Page 8 of The Hard Launch

With Edmund’s approval, I was gearing up to present Trevor’s plan as Lettercat’s big swing in Monday’s board meeting. The trick, I learned after Edmund embarrassed me repeatedly in front of the entire board, was to get his buy-in before the meeting even starts. No surprises, no hard questions under pressure. With Edmund such a tireless alpha, having him in my corner at the outset means everyone else will just go along with the plan.

And the plan was to get the board to approve our new direction so we could lock down another round of funding so we could make it a reality, adding thirty-six months of runway at our projected burn rate. That would translate to me breathing a little easier for maybe twenty-four months.

Even the prospect of that was enough to allow me the most decent night of sleep I’ve had in weeks. I wake up feeling not necessarily refreshed, but less doomed than usual. I know I’m not in the clear yet; I’ve simply learned to embrace any calm I can find before the next inevitable shitstorm, which is always closer than I think.

While I wait for my Dasher to bring a coffee and egg-and-cheese wrap, I unpack the clean laundry that was delivered yesterday. One stack of jeans and three stacks of Lettercat tees go into the closet. I know it’s a cliché to be a founder with a uniform, but it really frees up significant mental space when you don’t have to think about what you’re going to wear each day. And I figure if even one person a month sees my company shirt and is inspired to sign up, that’s money in the bank.

I’m filling up my sock drawer with twenty-four copies of the same gray sock— I never need to find a match —when my phone buzzes. I pick it up to check where my coffee’s at and instead see a call coming in from Edmund. It’s pretty early, even for him. I brace myself and answer.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve seen it and you’re pivoting,” he says.

I swallow hard and lie my face off. “Yes, sir. You know it.”

“Do you want to discuss how your entire strategy for next quarter was front-run by your competitor right now, or would you prefer to wait until after you’ve sold me on your other plan?”

“After,” I croak. My whole professional life flashes before my eyes, and it is not impressive.

“I’m playing Torrey Pines with Wally today, then taking the wife to Santa Barbara for the weekend,” Edmund tells me as I open my laptop and frantically try to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about.

“That sounds nice,” I say, my face burning.

“For me, yes, it is. But for you, it means no babysitting. You need to come to the board meeting on Monday and wow us all with whatever this other plan is. ”

What other plan? I’m thinking.

“Not a problem,” I say, like a good and respectful foot soldier. “I look forward to sharing it.”

While he’s outlining all the reports he’s going to want on Monday, I open Slack and see Tooity’s LinkedIn post shared in the competitive analysis channel. I watch it with the volume off and my adrenaline spikes, my stomach churns. I hit my phone’s mute button to keep Edmund from hearing if I throw up.

“Jude,” he says in parting. “You’re running low on money, but also on my faith. I’ll let you decide which is worse.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and then realize I’m still on mute and he’s already hung up.

I sink to the floor in front of my laptop, in my rented apartment full of rented furniture, and think about how easy it would be to just leave it all behind. I could go home to Michigan, maybe go to law school. Make all of this a footnote in the rest of my story.

Except for those eighteen people on the payroll. I owe them more than that.

Well, at least seventeen of them. I’ve got some words for Trevor.

While I call Trev repeatedly, my coffee and wrap arrive. I leave them on the counter to get cold, because I have no appetite and all that adrenaline is better fuel than caffeine could ever be. My five calls go straight to voicemail. I text him a full paragraph outlining the situation and he replies promptly: Bro that sucks

This isn’t what I’m looking for. I wait for him to send a message telling me he has a backup that might be even better. Or at least a message telling me he’s on it, we’ve got this. Nothing comes. I write an entire paragraph about how we need to understand—by Monday —if there’s anything salvageable in that plan. Either that or pull an entirely new strategy out of our asses.

Super sucks man. PTO today! In an Uber right now. SFO —> LAX for a long weekend

I throw my phone on the couch, hard. Trevor is a great friend and a pretty good employee. He cares about the company, but only when he’s logged in. And no, it’s not okay to say that’s what he gets paid for; he has equity in the company. Equity is supposed to make you care.

I message Glenn, even though he likes to stay offline until his kids are out the door. I usually respect his boundaries, but I’m spiraling here.

He doesn’t respond directly. Instead, he sends me a meeting invitation for a session called Lettercat Next Phase Strategy that will begin at 9 a.m. In the notes he says to start without him, as he’ll likely be a few minutes late. Also invited are Trevor and Lacey. I know Trevor’s got nothing, but I forgot how Glenn had urged me to hear Lacy out.

I try to remember what he told me about her idea, but I come up with nothing. All I know about Lacey Lang is that she hates me, she’s too immature to handle feedback that isn’t praise, and that she is currently my only hope.

I shower, but I don’t take the time to shave. Again. I throw on my personal uniform and head out the door, skipping the motorcycle. On a good day I’m terrified I’m going to dump it in the road, and this is no good day. I take an Uber instead, annoying my driver.

“Five blocks, man? You better tip me!” he shouts when I get out. I tip him.

Normally, I like to pause for a second when I walk into the office and see the neon sign with the Lettercat logo my sister made. I try to take a moment to recognize that no matter what happens that day, I’ve built something real, something to be proud of and grateful for. I don’t do that today. I can’t be thinking about how far I’ve come when I need to make sure this isn’t the end of the road.