A Truck Full of Money by Tracy Kidder

ownership in the new enterprises. “There are lots of incubators. But I don’t care.” Seated in front of his computer but looking off toward nothing in particular, Paul went on, “If I did an incubator, here’s what the building would be like. It’s a four-story building in Boston. The fourth floor is for me and the Kayak guys. Let’s say it’s called Blade Boston. That would be the badass, elite, best engineering team in Boston. We do our own things but we also advise. You have to make formal application to become a member. If you make it in, you get: One, free real estate for a year. Two, I take ten percent of your company. Three, we help them with strategy, production, architecture, and financing, and once they get financing, we kick ’em out. It’s a four-story building. Floor one has a small kitchen, a small smoothie bar, a personal trainer room. Mind and body. It might be open to anyone in the tech Boston Blade community. There would be classes. The basement is a speakeasy, like from the 1920s. It would be public. And there would be an illegal private club on the roof, with a hot tub, pool, amazing sound system, and lights. I’d give it to my friends to use, with two requirements, that my bartender has to work it and my DJ…”

    In his phone call, Paul had asked Billo and Schwenk if the three of them could meet for lunch the next day. Paul chose a place in Lexington, far enough from Kayak’s office in Concord that no one from work was apt to be there. He told his two lieutenants what he had in mind: an incubator that wouldn’t be called an incubator because most of those fail, but which would nurture start-up e-commerce companies that the three of them felt were promising. “Give them free room and advice and take ten percent of the equity, then get them financing and kick ’em out.”
    “It would be a little holding company?” asked Schwenk.
    “We put our own money in?” asked Billo.
    “We have the choice,” said Paul. “We’ll shape them and improve them, then flip them to a VC. One of us then joins the board.” He added, “I’m thinking of calling it Blade, but I’m open to other names as well.”
    It was a vague plan, almost a plan without a plan. But all three had the safety net of millions in the bank. They could withstand a failure.
    “I could do it for a while,” said Schwenk.
    “So could I, without hitting the college or retirement nest eggs,” said Billo. “I could totally do that.”
    “Yup, I’m interested,” said Schwenk.
    “Yeah,” said Billo. “It sounds very exciting.”
    Schwenk looked thoughtful. “My only concern is not having enough to do. I don’t think I can code anymore.”
    “Sure you can,” said Billo. “It’s riding a bike.”
    Just like that, the matter seemed settled. Briefly, they worried aloud about the consequences for Kayak. Once the sale to Priceline was officially closed, Kayak would, as promised, remain an all but independent entity. Paul and Billo and Schwenk all agreed that they would have to arrange a transition in Concord’s leadership.
    And then the tea and coffee came, and for a moment they reminisced, three old colleagues around a campfire. All three were still in their forties. They all looked in good shape but too old for starting companies—that is, according to the current legend, which had it that old age began when you started shaving.
    “We started Kayak in our thirties,” said Billo. “We thought we were so old.”
    “I was forty-one, I think,” said Paul.
    Schwenk said, “I can’t imagine another nine-year project.”
    “Neither can I,” said Paul. “But we could have flipped Kayak much sooner….” His voice trailed off.
    Outside, in the pale, sunless winter air, on the gray suburban street, the world seemed drained of all color, but Paul was immune to dreariness just then. “That went well for me,” he said as he started his car, adding, “That was highly emotive for Billo.” Then he was musing out his