Even though we have decided not to become rich, and even though—and possibly because—WAI seems to have gotten off to the best possible start, it is a hungry beast that requires constant feeding.
“We have seven weeks of runway,” Jules says at the next board meeting.
Rupert tells us not to worry about the runway. “As long as you’re willing to take on more investment.”
Cyrus has booked Utopia’s boardroom, a soaring space on the top floor with a table the size of a small cruise ship.
“Rupert, you’ve made yourself clear, and for the record, let me restate my position: I will only take additional VC dollars if we are approached by someone who shares my vision of the company and its future.”
“Our vision,” Jules says.
“Clearly, the vision is a three-pointer. Unquestionable.”
“I’ve heard too many stories of founders raising too much money because they get undue pressure from their board,” Cyrus says.
No one has asked my opinion, but annoyingly, I have one. “It’s going to depend on how we plan to monetize.”
Rupert turns to me like I’ve just been teleported onto my seat. “Of course it does,” he says. “That’s the number one question everyone is going to ask.”
“Great,” I say, applauding the sound of my own idea. “So, how are we going to answer that?”
“We’re not going to monetize,” Cyrus says. “We are not doing this for profit—that was the whole point.”
“Then we have to shut down in a few weeks,” Jules says. He pulls out his laptop, takes a few seconds to connect to the monitor on the far side of the room, and projects a spreadsheet onto the screen.
“If we’re not spending anything on customer acquisition or marketing, why is our burn so high?” Cyrus asks.
“Burn is better than churn,” Rupert says.
Churn, I am told, is just not the latest fad in cultured butter but the number of people who sign up, then abandon, the platform. In our case, once they’ve asked the platform to give them a ritual, they’re hooked, perpetually asking it more questions, coming back daily and sometimes multiple times a day to see what their friends are doing, posting photos, commenting on other people’s rituals, and in general just hanging around like they have nothing better to do than to sit around not worshipping God.
“It’s the team, the servers, the constant updates. And we need customer support.”
Rupert stops scribbling. “Customer support? The WAIs need customer support?”
Jules and I have been talking about this. “All the social media platforms—Google, Facebook, Instagram—they spend a lot of money policing their users. Making sure we don’t get exposed to the dark side of humanity.”
“I don’t see why we need to police our own community,” Cyrus says.
“So we don’t let them do something colossally fucked up,” Jules snaps.
“We’re mitigating risk,” I explain. “Plus, we need a way to take care of the community. People are getting emotionally involved, and these are some of their most intimate moments, their fears, their desires, all coming out, and we have to find a way for them to talk about it, or we risk them getting hurt.”
“Can’t they talk to each other?” Rupert asks.
“They do,” Jules replies, “but we need to give them something more.”
“I understand,” Cyrus says. “That’s why I’ve been doing the WAICast.”
“They need more than five minutes a day.”
“What’s the damage?” Rupert asks.
“Maybe I should make the videos longer,” Cyrus muses.
“If we open a help line, we need to staff it. At least ten full-time staff, maybe more.”
“Can we outsource?”
Jules says we can’t outsource. “This isn’t like returning your dishwasher because it won’t fit under the counter.”
“I like the idea of providing the community with more resources,” Cyrus says.
“Then you have to agree to fundraise,” Rupert tells him. “And before that, we have to agree on how to monetize. I have some ideas.” He shares his screen. We all turn our chairs. “Number one. Advertisements.” He shows a slide of the platform, only with ads for yoga pants that can be worn to the office and office pants that feel as comfortable as yoga pants.
In glorious chorus, Cyrus and I shout, “NO.”
Rupert sighs and leans back in his chair so I can see the shiny quarter-size circle of bald at the top of his head, a sight that makes me hate him a tiny bit less.