"If I turn it on, it won't make a difference, literally," Campbell said with grim cheer. The thirty-fifth floor was dressed in the trappings of anonymous luxury: shell chairs, gas hearths, and an oyster sculpture on piled ice that radiated blue light, like a laptop keyboard. Campbell was in a distant corner, on his knees, pecking at a MacBook on a coffee table. He was wearing a puffy black Eddie Bauer jacket over a puffy charcoal-gray vest. His spectacles were pushed up on his forehead, nestled under a flop of gray hair. For some days, Campbell had been suffering from a chest cold, and, while speaking at a ribbon-cutting-type gathering that morning, he had been stricken with the stomach flu and evacuated mid-event. "I'm-under the weather," he said faintly, clutching a tumbler of water and glancing nervously at the fog. When guests approached to wish him well, he murmured something about Murphy's Law.
The Bright Lights of the Salesforce Tower
Nathan Heller, The New Yorker, May 25, 2018