Read A Hologram for the King for Free Online Page B
Authors: Dave Eggers
factories â every brand you can think of.
Alan didnât have much to say. He agreed with Sayed. He wanted to continue the tour, but the business student in Sayed was deep in his case study.
âDo you ever feel like you might have done it differently?
âMe? Personally?
âWell, whatever part you might have played. Might it have worked out differently? Was there a way Schwinn might have survived?
Might have . Might have . Alan parsed the words. He would bludgeon the man if he used these words again.
Sayed was waiting for an answer.
âIt was complicated, Alan mumbled.
Alan had gotten this before, too. People felt nostalgic about Schwinn. They thought that somehow it must have all been squandered by a bunch of imbeciles running the brand, imbeciles like him. How could a company like Schwinn, which owned the majority of the U.S. market for about eighty years, have gone bankrupt, sold to Trek for next to nothing? How was it possible? Well, how was it not possible? The men behind Schwinn had tried to continue making bikes in the U.S.According to some, that was mistake No. 1. They hung on in Chicago till 1983. Alan wanted to shake this MBA prick. Do you know how hard it was to hold out even that long? To try to make bicycles, very complicated and labor-intensive machines, on the West Side of Chicago, in a hundred-year-old factory, until 1983?
âAlan?
Alan looked up. It was Yousef.
âThe tourâs moving on. You want to come? Might you want to come?
Sayed was standing at the end of the hall.
âLetâs go upstairs, he said.
Two flights of steps and they found themselves above the city-in-the-making. The observation room afforded 360-degree views, and Alan paced along the windows. It was raw, yes, but from this vantage point the city was beautiful. Now it made sense. The Red Sea was turquoise, a light ripple from a gentle wind bringing the tide in. The sand was almost white, very fine. A tiled promenade snaked into the distance, dividing the oceanfront from the pink condominium and what Alan could now see were the foundations for at least a few more. Palm trees were planted throughout the development, and lined the nearest canal, sky-blue and clean, taking in water from the sea and cutting through the city, heading east. What had seemed like utter failure from the road into the city seemed, now, entirely on target. The place was bustling, workers everywhere in their primary-colored jumpsuits, the place getting built. Any investors seeing the project from this vantage point would be convinced that it was being completed with great taste and with what Alan, at least, saw as admirable speed.
âYou like it? Mujaddid asked.
âI do, Alan said. Look at that. All cities need rivers.
âIndeed, Mujaddid said.
Yousef was looking through the glass, too, his face stripped of cynicism. He seemed to be enjoying the sight without guile.
Sayed and Mujaddid led Alan and Yousef to an elevator. They dropped down two floors, and when the doors opened, they were in an underground garage.
âThis way.
Sayed led him to an SUV. They stepped in. It smelled new. They drove up a ramp and into the light again. A hard left took them toward the water, and seconds later, the car stopped.
âHere we are, Mujaddid said.
They had driven two hundred yards. Before them was an enormous tent, white and taut, the kind used for weddings and festivals.
âThank you, Alan said, stepping back into the heat.
âSo weâll see you at 3 p.m.? Sayed said.
At some point there must have been some mention of an appointment.
âYes, Alan said. In the main building, or the welcome center?
âIt will be in the main building, Sayed said. With Karim al-Ahmad. He is your primary contact.
Alan stood before the tent, puzzled. There was a vinyl door.
âMy people are in there? he asked.
âYes, Mujaddid said, his face without doubt or apology.
âIn a tent, Alan said.
It seemed
Alan didnât have much to say. He agreed with Sayed. He wanted to continue the tour, but the business student in Sayed was deep in his case study.
âDo you ever feel like you might have done it differently?
âMe? Personally?
âWell, whatever part you might have played. Might it have worked out differently? Was there a way Schwinn might have survived?
Might have . Might have . Alan parsed the words. He would bludgeon the man if he used these words again.
Sayed was waiting for an answer.
âIt was complicated, Alan mumbled.
Alan had gotten this before, too. People felt nostalgic about Schwinn. They thought that somehow it must have all been squandered by a bunch of imbeciles running the brand, imbeciles like him. How could a company like Schwinn, which owned the majority of the U.S. market for about eighty years, have gone bankrupt, sold to Trek for next to nothing? How was it possible? Well, how was it not possible? The men behind Schwinn had tried to continue making bikes in the U.S.According to some, that was mistake No. 1. They hung on in Chicago till 1983. Alan wanted to shake this MBA prick. Do you know how hard it was to hold out even that long? To try to make bicycles, very complicated and labor-intensive machines, on the West Side of Chicago, in a hundred-year-old factory, until 1983?
âAlan?
Alan looked up. It was Yousef.
âThe tourâs moving on. You want to come? Might you want to come?
Sayed was standing at the end of the hall.
âLetâs go upstairs, he said.
Two flights of steps and they found themselves above the city-in-the-making. The observation room afforded 360-degree views, and Alan paced along the windows. It was raw, yes, but from this vantage point the city was beautiful. Now it made sense. The Red Sea was turquoise, a light ripple from a gentle wind bringing the tide in. The sand was almost white, very fine. A tiled promenade snaked into the distance, dividing the oceanfront from the pink condominium and what Alan could now see were the foundations for at least a few more. Palm trees were planted throughout the development, and lined the nearest canal, sky-blue and clean, taking in water from the sea and cutting through the city, heading east. What had seemed like utter failure from the road into the city seemed, now, entirely on target. The place was bustling, workers everywhere in their primary-colored jumpsuits, the place getting built. Any investors seeing the project from this vantage point would be convinced that it was being completed with great taste and with what Alan, at least, saw as admirable speed.
âYou like it? Mujaddid asked.
âI do, Alan said. Look at that. All cities need rivers.
âIndeed, Mujaddid said.
Yousef was looking through the glass, too, his face stripped of cynicism. He seemed to be enjoying the sight without guile.
Sayed and Mujaddid led Alan and Yousef to an elevator. They dropped down two floors, and when the doors opened, they were in an underground garage.
âThis way.
Sayed led him to an SUV. They stepped in. It smelled new. They drove up a ramp and into the light again. A hard left took them toward the water, and seconds later, the car stopped.
âHere we are, Mujaddid said.
They had driven two hundred yards. Before them was an enormous tent, white and taut, the kind used for weddings and festivals.
âThank you, Alan said, stepping back into the heat.
âSo weâll see you at 3 p.m.? Sayed said.
At some point there must have been some mention of an appointment.
âYes, Alan said. In the main building, or the welcome center?
âIt will be in the main building, Sayed said. With Karim al-Ahmad. He is your primary contact.
Alan stood before the tent, puzzled. There was a vinyl door.
âMy people are in there? he asked.
âYes, Mujaddid said, his face without doubt or apology.
âIn a tent, Alan said.
It seemed
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