Marikka’s path to the United States started in Estonia. From there, she moved to Singapore, Paris, England, Miami, Silicon Valley and, finally, to Emeryville, CA., where she lived with her boyfriend. When I met her, she stood outside of the Oakland Airport on the third curb, waiting for an Uber.
No luggage, she had been in LA for the weekend, enjoying herself after being in a coma for 5 weeks at a hospital in Walnut Creek, CA. She told me this right away. Of course, I was interested.
“What happened?” I asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror.
She was young – probably under 25 – and reminded me of Elizabeth Holmes, the CEO of Theranos. Sans the breathy, baritone of Holmes’ speaking voice, they were similar in their calculated use of words, insightful responses and forced humor. Like Holmes, you could tell this woman had a vision.
“It was my own fault. I guess I took too many psychedelics over a 4-day period. It made my brain swell. It was in the tea, the psychedelics. I took it at the congregation ceremony. Other people did too, but I was the only one…” She paused and didn’t finish the sentence. She wasn’t reflective or pensive, she just stopped talking and took a moment to look out the window. Very matter of fact.
I had a lot to digest, but I focused on her use of the word congregation. To me, congregation is used when talking about church, but it would be a reach to assume she went to a church where a subset of the congregation dropped acid together.
I did a little math. She said she got out of the hospital 5 weeks ago. Assuming she was hospitalized immediately after taking the acid, that would put her start date at the hospital right after Burning Man. Of course, Burning Man. She and her tech-druid friends probably adorned capes and ritualistically took acid on the playa.
I didn’t press her on this new disclosure, but I looked at her differently. Until then, she seemed like an ambitious techy, raddling off impressive credentials with every place she lived: Singapore: internship; London: London School of Economics; Paris: fellowship; Walnut Creek: swollen brain and Silicon Valley: failed start-up. At 25, it was impressive and probably not all true. Either way, she seemed driven – not a visionary CEO, but definitely upper management.
The smell of Oakland’s sewage treatment plant permeated the air at the freeway interchange of 880, 580 and 80. Regardless of the time of day, it hung over the interchange like foul fog, deflecting blame for the smell to imaginary passengers in passing cars:
“Who farted?
“It’s the area.”
“Yeah right.”
Passing Ikea on our left, I signal right at Powell Street and exited. If she were a tourist, I would’ve told her that before Ikea, the last steel mill in the Bay Area occupied the land, and behind the old mill were large mounds of oyster shells from the Ohlone Indians. This was more cabbie talk than Uber talk. There’s a big difference.
“What were you doing in Los Angeles?” I said, knowing it would be something good.
The light turned green and the 10 cars ahead us slowly idled forward, making the right at the intersection. I looked left to the shoulder and thought about my father recently dying. I had learned of his death from my sister on this ramp, pulling over to take her call. I didn’t cry but my body language to passing cars must’ve been a concern. One car pulled over at the intersection and walked back up the ramp to see if I was OK. It was a sweet gesture.
Marika told me she was in LA with her boyfriend, who was the CEO of a vegan dog food startup. They were doing TV and print interviews for the company. She said she worked at the startup too but didn’t tell me her title.
Used to people questioning the validity of vegan dog food, she went on verbal bullet-point defense of why vegan dog food is better than conventional dog food, before I, and everyone else, asked, “Aren’t dogs carnivores?” I stayed silent, though. Vegan and conventional dog food was not my wheelhouse.
Maybe she thought I was a little too friendly, so from this point on, every sentence started with, “My boyfriend…” This wasn’t unusual for women, nor was it odd for men to hear this. It was a simple way of saying “I’m taken, back off.”
Waiting for the light at Hollis and Powell, I look left to a gas station. They have an open bathroom that I use when I’m in the area. I know where all the public bathrooms are. It’s a gift. An old sushi restaurant resides on the other side of the street. A large billboard and train tracks border the back of the building. I thought about watching Pavement through the open front door of the restaurant. I was late and the show was sold out.
We sat in silence for a bit. Red lights and silence can be awkward. Marika taps me on the shoulder. I slightly turn, craning my neck. She shows me a picture on her phone.
“That’s my boyfriend. He’s 40, but doesn’t look it, right?” Leaning slightly forward, her right hand gripping the head rest of the front passenger seat.
“You’re right, he doesn’t look 40. He’s handsome.” I threw her bone with the latter.
She leaned back in the seat, going through her boyfriend’s CV in detail. Like her, he was impressive on paper.
I pull up to a modest, pre-war bungalow with a yellow door. We exchange pleasantries. She quickly exits the vehicle, disappearing into the front yard.
Before pulling out, I Google her boyfriend and find his Instagram. Swiping up, I peruse 100s of posts as quickly as possible. Not a photo of Marikka.
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