wanted more women in leadership roles, perhaps we should start by hiring more women. I didn’t note that even if we did hire more women, there were elements of our office culture that women might find uncomfortable. Instead, I told him I would do whatever he needed.

Later, I stood in line for the bathroom behind two women in heels and day-to-night dresses. They looked around my age, but polished—shinier. They looked like the sort of woman I had wanted, and failed, to become back in publishing: self-possessed, socially graceful, manicured. They were probably having a different kind of night. The three of us leaned against the tiled wall and pawed our devices. My inbox was full of customer emails. I tried not to look down at my untucked shirt and tennis sneakers, my hips lapping over the lip of my jeans, the name tag on my chest that read SOLUTIONS! I tried not to imagine myself in their shoes.

When I reentered the bar, thankful for the dim light, I realized nobody else in our group had bothered to change before leaving the office, either. Like campers on a field trip, we were all still wearing our company T-shirts. I AM DATA DRIVEN, our chests announced to the world.

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