Deceptive Histories and Other Inaccuracies

Chad Hurley leaned backward in his chair, interlocked his fingers, and then raised his arms above his head, holding the stretch until he heard the physically satisfying pops go down his spine releasing the tension in his back muscles. His brown suede jacket hung unevenly on the back of his computer chair, one sleeve trailing on the concrete floor while the other lay folded against his back. Despite the frigid mid-February weather and his financially inept inability to purchase a heater, he had pushed the sleeves of his light green wool sweater as well as those of the long sleeved shirt beneath that up to his elbows and occasionally lifted his feet out of the slip on shoes he had put on the night before.

His cell phone lay beside his right hand, next to the mouse, just in case he received a call from either his wife or Steve. Jawed had taken a cigarette break a few minutes prior and was most likely locked outside by the faulty garage door that refused to be opened by selected people. Either way, he had no intention of checking.

The ugly yellow light hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room suddenly flickered causing him to flinch when at that moment his phone rang. He reached, in an almost dream-like fashion, which five too many cups of coffee saturated with sugar had caused, for the phone where he was relieved to hear Steve on the other line.

“Open the door,” he barked, the chattering of his teeth heard over the speaker.

Chad smirked and leaned leisurely back into the curve of his chair, pushing his free hand through his hair. “Is Jawed out there with you?” he inquired casually, propping his feet up on the desk.

There was a slight pause on Steve’s line before he replied, “No. But just open the door,” there was a slight edge to his voice that perhaps persuaded Chad to oblige.

Chad grunted in response, swung his feet down and sauntered across the dimly lit and oddly damp room to the metallic and functionally frustrating door. He jerked it open, flinching as the frosty air blew harshly into the room, biting at his bare forearms and neck. Steve jostled past Chad and into the room, blowing into his fisted hands where Chad observed Steve had foolishly cut the fingers off his gloves. The door slammed shut and Chad closed his phone, following closely behind Steve who had headed directly for his computer stationed beneath the stairs.

“Did you get—?”

“Yes, the site should be up and running by May,” Steve interjected, shaking the mouse to bring the screen of the computer back to life.

Chad leaned over his shoulder only mildly aware of a distant banging in the background. Steve, a relatively intelligent man in his own right was, at first glance, a stereotypical Asian man with an advanced vocabulary and audible lisp; and while the former stated was factual, he could easily be regarded as the brains behind the project, their “angel-network”, or as Jawed referred to it in his thick German accent, “the business angel”. The projected they started up out of self-interest to make uploading videos much easier. Chad bet with Jawed that they would sell the idea to Google within the next year for approximately $1.65 billion; a strangely specific number, but the idea had grown on Chad with an odd intuition.

“Would you please just open the door and let him in?” Steve suddenly snarled, snapping Chad out of his thoughts. It was then that the banging became a loud and obvious sound. With a small laugh, Chad straightened up and headed for the door to let a perhaps frostbitten Jawed back into the garage slash office.

“By the way,” he murmured, pausing to glance at Steve over his shoulder. “What are we calling it again?”

Steve collapsed into his chair, still wearing his jacket and hat. He opened several documents and entered in several passwords before responding without turning around, “YouTube.”