Social Misconduct

by S. J. Maher

  When we got bored with the gull show and went to go back, we stood, openmouthed. White rips and eddies of churning water filled the little cove between us and the cliff on the other side. The tide had come in, cutting us off from the mainland. It looked dangerous. Mom and Dad wouldn’t want us to go in.

  I was scared and wanted to wait on the island to be rescued, but Jess said we had to cross right away or we’d be stuck there until the tide went out again. She took my hand, yanked me with her, and waded into the water.

  “Come on, Minnow! Let’s go!”

  She had to pull me hard to get me to go farther once I saw I was going to get my white shorts wet. After a few steps it was up to our waists. I pleaded with her to turn back but she kept pulling me behind her, until the water was over our heads and she had to take her hand away to dog-paddle. I cried but I followed her out to where the current caught us and swept us toward the shore. I started to go under, but she grabbed me and held my wrist so hard that later I had a bruise on it, and dragged me to shore. Then we trudged, wet and shivering, back to the campground, where we ran to Mom’s and Daddy’s arms. They hugged us frantically and yelled at us and got us dried off and dressed in fresh clothes.

  I haven’t thought about that day for years, and I sit for a while on Jess’s sleeping bag, holding the canteen with my eyes closed, reliving it. It hits me hard, thinking of her little hand on mine, pulling me from danger.

  I think that was the end of a happy period, before I realized some things about life, things I had a hard time absorbing. I try not to think about any of the bad things.

  Anyway, nobody will miss any of the stuff in here, but sooner or later someone—the super, I would guess—will want to clear everything out. Whenever that happens, it would not be good for them to find a dirty, freaked-out girl living in a concrete room that is six paces wide by twelve paces long.

  I know the dimensions because today I started an exercise regime: a half hour of pacing the length of it.

  I decided on that this morning. It is superpathetic, but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t spend all day with your face in a musty sleeping bag, staring at the wrong time on a microwave clock.

  I guess that’s not all I do. I also write in my notebook, eat granola bars, drink water, and occasionally pee in the bowl. It’s weeks until I next have my period, which is good, because I don’t have any tampons, but I’m afraid that sometime soon I’ll have to move my bowels, and I really don’t want to think about how it will be in here after that happens. I’m already wondering if the pee in the bowl is permeating everything, making me smell like a bag lady.

  This is not a good life for Candace.

  10

  When I got back to the office, I introduced Wayne to Beatrice and the rest of the clickbait squad. We found him a workstation, recently vacated by Chas, a heavily pierced and habitually hungover club kid who’d stopped showing up that week.

  “Do you mind if we leave Chas’s stuff here in case he comes back?” Beatrice asked Wayne.

  Chas’s stuff was a Tupperware container and a Mr. T bobblehead.

  Wayne, who didn’t seem to have any of his own stuff, didn’t mind. He got his laptop set up.

  Beatrice watched him and then gave me a knowing smile.

  “I need a health break,” she said.

  I followed her downstairs, took one of her cigarettes, and we smoked and watched the Chelsea pedestrians walk down Sixteenth Street.

  “New boy is totes hawt,” she said.

  “Stop!” I said. “I know he’s cute. I’m trying not to have a crush on him. Did you, um, notice the big stain on the front of his pants?”

  “What? No!”

  “I got flustered at lunch and dumped a pint in his lap.”

  “You did not!” She laughed.

  I nodded and smoked.

  “Totally did. A full pint. Right in the junk.”

  Beatrice squealed and did a little dance.

  “I was humiliated,” I said. “I even tried to dry off the front of his khakis. He had to stop me.”

  It felt good to laugh with Beatrice. I was still worried she was hurt that I got the job.

  “So are you pumped about your promotion?”

  “No. I mean, I guess. I want to try something new. I’ll probably suck at it.”

  I shrugged. No big deal.

  “I don’t have much else in my life right now,” I said. “You have your art. And you have Rudy.”

  Rudy is a trans man who works as a chef in a Brooklyn restaurant that specializes in cooking with game. I like them—that’s the pronoun I was supposed to use for him, I mean them—but I couldn’t make myself go to their restaurant, where, I imagined, a bunch of bearded hipsters would go on about how much they love venison marrow, the thought of which made me want to be ill.

  “It’s awesome for you,” said Beatrice. “I could see you being a big-shot social media superstar. If it works.”

  “I know. It likely won’t work.”

  “Cheese by mail. Honey, I’d like some Roquefort. Can you order some so that we can get it delivered next week?”

  I laughed.

  “Kevin thinks it’s going to flop,” said Beatrice. “He thinks Craig and Rebecca don’t really know what they’re doing beyond pumping clickbait for weight-loss pills.”

  “Likely true. Whatevs. I can always go back to fat-shaming Britney.”

  “Follow your passion!”

  We shared a bitter laugh and went back upstairs.

  11

  I use the last of the water to clean myself up a bit, do my makeup, and exit the storage room, trying to remember to look as though I was just someone coming back from a perfectly normal trip to a storage place.

  I walk down the hallway, take the concrete stairs up to a side exit of the condo building, and use a rock to wedge the door open a few inches so that I can return that way without going through the lobby, where there are cameras.

  It is morning, as I thought it would be. I’m relieved to see the sun low in the east.

  I walk down the alley and out onto the sidewalk, where a fair number of people are going about their business.

  I’m wearing Jess’s old jean jacket, hoping it will help me blend in with Jersey proles, with a bandanna around my head made from an old black T-shirt. I have to do something about my hair.

  It feels great to be outside again, but I can’t stand and stretch and soak in the sun. That’s not what people do when they come out of condo storage closet hallways. I even brought an empty cardboard box with me, to look the part.

  I want to walk down to the river but I have to go the other way. It’s strange to not be able to use a map on my phone, but after walking a few blocks away from the river, I find Newport Centre, a big mall, right where I thought it would be.

  My first stop is a sports cap store, where I buy a New Jersey Devils hat, on sale for $9.99. I’m relieved that the young guy behind the counter doesn’t ask me anything about the Devils, because all I know is that they’re a hockey team and I like the little red Devil logo.

  I’m really hungry, so I go up the escalator to the food court and have a foot-long veggie sub, which I really enjoy, although I’m nervous, so I sit hunched, trying to keep my head down, like some homeless person, which I guess I am.

  Then I go to the CVS, where I buy a bottle of Clairol chestnut hair dye for $14.99.

  The middle-aged Hispanic lady behind the counter smiles at me.

  “I hope you not going to dye that pretty hair,” she says.

  I blush and feel panicky. She looks at me, I imagine, suspiciously.

  I smile. “It’s for my sister.”

  Who asks their sister to get them hair dye? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. She looks at me even more strangely. Has she seen my picture? I have to assume that she has. In fact, I have to assume that she is calling the police as I walk out of the store.

  Take no chances.

  At the exit, I see the cover of the New York Post out of the corner of my eye. Th
ere I am, on the front page! It’s a crop from the selfie I tweeted the day I got the promotion. The headline says “Cops Hunt Hipster Killer.”

  OMFG. My stomach jumps and I almost vomit. I start to sweat. I have to stop myself from breaking into a run. I glance back at the cashier, who is staring at me.

  I force myself to walk slowly out into the mall, then find the nearest exit, which leads to a concrete stairwell to the parking garage. I run down the stairs, then wander around looking for a way out. I end up walking out through the exit for cars, climbing up the steep ramp to the street.

  I head down toward the water, ready to take off if I see cops. As I walk I think about ways I could run to get away. If the police come around that corner now, I’ll run back into the parking garage. If they come up behind me, I’ll run for the park across the street. I’m hyperalert, glancing around, heart pounding.

  I see no police. Okay. Focus on the situation. I need to find a place to dye my hair. I walk to the river, to a marina. When I was young, my dad had a boat, so I know there are always showers at marinas.

  I stroll into the building and go downstairs, where I know the bathrooms and laundry will be, at the back, for the boaters. The bathroom door has a key code. I wait in the laundry room until I hear somebody coming down the stairs. Thankfully, it’s a woman. I follow her into the ladies’ room.

  I hide in a toilet stall until she leaves. Then I have a shower, which feels great after my days in a storage locker. Then I dump the dye in my hair. I don’t have a towel, which is awkward. I have to hang around in the shower stall until the dye turns my hair a mousy brown—the box says twenty minutes. I force myself to stand in there for about that long, shivering, planning my return to the storage closet.

  I get dressed and dry my hair under the hand dryer. Then I put on my normal makeup, which is subtle. I need more if I want to look like a Jersey mall rat, so I slather it on. I put on the hockey cap and examine my look. Not bad. I mean, it’s awful but it’s the look I’m going for. I stand there, looking at new Candace, getting used to her face. I wish I had some gum to chew. That would finish the look. Maybe a cigarette.

  At a 7-Eleven, I buy a small bottle of water, a frozen pad Thai dinner, and a few more granola bars. I take note of the time—11:07 a.m.—on the cash register, so that I can set the clock on the microwave back at the storage locker. I count the seconds as I walk back. One Mississippi. Two Mississippis. Three Mississippis.

  Thankfully, the door to the storage locker hallway is still wedged open, so I manage to get back into my little concrete cave without going through the lobby.

  Three hundred and sixty-eight Mississippis. I reset the clock on the microwave from 12:28 p.m. to 11:13 a.m. It’s pathetic to think how happy it makes me to bring Candace Standard Time into alignment with the rest of the world, but that’s my life now.

  12

  When I got back to my desk after smoking with Beatrice, I called Irene Winslow, the genius behind Cheese of the Month.

  I introduced myself, talking quickly and cheerfully. I was a keener.

  “Hi!” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Like, physically? Sixteenth Street. New York City.”

  “New York City! Wow. Big time. You going to sell some cheese for me?”

  Irene told me she had started the business as a hobby because she was frustrated by her inability to get her hands on the kind of cheese she wanted in her home of Clayton, New York, way upstate.

  “Up here it’s just cheddar cheddar cheddar.”

  “No way,” I said, not bothering to tell her that I hated her and myself for promoting a product that harms animals.

  To keep cows producing milk requires them to be inseminated repeatedly—raped, really—or their udders dry up. Then their calfs are taken from them at an early age while the mother can do nothing to stop it. I’ve seen heartbreaking videos of the mothers wailing. Most of the calfs end up being fattened in veal pens, living their short lives in their own filth, never knowing their mother’s love, or the pleasure of the sun, before they’re murdered and butchered and sent to Italian restaurants so that disgusting people can eat veal.

  So I hate cheese, and I hate the way people think it’s weird not to eat it, like I’m a freak because I don’t want to participate in the (government-subsidized) industrial-scale slaughter of baby animals. But I can’t say any of that to Irene.

  “You would not believe how bad the selection is in the big grocery stores,” she said. “It’s just sad. And when they do have something interesting, it’s always overpriced and half the time it’s stale.”

  Irene had one of those twangy upstate accents, and she was a talker. She told me she’d slowly built up a list of a couple hundred customers, as a hobby, but after retiring from teaching chemistry, she wanted to expand, start making bank.

  “I hope you can crank up some sales, because nobody wants to live on a New York state teacher’s pension, honey.”

  “I am sure we can,” I said. “We have lots of ideas. I can’t wait to get started.”

  “One thing I was nervous about. I want it to be clear that what Craig told me is right. There’s no way you end up sending me a bill for your time, right?”

  “That’s my understanding. We only get paid for conversions.”

  “For your information, I’m taping this. I told Craig the same thing. I want to protect myself. This recording is to make sure that I don’t get ripped off.”

  “Gosh, I’m just the clickbait girl. I’m not the right one to ask about contracts.”

  She babbled on, telling me how Craig had emailed her and pitched her on letting SoSol market her cheese. The best thing was that it wasn’t going to cost her anything. She just had to share the revenue from expanded sales with us.

  Rebecca and Kevin were walking toward me. I waved them over.

  “Rebecca, I’m just talking to Irene, from Cheese of the Month,” I said. “She wants to be sure she won’t get billed if there are no sales, right?”

  “That’s entirely correct, Candace. Let me talk to her.”

  I gave Rebecca the phone and she soothed Irene.

  Kevin smiled at me.

  “Hey, Candace,” he said. “New phone okay?”

  “Yeah. Super.” I wanted to hear how Rebecca dealt with a prickly client, but I had to deal with Kevin blathering on while I smiled and nodded.

  He kept me occupied until Rebecca gave me back the phone, rolling her eyes to show how she felt about Irene.

  “Hi, Irene?” I said. “It’s Candace again. Did Rebecca explain everything?”

  “You could say that,” she said. “Or you could say that I explained there’s no way I’m going to get stuck with a bill.”

  “Great! I’m really happy you guys sorted that out!”

  What a cranky lady. I told her she had nothing to worry about and she was welcome to tape our call. Finally I could demonstrate my enthusiasm for cheese marketing.

  The exchange gave me new doubts about my exciting new job. Craig spammed her, she said okay, and now I was supposed to magically increase her sales.

  “I’m sure we’re going to help you sell a lot of cheese,” I said, although I didn’t know how.

  “Great. I need the money. Thanks to the president, the economy is doing better, but taxes are still too high.”

  Ugh. A Trump fan.

  “You can say that again,” I said, hoping that would help me get off the phone.

  Wrong.

  She couldn’t believe the government waste, all the welfare mothers taking tax money while pensioners had to struggle to make ends meet. I impatiently drummed my fingers and listened to her go on. How entitled did she feel, to start babbling at me about her know-nothing political views while I was in no position to contradict her?

  “I agree completely,” I said. “It makes me sick to see what’s happening in this country.”

  Let’s wrap this up.

  “Yeah? I thought you’d all be a bunch of liberals down there in Manhatta
n.”

  So she knew she was likely forcing someone who disagreed with her to listen to her nonsense. What a hateful old bag.

  “There are a lot of people who don’t understand,” I said, lowering my voice. “I have to be careful what I say, because I don’t want people to think I’m right wing or whatever, but not everyone here voted for Hillary.”

  She liked that and laughed, and I was eventually able to steer her back to business and get her off the phone.

  I spent the rest of the day working on cheese-loving online personae.

  I have dozens of fake Facebook and Twitter sock puppets—I think of them as characters—who are all friends with each other and as many other interesting people as I have found time to friend.

  Most of my sock puppets are attractive young women, since I find it’s—doy!—easy to get guys to be your friend if you’re an attractive young woman.

  I get the pictures from real Facebook profiles of strangers.

  I decided that the chief cheese lover would be Linda Wainwright, my most popular online alter ego, a blond-haired beach girl whose profile picture I snagged from a South African’s Facebook page.

  It’s a stunner. She’s on a beach, grinning like crazy, half out of her wet suit, water glistening on her bikini-clad body as the sun goes down behind her, her short blond hair all tangled. She looks wholesome, athletic, and fun.

  Linda lives in Toronto, is moderately liberal in her politics, likes outdoor activities, yoga, Arcade Fire, Beyoncé, and Patsy Cline. She loved Breaking Bad but also enjoys The Bachelorette, although she’s a bit embarrassed about it. She’s sad when celebrities die, or when terrorists attack Paris.

  Where my posts are often ironic or dark, Linda is straightforward and happy. She posts cheerful, optimistic memes.

  Over two years of intermittent sock-puppeting, I’d built quite a social network for Linda. She had 724 Facebook friends and double the numbers of followers on Twitter and Instagram. She was my best sock puppet, a fun person, and, coincidentally, a big booster of yours truly.