He sent us all home with our desktop hard drives (laptops weren't universal yet). For three days, while the power flickered and trees fell, D ran the team from his basement. He called each of us on our flip phones and burner Androids to check on our families before he asked about the spreadsheet. When I lost power at 9:00 PM, he drove twenty minutes in the storm to drop off a portable generator battery at my apartment door. He didn't stay for coffee. He just handed it over and said, "Be online by 6:00 AM."
The whiteboard was his brain. Every Monday, he would sketch out a "waterfall" project plan in red dry-erase marker. He was obsessed with the waterfall method—a linear, rigid way of moving from A to B. In 2012, Agile and Scrum were still jargon for software nerds, not office managers. D believed that if you drew a straight line on a board, the universe had to follow it.
The defining moment came in October 2012. Hurricane Sandy was barreling up the coast, and the office was buzzing about shutting down. Everyone was refreshing weather websites on their bulky Dell monitors. D called a meeting. He looked at the radar, looked at our deadline for a client presentation, and said, "The internet doesn't get wet."
We thought he was joking. He wasn't.
He eventually left the company in 2015 to start his own consultancy. I heard he finally bought a laptop. But in my memory, he is frozen in 2012: standing by the whiteboard, marker in hand, BlackBerry buzzing, trying to draw a straight line through a very crooked world. He wasn't a friend. He wasn't a villain. He was the boss the 2012 economy demanded—tough, analog, and unflinchingly present.
He sent us all home with our desktop hard drives (laptops weren't universal yet). For three days, while the power flickered and trees fell, D ran the team from his basement. He called each of us on our flip phones and burner Androids to check on our families before he asked about the spreadsheet. When I lost power at 9:00 PM, he drove twenty minutes in the storm to drop off a portable generator battery at my apartment door. He didn't stay for coffee. He just handed it over and said, "Be online by 6:00 AM."
The whiteboard was his brain. Every Monday, he would sketch out a "waterfall" project plan in red dry-erase marker. He was obsessed with the waterfall method—a linear, rigid way of moving from A to B. In 2012, Agile and Scrum were still jargon for software nerds, not office managers. D believed that if you drew a straight line on a board, the universe had to follow it.
The defining moment came in October 2012. Hurricane Sandy was barreling up the coast, and the office was buzzing about shutting down. Everyone was refreshing weather websites on their bulky Dell monitors. D called a meeting. He looked at the radar, looked at our deadline for a client presentation, and said, "The internet doesn't get wet."
We thought he was joking. He wasn't.
He eventually left the company in 2015 to start his own consultancy. I heard he finally bought a laptop. But in my memory, he is frozen in 2012: standing by the whiteboard, marker in hand, BlackBerry buzzing, trying to draw a straight line through a very crooked world. He wasn't a friend. He wasn't a villain. He was the boss the 2012 economy demanded—tough, analog, and unflinchingly present.