Social Misconduct

by S. J. Maher

  I stood up but my exit wasn’t quite as dignified as I’d hoped, since in my rush, I bumped into some guy as I stomped off.

  It was Kevin.

  “Oh gosh. Sorry, Kevin.”

  “No problem.”

  He gave me a weird, too-bright smile.

  Declan was calling to me.

  “Hey! Candace!”

  Kevin saw him and stepped toward him.

  “Oh hey. Declan. Alvin said I should introduce myself.”

  I made my getaway. Time to go. I headed to the upper terrace to say good night. On the way, I ran into Wayne.

  “There you are,” he said. “We were wondering whether that Irishman had abducted you.”

  He was holding three drinks.

  “Here,” he said, handing me one. “Come chat with Rebecca and Alvin.”

  “Okay,” I said, even though I was starting to wonder if I’d had too many.

  I followed him to the upper terrace, where Rebecca and Alvin were leaning against the railing. I had just forgotten about Alvin and was suddenly looking at his big red face again. Rebecca was holding his arm in a friendly way.

  “Hi!” she said. “Were you conspiring with Declan? I bet that was fun.”

  “It was,” I said, smiling brightly.

  “Watch him,” said Alvin. “He probably gets a lot of pussy with that brogue of his. But he hasn’t got as much money as he says he does.”

  Rebecca laughed and gave Alvin a look of mock horror.

  I didn’t laugh.

  “Alvin,” I said. “It was a pleasure to meet you but I think I should be going. This is a getting little too X-rated for a nice girl from New Haven.”

  Rebecca and Wayne laughed nervously, but Alvin’s smile was suddenly gone.

  “Too X-rated?” he said. “What? They don’t have pussy in New Haven?”

  Pig.

  “Thanks for everything,” I said.

  I gave Wayne a playful punch on the shoulder. Rebecca walked with me as far as the bar.

  “That was awkward,” she said.

  I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. If it wasn’t for the Ambien, I likely would have vomited. “I hope I haven’t messed up my new job on the first day.”

  Rebecca smiled and shook her head.

  “I should have warned you before we came,” she said. “He’s provocative. That’s how he tests people. He thinks you see someone’s real character more quickly if you make them uncomfortable.”

  “I hope I didn’t flunk the test.”

  “I vouched for you.”

  “Thank you, Rebecca. You’re like my guardian angel.”

  We were at the top of the stairs.

  I put my empty glass down on a table and turned to go just as a couple came in. I stepped back, out of the way, and bumped someone behind me.

  I turned and saw Declan standing there, frowning, holding two drinks, with a big fresh orange stain on his white shirt.

  “Oh no,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re having a bad day for spills,” said Rebecca, laughing.

  “No problem,” said Declan. “I thought I’d bring you a drink as a peace offering.”

  “I think I’ve had enough drinks,” I said, feeling woozy. “I’m sorry I spilled your drink. Oh gosh.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Let me walk you out.”

  I said good night to Rebecca, got some napkins from the bar, and gave them to Declan. He mopped at his shirt and followed me as I headed for the stairs.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he said. “I can’t believe that I said you were, um, fuckable. This is why I don’t usually go to parties. I’m a disaster. It’s invariable and tedious.”

  I smiled at him.

  “You know you could go to parties and just not say things like that, right?”

  He looked pained but he was nodding.

  “This is a work event, and that makes my comment doubly inappropriate. I hope you see I was being flip, not, ah, I don’t know.”

  “Abusive?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Apology accepted.”

  I started down the stairs. He followed me.

  “You still want some advice?” he said. “Real advice? I think I might be able to help you. I hadn’t thought about it enough when I spoke.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Your secret identity is safe with me. Good night! It was a pleasure to meet you. Sorry about spilling the drink.”

  I elbowed my way through the crowd to the exit. It was noisy and crowded.

  He was still following me.

  “Really,” he said. “I want to help. It’s an interesting challenge.”

  We stood on the sidewalk. He fiddled with his phone and handed it to me.

  “Put your contacts in here,” he said.

  Hm. Okay. I typed in my Gmail address and cell phone number.

  “That’s kind of you,” I said. “But I don’t think I’ll blow your @ShouldBObvious cover.”

  “Let me hail you a cab,” he said, and he stepped out into the street, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and whistled, impressively. A taxi pulled up immediately from the corner cab stand.

  He opened the door for me.

  “Thank you.” I reached out to shake his hand. “It really was very nice to meet you. I’m sorry about my temper tantrum and spilling your drink.”

  He stepped toward me and took me gently by the arm.

  “I enjoyed all of it. Even the temper tantrum. Especially the temper tantrum. Reminded me not to be so full of myself.”

  He was standing very close to me. I looked up at him and felt woozy, in a good way. He took my hands in his, holding them lightly.

  “I’ll send you some notes. Or maybe we can get together for a wee chat.”

  I nodded up at him. He was so handsome.

  “I’d like that.”

  I decided to give him a peck on the cheek. He turned his head, though, and I ended up kissing him on the lips. It was surprising and nice and lasted longer than either of us, I think, expected it to. I fought the urge to throw my arms around his neck, to pull him into the cab with me.

  “Oh my,” I said.

  “Arg,” he said and moved to kiss me again. I held him off.

  “I’ve had too much to drink. I need to go home.”

  I looked over his shoulder to get away from his seductive, blue-eyed gaze.

  Rebecca and Wayne were stepping out of the club together.

  “Fuck,” I said.

  I pulled away from Declan and looked away. Did they see us kiss? Fuck. I dropped into the taxi and Declan followed me.

  “Two stops, driver,” he said.

  “I’m going to First and Bedford,” I said.

  He put his arm around me.

  “I’m in Park Slope. Why don’t you pop up for a wee nightcap?”

  I smiled at him.

  “Not a chance.”

  19

  I have now had three beers, which means I’m down to about $60, not that I care too much. I’m starting to feel pretty buzzed. And I’m glad to have finished recounting the story of the party.

  The Lucky 7 is filling up. There are lots of tattoos and piercings and hipster beards.

  I’m idly watching Pat and his bandmates—An Infinite Number of Monkeys—set up in a corner at the end of the bar.

  All of a sudden a muscly, low-browed guy in a Rutgers University lacrosse jersey is next to me.

  “Hey, can you help me and friends?” he says.

  Well, hello, Douchebro.

  He gestures at two other guys sitting at a high-top table by the door. “We’re having an argument and we need a female opinion.”

  His name is James. He has a Jersey accent, a confident smile, and smells of horrible aftershave.

  “I might be able to,” I say. “I guess if I give you an opinion it would be a female opinion.”

  He tries to figure out if that’s funny, gives up, and goes on with his spiel.

  “S
o, our buddy Dave was supposed to come out with us tonight but he had a big fight with his girlfriend and bailed on us.”

  “Bummer.”

  “I know, right? Anyway, he just moved in with this girl, Julie. They’re both third-year Rutgers, like us.”

  I make myself smile. I hate guys like James, but I came here to make friends.

  “Everything was going great until she unpacks one of his boxes, finds a bunch of pictures of his ex. She blew a gasket.”

  The last bit sounded super New Jersey, like his real voice coming out by mistake. Blewagaskit.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. So they’re having a big fight and he blew off a night with the bros. She says—get this—he has to burn all the pictures or she’s moving out.”

  I try to figure out how I am supposed to react. I think I’m supposed to find it fascinating instead of transparent and stupid.

  “That’s crazy!” I say. “So what’s he going to do?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, dude! That’s what we’re arguing about. I think she’s loco. My bud Kevin thinks she’s right. Jeff isn’t sure. That’s why we want to know what you think.”

  On the one hand, I suspect this is a made-up story to give him an excuse to talk to me. On the other hand, I need a way out of town. Was this guy headed up to Rutgers? Also, I have an opinion.

  “You know what?” I say, giving him my best mischievous smile. “I think she sounds like a crazy girl. And I should know. I might be a crazy girl myself.”

  Douchebro loves this. He is my new best friend. The fact that I don’t like him at all makes the whole getting-to-be-friends experience less appealing than I would like, and he keeps touching me, which I fucking hate, putting his hand on my arm, my knee, or my waist as we talk. He often stares at my breasts. I think, Do women usually put up with this shit from you?

  But he tells me he’s driving to Binghamton University in the morning, so that he can attend “an awesome kegger” his friend is having.

  Oh my God! I go to Cornell! And BTW, it’s near Binghamton.

  I tell him my tale of woe about my friend Samantha’s broken ankle and he says I can get a ride up with him and his bros tomorrow if I want. I should come to the kegger. It will be an epic party!

  I suddenly like him a lot better, which means I have to listen to him tell stories about how great he is.

  I find people like him impossibly irritating. I have to make it into a game to keep myself from laughing at his ludicrous self-praise.

  “I was actually offered lacrosse scholarships at five schools, but Rutgers offered me the best deal,” he says. “They were basically throwing money at me.”

  “You must be an awesome player.”

  Big smile. A point for me.

  “I’m pretty good. If I didn’t get hurt last year, we would have made the nationals. Coach begged me to play even though my knee was fucked up. He would have fucking blown me. Dude. He was desperate.”

  Ha ha! You’re such an asshole.

  “Get out.” How could he think I would find this interesting?

  “Wilson would shit if he knew that I fucked both of his daughters, in the same weekend, while he was off with the team, getting his ass kicked by Penn State.”

  “No way. Both of them?”

  “Dude, yes way. One on Friday. The other on Saturday.”

  Dude. You’re doing it wrong. You’re not supposed to brag that you fucked sisters. That shows contempt for women, which we don’t like.

  “You’re bad news!”

  “Ha ha. Not really. I’m really loyal to my friends.”

  “Are you?” Batting my eyes. Looking at him admiringly.

  “Oh yeah.”

  Suddenly all serious.

  “I really look out for them.”

  Wheels turning in his little brain. Think of an example!

  “My buddy Jeff, the one with the pimples, I’m always trying to get him laid. I’m an excellent wingman. And dude needs the help. He’s a great guy, but he’s got bad acne, and a small unit, but I do everything I can to get his dinky stinky.”

  Dinky stinky.

  Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit.

  20

  I was a little hungover and a little nervous to go to work the morning after Alvin’s party. I felt uncomfortable about my showdown with Alvin and embarrassed that Rebecca and Wayne may have seen Declan and me kissing.

  Rebecca was supernice, though, greeting me with a smile. She didn’t mention the kiss, said that she hoped I’d had a good party, said Alvin is a handful and not to give that business another thought. If I ever feel weird about anything, let her know.

  Wayne was acting strange.

  “Hey, party girl,” he said, too loud, with a too-big smile. “How you feeling?”

  He definitely saw me kiss Declan.

  “Not bad,” I said, cheerily. “How are you?”

  “Awesome!”

  I tried not to think about him and got down to business. I started to turn more of my social media sock puppets into cheese enthusiasts, exchanging cheese messages with Linda and sharing links, generating followers, building cheesementum.

  I was going to switch gears, start doing some research, but first I checked my phone.

  I had a new text message from a number I didn’t recognize.

  How’s your head?

  Not bad. Who’s asking?

  You spilled a drink on me.

  Oh hi! :-) Want the truth?

  Truth.

  Head is bad, but working hard and stoically at cheese-related social mediafying. Did the stain come out?

  Threw the shirt in a bucket of water, rubbed it with salt. Will drop it at the cleaners.

  Send me the bill.

  Or give it to you.

  Okay. :-) When?

  I should have been coy, but I wanted to see him again.

  Not sure. May have to go out of town on business this week. But I have something for you.

  ???

  Super secret.

  Tell.

  Promise not to tell where it came from?

  Cross my heart.

  K. xoxo

  Then he texted me a download link. I clicked on it, and it opened in my phone’s web browser. There was a file called ch33z3lov3rz.zip.

  I downloaded it. My phone jammed and I had to wait impatiently while it rebooted, then had to reenter my password before it would restart.

  The file was a database, with a long list of Facebook addresses, more than three hundred thousand of them.

  Facebook assigns each user a unique signature. There are thousands of John Smiths. They all want to have their user name as John Smith, so Facebook assigns each of them a name, beginning with John Smith, followed by a string of numbers.

  If you have someone’s Facebook address, you can send them mail, sign them up to groups, and use utilities to search their profiles to fish for contact info, group membership, and lots of other information.

  Declan had sent me a csv file with thousands of Facebook addresses. So many names! If they were cheese lovers, then I could get all the clicks.

  Ka-ching!

  I picked a name at random—CarlSagoya863654—and poked at his profile. He was a chef at a small restaurant in Olympia, Oregon, and a bit of a cheese nut. So was SarahMcMaster802388, of Portland, Maine, and ElinorVaux50938, of Lincoln, Nebraska.

  All I had to do now was find a subtle way to spam them all. There were so many names I could try some experiments. I could send a thousand cheese nuts a message and invite a thousand others to join a group, then see which tactic was more successful. Then I’d refine the pitch and try variations on thousands of more cheese nuts and find the approach that would maximize the sale of disgusting dairy products.

  I had to text Declan back.

  OMFG. I can’t believe you sent me that file. TY TY TY :-D.

  He replied immediately.

  What file?

  You know what file.

  I don�
��t know what you’re talking about.

  Yes you do. Oh wait. No you don’t. Sorry. Wrong number.

  That’s right.

  I want to buy you dinner to thank you.

  For what?

  I want to hear about your antique Irish guns.

  Okay then. I may have to travel today. Will let you know when I’m free.

  I owe you one.

  A big one. And I intend to collect.

  :-)

  I met with Craig after lunch, told him I had figured out an approach for Cheese of the Month that I was sure would work. I needed him to set me up to track the clicks and conversions.

  He asked me for my plan, but I was coy. He agreed to let me loose for a few days.

  I was at my desk, happily running search queries through the list when Kevin showed up.

  “I hear you’re ready to make some sales,” he said. “Let’s get you started.”

  He watched while I filled out the forms to set up a conversion-tracking account, typed in some authorization codes, and soon we were waiting for the program to respond, which took a while. A wheel went around on my laptop screen.

  You like standing over my shoulder, don’t you? I thought.

  “Did you have fun last night?” I asked.

  “Fun? I guess. I was only there to talk to Alvin about a project.”

  “Cool. Something interesting?”

  “You could say that, Walker,” he said. “Walker. What kind of name is that?”

  “Standard-issue American surname, I guess. From English, for one who walks.”

  He laughed.

  “You have a sense of humor. Where you from in Connecticut?”

  “New Haven. Well, the suburbs.”

  “I went to Newtown this spring,” he said. “Sort of a research trip.”

  “That’s where I’m actually from. I just say I’m from New Haven because people know it. And it’s where we did our shopping and stuff.”

  “And it’s more cosmopolitan. Like you.”

  The wheel finally stopped turning. I was set up.

  “Thanks, Kevin!”

  “That’s what they pay me for, Walker.”

  I got up to go to the bathroom, so that he would finally have to leave.

  * * *

  By the end of the day, I’d sent out three cheese pitches to three different groups of five thousand cheese lovers and was ready to track the results.