NICEBOMBER
By
Colleen Charles
Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Copyright
Foreword
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Chapter One
Shane
“One good deed per day, ladies and gentlemen,” my father announces in his usual commanding baritone. “One random act of kindness is all you ever need to turn the tide of someone’s life.”
Like me, the board members settle back into their seats, preparing to become patient audience members for his inevitable monologue. The old man loves the sound of his own voice, especially when presenting some new concept. Why should today be any different?
The elder Kleinfeld stands at the head of the long conference table in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit and red power tie, his back to the company's shareholders, staring pensively out the picture window at the city below like a tycoon in some fifties film. He even tents his hands together and touches his fingertips to his thin lips. The only thing missing is a black and white filter and a big cigar. He'd have that too if the building still allowed smoking—and if he hadn't quit puffing Cohibas when the doctors first diagnosed my mother.
Not that his decision to quit did her much good in the end.
Cancer. I hate that motherfucking word.
The sunlight shines through his thinning white-blond hair, revealing the slope of his scalp beneath it. I try to remember when his hairline first started to recede. His forties? Fifties? I suppress a shiver. How long do I have before my own thick hair starts to disappear, beginning its slow relocation to the brush and the shower drain?
Once he turns around, I stare at his gold tie tack and brush a hand through my still-thick locks that never quite adhere to the austere style I prefer. I may not have control over my life, but I can have control over my hair.
“We've all heard that expression, haven't we?” he continues as he turns back around, placing his palms on the table for emphasis. His eyes travel from person to person, settling his lethal gaze on everyone in the room. “Sure we have. We vow to buy the coffee for the person behind us in the Starbucks’ line and then we’re off the hook. Because whatever we're considering amounts to little more than a minor inconvenience to ourselves... some cheap, token gesture that ultimately does more for us than for someone else. Maybe you give your leftovers to a vagrant. Maybe you're trying to impress some girl, so you offer to walk her dog for her or feed her cat while she's on vacation. Minimal effort amounts to a bunch of self-serving crap, and I've always thought so.”
This scene sparks some weird version of déjà vu. Been there; done that. I should sell the t-shirt as a side hustle. Inhaling a ragged breath, I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes or looking at my watch. Okay, now that he's given us the set-up, here comes the grand crescendo, where he turns everything he's just said on its head and dazzles us all. He's always loved cheap theatrics, even if he dresses them up to look expensive.
Kind of like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman during the infamous opera scene.
There’s a band!
“But my late wife Diane,” he intones, a wave of sadness passing through his expression before he masks it, “felt very differently when it came to that phrase. To her, kindness was something everyone owed to the world. It was a genuine opportunity to make life better for everyone... to make a meaningful contribution to humankind, even if it was a small contribution, even if it only made things better for one person.”
This time, I do roll my eyes. I'm sure my mother was a nice lady—I don’t really know for sure, since she died when I was a little kid and I don't remember much about her—but for the purposes of promoting whatever new half-baked concept Dad’s trying to sell to people? Sure, fine, let's act like she was some kind of saint because you sure the hell aren’t.
I glance at my father and catch his lethal glare. He must have seen the eye-roll. He continues glowering for a few more seconds, then straightens his tie and pushes on.
I feel that urge, that compelling need to engage. Oh, have I momentarily interrupted the flow of bullshit, Dad? Sorry about that. Please, continue.
His expressive eyes narrow into slits. “I'm ashamed to say, I didn't follow her example all that much where good deeds were concerned,” he rumbles on, his gaze flicking away from me. “But when we lose the people we love, we do everything we can to hang onto them. And sometimes, that means re-examining philosophies and closely held beliefs, trying to keep them alive through our own actions. Diane will never come back to me, but by furthering the goals that she held dear, I hope to keep some small part of her alive. With that in mind, I'm pleased and proud to present,” he holds up his cell phone with a dramatic flourish of his hand, “the Nicebomber App.”
Everyone at the conference table applauds. I join in halfheartedly, just to avoid another scowl from the old man.
He smiles, his face stretching wider than I’ve seen it in months. “Now, as you all know, this company's success and stellar reputation were made possible by my brilliant invention, the Cupbrella...”
More applause from the board. Jesus, he can't even mention his stupid damn Cupbrella without all of them feeling like they have to take the opportunity to kiss his ass with puckered lips. Something snaps deep inside me. This is all so trite, so fake. I want to stand up and scream that the world never, ever needed a Cupbrella.
But I needed my motherfucking father. My only parent.
I’ve sat through this Cupbrella story so many times, I can recite the story of his supposed brilliance by rote. My father invented it back in the nineties, when Starbucks and all that related designer coffee culture became all the rage. Working a low-paying job as a clerk in a patent office, he went to lunch on a rainy day when he noticed how many busy executives had difficulty holding their umbrellas, briefcases, and coffee cups, all at the same time. That night, he sketched out a design for a special umbrella—one that included an adjustable cup holder in the handle, giving people one more free hand.
And oh, the ridiculous ad campaigns that followed. The late-night infomercials staring a befringed Charo and tanned George Hamilton. The commercials that started with some executive in tailored tweed spilling his coffee in the rain—invariably embarrassing himself in front of an important business contact—and ended with that same exec confidently shaking the contact's hand, the coffee safely tucked away in the umbrella's stem.
Cuchi-cuchi.
I hated those ads. Still do. I also despise how much the gadget’s seemingly overnight success inflated my father's ego to blimp-like proportions. I hate how as soon as the silly thing took off, he left me with a series of increasingly apathetic nannies while he rubbed elbows with his fellow self-made billionair
es.
Most of all… I fucking hate the Cupbrella and every lame thing it stands for.
But I don't hate the money, or the doors and legs it’s opened for me, or the fact that it allowed me to join the company's board of directors without needing to actually work for a living. So here I am, listening to my father wax poetic and counting the minutes until I can go back to my condo, put on my signed Hull jersey, pop a beer, and watch the Blackhawks game on PPV.
Want me to let you in on a little secret? One that might make your head spin.
The Cupbrella doesn't work.
Never did. Why the hell would it? With all the jostling and side-stepping people do with their umbrellas when it's raining—plus the likelihood of the damn thing breaking or flipping inside out during a stiff breeze—how many times do you think people using my dad’s epic invention have managed to spill coffee on themselves anyway?
Every. Damn. Day.
But one of my dad’s favorite phrases slides across my consciousness. I can hear him saying, “This is America, son. All you have to do is invent something innovative, something other people wish they’d thought of, and it doesn't even matter if it works or not... you'll still make money.” And I always nod my head as if that bullshit is something to be proud of, when it’s not.
Not at all.
“...thank you, thank you,” my father says, snapping me back to the present, making a pretense of bashfully waving away their adulation. Jesus. “But although I'm glad the Cupbrella has given me the chance to reach for the stars, I firmly believe—and I certainly hope—that Nicebomber will be my legacy. Now, I'll let Sid Greenfield take it from here. Sid?”
Sid, a skinny software developer in his late twenties with acne scars and an ill-fitting beige corduroy suit, stands up and clears his throat. No applause for him. Maybe if he someday manages to invent an umbrella that takes your blood pressure, finds your car keys, and gives you a handjob, he'll have his own room full of clapping sycophants too.
Because, hey, this is America, and all you have to do is invent something innovative…
“Thank you, Mr. Kleinfeld,” Sid whines in his high, nasal voice. God, I can almost see him pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, even though he doesn't wear them. But he blinks a few times and I realize his contacts are probably dry.
Dad puts up a hand, smiling a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sid, please... call me Jack.”
What a joke. As if he'd ever ask a dweeb like Sid to be on a first-name basis with him if the entire board weren't here. How much more of this drivel do I have to sit through? When will it end? I sigh, imagining an epic four check at the blue line, sending a body flying into the zone all while the sweet bliss of Corona slides down the back of my throat. After that, I might even give myself a handjob. With my actual hand. Why did the old man personally invite me to sit through this drivel?
“Well, um, Jack,” Sid titters, “the Nicebomber app gives the user three options each day—essentially, three different, er, random acts of kindness to choose from.”
“How are they incentivized to choose or even participate at all?” one of the board members asks. Warren, I think his name is. He has a ruddy face, a potato-shaped nose full of broken blood vessels, and bristles of black hair peeking out of his ears. High blood pressure or alcoholism all the way. “I mean, am I missing something here? Because it sounds like we're banking on people actually wanting to be nicer to each other. I don't know about the rest of you, but I got cut off in traffic four times on the way to this meeting. No app that I could take or leave is going to incite any benevolence in my heart after that.”
Several of the board members stifle chuckles, their eyes shifting nervously toward my father as though silently seeking his permission to find it funny. Christ, what a collection of spineless cult followers, prostrating to the Cupbrella man.
And sure enough, my father spreads his hands—magnanimous as jolly old St. Nick in a red velvet suit—and roars with mirth. The rest of the room bursts into laughter so manic and shrill it sounds like it belongs in a fucking Batman comic book. If I have to endure much more of this kabuki nonsense, I'm going to snatch someone's Mont Blanc pen and plunge it into my nose until it reaches my brain.
Ah, the hypnotic paradise of the black abyss. Because even that would be better than this.
“I can see how this might seem wildly impractical,” my old man chortles, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with his handkerchief. “In fact, I'm betting the media will share your incredulity... which, ultimately, will only help us to promote it. Sid, tell them about The Data.”
I can actually hear the italics, the capitalized T and D, as the words came from his mouth. Too bad he’s not talking about T and A instead.
“Through, um, copious research, we've found that what's known as 'slacktivism' is extremely popular among Millennials. They like to devote energy to doing good—if relatively minor—deeds that they feel make the world a better place. But the thing is...” Sid gives us a dramatic pause, then leans in as if he and my dad share light night secrets involving cocaine and strippers, “...they only enjoy doing it if they can be sure that other people see they're doing it.”
Is Sid fucking kidding me?
“Like people who are trying to lose weight,” observes another board member, a fidgeting, middle-aged redhead named Nancy.
Sid snaps his fingers like Nancy's just discovered penicillin. “Exactly! And we've seen plenty of success with social networks based on diets and exercise programs, so users can monitor each other's progress, give likes and badges, upvotes and comments, provide encouragement... basically any type of social proof.”
“Give people a new platform to publicly shame each other, in other words,” I mumble.
Dad frowns like a thundercloud, but Sid's clearly oblivious to the sarcasm. “Yes, precisely! It works! Studies have shown that to a certain degree, both the shamers and the shamed even get off on it! It gives that instant gratification of approval, mixed with the spike of fear of rejection, that keeps users glued to it and clicking on it twenty hours out of every day! They can earn points, and they can exchange those points for goods and services from their favorite stores!” A bit of froth begins to form at the edge of Sid's lips. “Even Amazon and Starbucks! And that's where the advertising bucks start rolling in!”
You can hear a pin drop in this room, except for Sid's heavy breathing. He slumps back into his chair like a man drained from the best blow job of his life.
Warren opens his mouth hesitantly, closes it, then opens it again. “We could... do a guilt-based ad campaign. You know, something like, 'Anyone can say they care, but now you can prove it with Nicebomber.'”
“'Your friends are good people, and they're on Nicebomber. Why aren't you?'” Nancy chimes in.
“That sounds like something my mother would say,” Warren growls, flicking his wrist.
“Then maybe we should bring her in here to do our advertising for us, and you can stay home and bake cookies!” she shoots back.
The board members get up and murmur semi-aggressively across the table, starting to choose sides.
“Ladies! Gentlemen! Please!” At the sound of my father's voice, all of them immediately close their mouths and plop their asses in the comfy leather office chairs like a room full of trained seals working for sardines.
“I know we're all very excited about this concept, and there'll be plenty of time to hear out all of your wonderful marketing concepts,” he continues. “But first, we need to run a test.”
“So let's set it up for beta testing.” Nancy shrugs. “So what? That’s totally typical. Then we can run some focus groups.”
My dad shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh, we will. No, I mean a very special initial trial run. Something catchy. Something that will grab people's attention, get them thinking about this thing early on.”
“A publicity stunt, you mean,” guesses Warren. “Since you’re so good at infomercials, maybe we could run
one on late-night TV. We could even get some do-gooder everyone knows to star in it. Like Herb Alpert.”
“In a manner of speaking, it will be a publicity stunt. You see,” he rumbles like Patton addressing his troops, “we at Nicebomber feel that when it comes to doing good deeds—and posting them in a public forum for the adulation of others—we should put our money where our mouths are. So we've asked Betsy Fuddell, the head of our Human Resources Department, to conduct an employee poll, review the results carefully, and choose... well, let's just say, the least popular individual associated with this company. The person, oh, least likely to put other people ahead of themselves. The one most lacking in empathy. You get the idea. This person will be our first user. They will commit selfless acts for a change, and others will bear witness. Betsy?”
Betsy Fuddell, a woman in her late fifties who looks like an anthropomorphic jar of marshmallow fluff, stands and clears her throat. She glances out the window, her hands trembling. “We took an anonymous vote. And that person is… Shane Kleinfeld. Um, by a landslide.”
Fuck me.
For several seconds, you can hear a pin drop on the shiny mahogany table. Then, as the corners of my dad’s mouth tug upward, the board members cackle seeing his mirth as permission to laugh at me and not with me like a pack of hyenas gleefully crunching the bones of my embarrassment. Dad stretches out his hand, as he walks over to me. “Congratulations, son. I know you'll do us proud.”
“I'm not doing this,” I spit out, ignoring his smug offer to be his resident guinea pig, discreetly disguised as beta tester.
“You are,” he insists. “I've already notified all the tech journals, and some of the major news outlets too. Your account goes online tomorrow in real-time.”
As I stare at his hand, he lets it fall to his merino-wool-clad thigh with a thump. “Hmm, sounds like you're going to have some major egg on your face, then. Because I'm not doing it, and you can't make me. I mean, dammit, do you guys even hear yourselves?” I hear my voice rising, but I don't care. I cannot believe I've been made to sit through this pitiful spectacle, much less railroaded into participating. “First you huff and puff about how you want to honor my mother's acts of kindness, and then you spend the rest of the meeting creaming your Hugo Boss about how to reward people so they'll do it and profit from it in the process? This is idiotic, and I refuse to be the public face of that kind of hypocrisy!”
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