I knew early in my venture capital career that I might not have what it took to be a billionaire. Around me, the two managing partners who already had billions were still working their asses off, selling, selling, selling. If I ever got to a hundred million dollars, I thought, I would switch focus to raising a family, starting a philanthropic organization, and enjoying the rest of my life. But these managing partners were always competing for more—more board seats, more houses, more land, and, always, more jets. They were driven and had huge personalities. I couldn’t imagine fighting it out like that year after year. To me, the venture capital workplace had started to knew early in my venture capital career that I might not have what it took to be a billionaire. Around me, the two managing partners who already had billions were still working their asses off, selling, selling, selling. If I ever got to a hundred million dollars, I thought, I would switch focus to raising a family, starting a philanthropic organization, and enjoying the rest of my life. But these managing partners were always competing for more—more board seats, more houses, more land, and, always, more jets. They were driven and had huge personalities. I couldn’t imagine fighting it out like that year after year. To me, the venture capital workplace had started to feel like one giant Whack-a-Mole game. Every time I felt like I’d cleared the board, a new problem would pop up. Then another, then another.

I often felt like the partners were out for themelves; certainly they weren’t rooting for me. One of the less supportive Kleiner managing partners was Ted Schlein. People would say, “Here comes Ted!” well in advance of his arrival as he stormed across the building. All stomping and furrowed brows, he always seemed grouchy, but he actually was a pretty happy guy, and unlike a lot of men in his position, he didn’t seem vain. That showed up most clearly in his socks. The guy was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but the part sticking up just above the back of his heel was always worn to a sheer transparency, one step away from being a giant hole. The son of a well-known CEO-turned-venture-capitalist, Ted was destined to be a VC, though he never seemed to work particularly hard at it.

Ted didn’t value any of the policy work I did—I had helped get John credit for passing AB 32, the California carbon tax law, by bringing entrepreneurs to Sacramento to talk job creation with legislators. (The fact that John had flown one of his private jets to Sacramento instead of driving 116 miles horrified the entrepreneurs, who had carpooled in a modified Prius that got a hundred miles to the gallon. To avoid that embarrassment, when John later flew to D.C. to testify in the Senate about climate policy, he took his private jet to St. Louis, hopped a short commercial flight to Ted didn’t value any of the policy work I did—I had helped get John credit for passing AB 32, the California carbon tax law, by bringing entrepreneurs to Sacramento to talk job creation with legislators. (The fact that John had flown one of his private jets to Sacramento instead of driving 116 miles horrified the entrepreneurs, who had carpooled in a modified Prius that got a hundred miles to the gallon. To avoid that embarrassment, when John later flew to D.C. to testify in the Senate about climate policy, he took his private jet to St. Louis, hopped a short commercial flight to D.C., then had his jet fly out to meet him in D.C. to bring him back to California.)