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was in a wine bar the other day, having drinks with a couple of WeWork employees, when a waiter arrived to take our order. He’d overhead some of our conversation. “Are you talking about Adam Neumann?” he asked. “I know that dude! I grew up with his nephew. He used to smoke weed with us.” Somehow, this felt natural. Everyone in New York seemed to be talking about Neumann, the barefooted prophet of the unicorn era, and about WeWork, the freelancer’s desk-sharing concern that he somehow transformed into the city’s biggest private office tenant, with outposts in thirty-two countries and a private-market valuation bigger than the G.D.P. of Serbia. It all crumpled in September, after WeWork’s I.P.O. failed. Neumann was pushed out—in a deal that made him a billionaire—and the company was taken over by the Japanese conglomerate SoftBank, its largest investor, at a valuation well below the thirteen billion dollars that the firm has now put into it. We obsessed over the story, I suppose, because it was a train wreck—and a relatively harmless one, compared with the ongoing catastrophe two hundred miles south, in Washington, D.C. The Trump Administration is caging migrant children and enabling the deaths of Kurdish civilians. WeWork’s chief victims were SoftBank and the Saudi sovereign wealth fund, one of SoftBank’s biggest backers—and, of course, the company’s twelve thousand employees. But they didn’t want your pity.
“In retrospect, there’s no way this could have worked,” one employee, a software engineer, told me, sounding weary. He brought up the marketing expert Scott Galloway, who has compared cheap capital to a drug. “People were high. There’s not a human being in America who doesn’t look at the number forty-seven billion dollars”—WeWork’s valuation in January—“and not get goosebump