Page 58 of The Hard Launch

“I’ve got great news. How does a successful exit sound to you?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I told him, flipping the switch and watching the overhead lights flicker on over the desks of the people I was just reflecting on.

“Corday Ford have prepared an offer to acquire Lettercat. Congratulations, Jude.”

There it was: something to freak out about.

Remember that everything Edmund says is a riddle, that you cannot take it at face value. Like the term “successful exit.” There’s a lot to unpack there. Because it sounds good, your startup getting acquired by a large, public company. It sounds like parties and articles in WIRED and checks with lots of zeros on them. It’s like that when you’re a strategic acquisition, when the company’s hot; that’s when you make the big bucks and you celebrate.

It’s a different story when your company needs funding and your board has lost faith in you. Sometimes a company is just off-loaded, sometimes it’s a fire sale. And when a company has investors, like Lettercat does, they’re the first ones paid out when any deal happens. What’s left is divided between the people who hold equity, like the board and the founder, and then the employees. It usually goes in that order, too, because not all stock is the same.

While Edmund quoted numbers at me, I dug the most recent cap table to try to understand what it all meant. Corday Ford was making an offer that would let the investors recoup all they’d given us and a bit more, with only a small-to-decent bonus for the rest of the team.

Me, I’d be able to claim it as a success and take some time off. Do things like go backpacking in Vietnam and attempt to be a thought leader on LinkedIn. And then I’d have to find a new place to work, because no matter how much Edmund told me on that call that CF wanted to meet me and were excited to bring the team into the fold, we all know how they operate. Buy it up and pare it down. In a year, there’d be nothing left of Lettercat as we knew it.

This all sounded fine to the board when they met later that morning. It was considered an encouraging development. I heard this as I sat there, numb, on the Zoom while they discussed my company’s fate, like a person who woke up during surgery to hear the surgeon telling their assistant that the prognosis wasn’t good.

“It’s been four years of moderate growth, so this is realistically the best we can hope for,” Edmund told the rest of them.

“This will allow us to recoup our investment, sure, but outside that we’re talking pocket change,” someone said.

“Any chance of shopping this around still? See if we can get enough interest that Corday Ford increase their offer just to close the deal?” another proposed.

“Corday Ford wants to move quickly,” Edmund said. “We jeopardize the deal if we shop it, and could end up with nothing.”

I spoke up briefly.

“Aren’t we concerned about what they just did to Tooity?” I asked.

“They didn’t do anything to Tooity,” Edmund explained. “That partnership was rocky from the start, so they started looking for a direct acquisition. We had perfect timing.”

“But what about the new strategy we agreed on last board meeting? You agreed the numbers look phenomenal.” I tried to keep this from sounding whiny or belligerent but somehow managed to combine the two.

“And that’s part of why CF’s made this offer,” Wally insisted.

“We’re scheduled to launch it today,” I said. “It could really be a game changer.”

“Ah, Jude makes a good point,” Edmund declared. “We need to cancel that launch for now. Corday Ford will want to bring it to market themselves.”

When the meeting was over, I did as I was told and booked a flight to New York. Meetings with various Corday Ford executives slowly filled my calendar. I needed to go for a walk and clear my head, or to call Glenn or my friend who’s a lawyer to see what my actual options were,

Instead I went out to hit the gong and call off the release.

After a weak and cowardly performance with the team, I then spoke harshly to my sister, Lacey, and Trevor, knowing it was unfair to turn all the frustration I felt toward the board on the people I cared about most. But I did it anyway.

I’d been told to keep it all confidential, which doubled as a convenient excuse to avoid telling anyone anything, to avoid admitting that everything happening was outside my control. I spent years being coached by Edmund, and now I was complete: a killer of projects, a powerless warrior, and now, technically, a winner.

I waited for the whole team to leave and then I walked home to pack, sneering at the earlier optimistic version of myself. I changed out of my Lettercat t-shirt into a plain black one, and threw some clothes into a suitcase. There was a bright green toothbrush next to my sink, Lacey’s. I put it in the pink and red striped pouch she’d left on the counter, zipped it, and tucked it into the overnight bag on the floor of my room before I left.

I texted Ella and asked her to please get it back to Lacey. I told her where I was going, and then I was gone.

I called Lacey the next morning, with the misguided notion that she might be able to separate me from the person I was there in New York to be. I didn’t know how bad it was until we hung up, until I got into the Corday Ford offices.

I did a lot of handshaking and smiling, saying my name to people whose names had already escaped from my brain. All of them older than me, all dressed in business casual; it’s different in New York. I felt like I was doing old-school Zuckerberg cosplay in my jeans and hoodie.

“And I believe you already know Mike,” Edmund told me.

“Mike Eckert,” said the man who accompanied Edmund on his surprise visit to our Santa Cruz codeathon. “I’m the COO here at Corday Ford.”