iThink the App

Chapter 1

She raised her hand and got the waitress' attention.

"Okay, okay," David said. "I've got another one. You'll love this: it's called 'The Flatulence Network.' It's a YouTube channel. The slogan is, 'All poop, all the time.'"

They erupted with laughter. Tippi hit David on the shoulder.

"Something is wrong with you," she said.

"Now that has to exist already, no?" Mitch said.

"You could have shows like 'Smell my Fart,'" David said. "Or 'What's in Dad's Poo?' Or 'The Diarrhea Diaries.'"

Mitch chuckled and spit a little beer.

"And the lead show," David said. "'Forrest Dump."

"If you're ever in trouble, Forrest," Mitch said in a terrible impersonation of Sally Fields. "Just poop, Forrest, poop."

They laughed harder.

The red-headed woman at the other table signed the credit card slip, gave it to the waitress, and put her credit card into her wallet, next to an ID that read: "Professor Ingrid Mearsteen, PhD: University of San Francisco." David, Mitch, and Tippi did not see her as she left, giving them dirty looks. Idiots, she thought.

***

Three months later:

Professor Mearsteen's lab was in the basement of University of San Francisco's Harney Science Center. It was windowless, but tidy and clean.

Assistant Professor Kenneth Boyd, who was about fifteen pounds overweight and prematurely balding at twenty-nine, hunched over a laptop, typing feverishly. Mearsteen looked at a mathematical diagram on a large whiteboard: a long list of boxes, arrows, letters, numbers, and charts. At the top was written: "iThink the App."

On the board, equations surrounded a giant, interconnected tree, where topics like "User Info," "Personal," "Financial," and "Hobbies" branched off into overlapping sections: "Jobs," "Health," "Sex Life," "Eating Habits," "Bank/Investments," "Social Media," "Shopping History," "Follower/Leader," and many more.

Mearsteen rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. This should work, she thought. Why is it getting hung up all the time? What am I missing?

Boyd looked up from his computer and exclaimed, "Got it!"

She hurried to him and looked at the lines of code running on his laptop screen. "Oh my God. How did you do it?"

"It wasn't our algorithm that was wrong. Like we said all along, any computer science major could write it. And our data collection worked fine. We just didn't have enough processing speed. Once I hooked into the university network, it worked like a charm. Piece of cake."

She slapped him on the back. "Nice work, Boyd."

"Thanks. But, how do we get all the service providers to give us the bandwidth? And, for that matter, work together?"

"Let me handle that." Mearsteen said. She smiled.

***

The spacious grand room at Auberge de Soleil, a luxury resort in Napa Valley, overlooked a lush olive grove and manicured vineyard. Mearsteen had completely rented out the exclusive lodge.

Mearsteen and Boyd stood before a group of well-dressed men and women who sat in rustic, wooden chairs. They were from Silicon Valley and the world's biggest telecoms - Alphabet, Apple, IBM, Verizon, AT&T, Viacom, and more - and all were looking at their smartphones.