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The rooftop pool deck of New York’s Soho House at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday answers a lot of questions I’ve had for a while now. Such as: Who skydives because there’s a deal listed on Groupon? Who subscribes to the Thrillist? Who is buying all that rosé that liquor stores run out of every summer? And more generally: Who joins a private club in 2015? The answer, it turns out, is right in front of me.

The accoutrements of semi-creative success—MacBooks plastered with Supreme stickers, unblemished Stan Smiths, Parliament Lights—are strewn everywhere. Atop every other table is a half-finished green smoothie. Suntan lotion perfumes the air. The male uniform of Vilebrequin swim trunks (and nothing else) takes business casual to its logical end. To be clear though, people are working.