A Mushroom Forest of Imaginary Penises

His was one of these one-person office suites in a sun-bleached 1980s cement lump by the water. Along sticky linoleum flooring on anxiety-inducing corridors, which were boiling hot, every door plaque in exactly the same all-caps rounded font, that read the name of what was behind each doors: family accountant practice, psychotherapist, private fund administration bureau. A gallery of dullness and—I am struggling not to use the word Kafkaesque here. Dammit, there, I’ve used it.

John’s office had a majestic view: blue sea, white yachts, MCM pebbledash slates, the hard glint of the 11 A.M. sun. And a greeting committee: three hyperventilating chihuahuas, one of whom was hairless. Behind them stood a round-cheeked, jovial, rocker-biker type in a salesman costume. It was a nice beige linen suit he was wearing. Linen was the fad of the summer. He wore well-shined brogues, in a summery light brown—oh, it was perfect—and yet, the rocker-biker type shone through the suit like cheese smells through a cloth. I wondered how that was even possible. Maybe it was the two electric guitars hanging on the wall, or the drum kit in the corner. Maybe it was the rolled-up blanket, stuffed hastily behind the backrest of his futon couch, which clearly served more often as a bed than for business meetings.

I was still taking it all in when he began to speak, pointing at the hairless dog, “That dog lost all her hair because I also have horses and, basically, I took her to the stables and she ate some horse poop, which gave her a fungus, which made her hair fall out. It’s a thing with dogs and horse poop, look it up? But she’s been to the vet, and they gave her some medicine, she is all good now, the hair will grow back. It’s okay to touch her. She’s perfectly healthy, she just looks weird.”

He told me how he had ended things with the love of his life, the original owner of Chihuahua #2, but it would have been too cruel to separate the dogs, so he kept all three. In my head, I started to count down the seconds before he was going to take his penis out. 

But to my delight, he did no such thing. There actually was a great invention. 

Well, let’s say that there was an invention.

First, he showed me a demo video. As far as computer simulation videos for early-stage tech ideas go, it lacked both pizzazz and razzmatazz, but it was interesting in the way that boring-but-clever small tech fixes can be interesting. The idea was for a little system, like an airtag, but built into self-driving cars. It would help them better anticipate the red phases of traffic lights, and better adjust their speed. 

I had no way of knowing whether it was the dull-sounding but genius, highly specialized sort of project that could turn into millions and gazillions, or only one of dozens of attempts being made at this moment, unbeknownst to most of us, in rooms such as this one, by kids with transistors trying to solve a subsection of a part of a puzzle, that could change fucking everything. Something told me that I happened not to be looking at the future boss of the eventual winning team in this particular race. 

But the guy was friendly. I also very much liked his investor relations strategy: the plan was to approach Leonardo Dicaprio, who had a “green fund.” I was more than a decade too old to be sent as a honeytrap for DiCaprio, but luckily that part was already taken care of. The contact with “Leo” was going to be established through a friend who happened to share a disease with one of “Leo’s” closest associates, so they’d met in the rooms and became chummy. What “disease” does he have? I wondered. Who even uses the word “disease” anymore? It’s condition, dummy! Anyway, was it sex addicts anonymous? Again? I am thinking nis-pe nis-pe nis-pe, literally living in a mushroom forest of imaginary penises, and they’re all being perfect gentlemen, and where is my mind going, all the time?

Finally, we started talking about the job “John” wanted done. The “research” he needed done involved policy and compliance stuff—discovering networks and finding the names of the people in the city administration and regulation that he’d need to suck up to—so he could lobby, and get his business some traction. 

He shook my hand and told me he’d send me a job offer letter soon. I was delighted, and took the rest of the day off. Since I’d come all the way to Marina del Rey, I figured I would go and get ice cream and watch the seals climb on yachts to warm their smelly hides. Might as well enjoy the time off while you have it, was the type of unemployed person that I was.

Nevertheless, John ghosted me.

***

Fast-forward four years. It’s 2026, and I’m in downtown Los Angeles at rush hour, when I notice a Waymo driverless taxi is stuck at the intersection. It’s blocking traffic, yet refuses to move, because all around it, an ogre of a man is dancing a frightful dance, making faces at the side cameras, shaggy-bearded, waving at the sensors, bashing a plastic bag on its roof. A long traffic jam has formed, terrific din of car honks leaping to the heavens through the comb of high-rises. Nobody dares approach nor intervene, yet all are mesmerized at the sight of this wide and tall grown man, playing with the robo-Jaguar like a child plays with waves of the ocean. In a mad world, only the mad are sane. 

FRANCESCA SPIEGEL is a corporate writer at Wells Fargo and is hard at work, after work, on her essays, stories, and book. Check out her mini-lit-portrait gallery of People in Beverly Hills, or find her at francescaspiegel.com.