Floor 23.
At least the floor where the concierge had directed me was a prime number. I chose to take it as a good sign.
Even though the state-of-the-art elevator I rode in was spacious and airy, I felt a bit like a mouse in a trap.
Tugging at the too-tight collar of my sweater, I took a deep breath to try and calm down. After all, this was just a job interview. Like many more I had done before it, and many more I would likely do after.
And I came here out of mere curiosity—not because I was really eager to work for an insurance company.
I had not invested much time whatsoever in the job application I had sent.
Fueled by one beer too many, I just had slapped up my CV from the university's website and composed a brief motivational letter. The latter talked about my plans to meld the playful soul of math and the steel muscle of business and my determined intentions to cut random risk with the sharp edge of statistics. Unfortunately, before sobering up and coming to my senses, I had already clicked the Send button.
Their invitation call had taken me entirely by surprise.
So here I was, in an elevator while watching my fidgeting reflection in its mirrored walls.
I had decided against a suit and tie.
Jobs in insurance companies are a mathematician's dead end, Carl had said to me.
He kind of had a point. Turning my app programming hobby into a daytime job would be better than earning my living as a salaryman. The very thought of toiling in a place like this was absurd.
And they'd likely want all the employees to arrive before 9. I would have to take an earlier train.
Not the one where I had a chance to see Braces.
The cabin came to an abrupt stop, and the door slid open, revealing a rainbow-colored carpet dominated by a pink counter with the inscription Reception in large, green letters.
The comely woman sitting behind it eyed me with a wide smile. Her colors formed a pastel version of the counter she hogged. She wore a light green jacket and had silver-pink lips.
Next to her, two man-sized palm trees with cartoonishly fat trunks grew from a bathtub-shaped pot.
I checked the number displayed in the elevator. 23. Maybe the concierge had made a mistake. This didn't look like an insurance company at all.
Still, for lack of other options, I ventured out onto the soft carpet and stepped up to the counter.
"Welcome at Best Boston Insurances," the woman said, her smile unwavering.
Best Boston Insurances—I was where I should be.
"Good morning. I believe I have a meeting with Liam Lavie," I said, trying to sound confident. "My name is Evan Popplewell."
She nodded, dialed a number, and made a call. Moments later, she gave me a high-pitched he'll be right with you and gestured at a colorful assortment of beanbag chairs on the other side of the palms.
I picked a yellow one and sank into its soft embrace, which left my head at a normal person's knee level.
The bathtub-shaped palm pot next to me was a bathtub. And the palms were plastic.
A woman entered the lobby, pushing a trolley. Her smile matched the one of the woman at the desk who appeared to be the receptionist. As she was about to pass me, she stopped. "Can I offer you an apple?" She pointed at her cargo. The trolley was loaded with all kinds of different food. "Or a whole-grain muffin with organic raisins?"
Her offer came with a tantalising scent of freshly baked carbs, and it was so unexpected, it left me dumbstruck. Her cap sat askew, which gave her a perky look.
She frowned. "Or, I've also got some ginger—"
A suave baritone interrupted her to-be tirade. "Never more than a hundred feet from food."
I turned my head to face the newcomer. Wearing an indigo suit and tie, the man did look insurance-y.
"I'm Liam." He extended a hand. "Let me help you out of the beanbag trap."
His firm hoist-cum-handshake lifted me into an upright position. With a wave from his other hand, he dismissed the food trolley girl. "As I said... no more than a hundred feet from food. That's a company policy. It's 150 feet at Google, so we're actually doing better." He winked at me and released my fingers from his firm but soft-skinned grasp.
I frowned, trying to make sense of his words.
"It means we've got food everywhere in the workplace," he explained. "No employee has to go further than 100 feet to find some."
His black, oiled hair gleamed in the LED spotlights dotting the ceiling.
I nodded, fumbling for words. "That most certainly sounds... nurturing."
He laughed. "Right, it is. You've got to be careful with all these calories." He padded his firm, flat tummy. Then he extended an arm down the hallway. "So. Let me give you a tour of the premises."
"Er... thanks." I barely stopped myself from smacking my own head, a head that failed to come up with sentences longer than two words. Making an effort, I went for a longer one. "This place is not what I expected."
"Isn't it?" He gently pushed my back, setting me into motion. "Well, we try to be different. We're the best in Boston, after all."
The doors along the hallway stood open. As we passed them, they revealed generous offices with countless workers staring at computer screens, chomping on chocolate muffins, or eagerly chatting. Most men wore elegant dark suits. The women seemed to favour more subdued colors, but also more expensive ones.
So different from Braces.
"This is the executive floor." Liam gestured at the ground. "Those below us look similar." Then he pointed at the ceiling. "Above us, there's nothing but sky and the boardroom. And there is also the Chef's Retreat, of course... That's our employees' restaurant. The city's best cooks wield their ladles and pans there. We're offering them sabbaticals from their regular jobs to practice their arts in our restaurant."
I was still speechless as we turned a corner and stepped into a bright room larger than the foyer of the university. It held a vast variety of furniture—armchairs, incliners, hanging baskets, more beanbags, and beds even. Between them, tables offered food, reading material, and potted plants.
Gaudy colors and polished metal dominated. But rustic accents—such as waxed wood and knitted fabrics—challenged them.
A few employees were in sight. Most of them were sitting in silence and relaxing, a group laughing softly, and one man hung from what looked like a trapeze.
On one side of the room, a series of floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of downtown and the brilliant sea under a dome of flawless blue.
"Welcome to the Chillaxium." Liam spread his hands, encompassing the diverse sitscape. "You may now choose a place for our little talk."
The view drew me in, and I decided to search for something close to the windows. Avoiding the modern options, I selected a wide sofa covered with a happy-grandma quilt and was suspended from the ceiling by sailor's ropes. It looked like something out of Little House on the Prairie meeting the "Pirates of the Caribbean."
Its soft stuffing welcomed my bony buttocks with gentle care.
The sun-caressed buildings and blue ocean at our feet took my breath away.
For a moment, Liam and I just sat there, gently swinging back and forth, without uttering a single word.
A small table next to the sofa held a stack of various magazines. No, they were not magazines—comics. The top one showed a pink-haired, massive-eyed heroine wrestling a tentacled green alien.
She reminded me of someone. "Do you have any fixed times when people have to be here in the morning?"
"Core time starts at ten. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious," I said, suppressing a grin.
Core time starts at ten.
Late enough to take my usual train. The one where I might see Braces.
I wondered what she would think of a guy working in a place as cool as this one, far above the roofs of the city.
"You seem mighty pleased by this," Liam said, tilting his head.
Trying to hide my grin, and utterly failing at that endeavour, I shrugged. "Oh, you know... I'm not an early riser."
He chuckled at my remark. "Well, as you can see, we've got a wonderfully adaptable workplace here. And now..." He sat back on the sofa and crossed his arms. "So. Tell me about your plans to meld the playful soul of math and the steel muscle of business and how you will cut random risk with the sharp edge of statistics."