Social Misconduct

by S. J. Maher

  It was exciting to watch the clicks add up, and I whooped and bounced up and down in my chair when I got my first conversion.

  Wayne, who was the only person in the office by then, looked up from his desk.

  “Sell some cheese?”

  “I did!” I said and got up and did a little cheese victory dance. “My first conversion.”

  “Congratulations!” he said. “I have yet to drive any traffic to Bowhunting.com. If I buy you a drink, will you tell me your secrets?”

  “I would love that, but I’m supposed to go to an event with a friend tonight.”

  I looked at my phone to check the time.

  “Shit, I’m already late. Rain check?”

  “Sure!” he said, with a bright smile, but he looked disappointed.

  21

  After An Infinite Number of Monkeys finish setting up their gear, Pat finally comes back to the bar to get a beer.

  Save me from Douchebro. Save me from Douchebro.

  “So,” he says. “Are you really looking for a ride to Cornell tomorrow?”

  “I am. I guess. I mean, I don’t really want to take the bus. I hate the bus.”

  “We have a gig in Scranton tomorrow night.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Do you have room in the van for me?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Have you ever worked as a roadie?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t see myself carrying amps and stuff.”

  “No?”

  Fuck it.

  “I see myself as more of a groupie than a roadie.”

  Me: Straight face.

  Him: Double take.

  Ha!

  Me: “Just fucking with you.”

  Him, leering cartoonishly at my cleavage: “Too bad. I keep hoping we’ll get groupies.”

  “Hm,” I say. “Maybe you’re not good enough.”

  They aren’t, I soon learn.

  They are thrashy but muddy sounding, with a lousy singer, doing a bunch of originals that all sounded like variations on the same lame Wolf Parade song.

  I watch them, start on Beer 5, and daydream about breaking up the band and helping Pat start a new, better band, which would deepen his feelings for his awesome, supportive girlfriend, the successful social media entrepreneur.

  I don’t notice that someone is repeatedly calling my fake name until Douchebro puts his hand on my arm.

  “Lisa,” he is saying. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Sorry! The music is too loud.”

  “I know! And not very good.”

  “Terrible,” I say, and we laugh together.

  “So are you serious about wanting a ride upstate?” he says. “Because I’m going in the morning.”

  “Oh my God, that would be great. I just can’t face the bus.”

  “I’ll take you if you want. Where you staying?”

  “I’m supposed to go back to my friend’s place in Hoboken.”

  “Cool. Want a shot?”

  “Sure! I mean, no. What kind?”

  22

  I was late to meet my friend, Francis, at the Guggenheim, so I texted him as I rushed to the 4 train. I couldn’t resist checking my cheese stats and was thrilled to see I had four conversions since leaving the office.

  Oh happy day!

  I stewed through the subway ride without internet. I checked my phone as I went up the subway steps—five more conversions. Yes!

  I couldn’t find Francis when I got into the big open space at the Guggenheim, and found myself wandering among the prosperous-looking Upper East Side animal lovers. Everyone seemed to know one another but me. There were a lot of happy squeals of surprise, cheek-kissing, sotto voce gossip. I felt underdressed and anxious. I decided to discreetly pop an Ambien and look for a drink.

  Then I spotted Francis. He was chatting with a slim, good-looking Asian guy, both of them drinking champagne and laughing. They wore tight Humane Society T-shirts. Both of them looked like they spent a lot of time at the gym.

  “There you are!” said Francis.

  We kissed and he scooped a flute of champagne from a passing server.

  “I want you to meet Jason,” he said. “Jason, this is Candace, my unreliable but gorgeous and hilarious friend. Jason volunteers for the Humane Society, at their East Village shelter. He was just trying to convince me to adopt a kitty.”

  Francis and I have been friends since we met at a film class at NYU. Neither of us discovered a talent for filmmaking, but we discovered a shared love of animals, black-and-white melodramas, and flirting with cute guys.

  “Oh, Francis. I don’t think you should get a kitty. You can barely look after yourself.”

  “Shush,” he said and put his finger to my lips. “Don’t tell Jason anything bad about me.”

  “I have a feeling you’ll both want kitties after I show them to you,” said Jason. “You could always foster one for a week or two, see how it goes. But don’t blame me if you fall in love.”

  “Shut up!” I said. “You have kitties here?”

  Jason nodded.

  “Fair warning, though. They’re really really cute. You’re going to want one. They’re upstairs. We like to show the donors what we do, hit them in the heartstrings. Want to see?”

  “Take me to them now!” I said.

  First, I made them pose for a picture with me, clinking glasses, and tweeted, instagrammed, and snapchatted it to promote the event. Then we went up the circular ramp to the second floor, where volunteers and supporters were fussing around a hamper of kittens.

  We wedged our way into the group and Jason pulled a tiny little calico from the hamper.

  “This is Rose,” he said. “But you can change her name when you adopt her!”

  Rose was so cute! She was calm in Jason’s arms, looking around, licking her little nose. She meowed once, and Jason started to pet her behind her ears and she licked at his hand and started purring.

  “Hello, nice lady,” I said.

  I closed my eyes and told myself that I was in no position to look after a cat.

  We passed Rose back and forth and took turns snapping pics of each other holding her. I put her on the ground and dangled my earbuds for her to bat around, and another kitten, Smokey, wanted to get in on the fun. I got some great pictures of the two of them frolicking.

  Eventually, I left Jason and Francis to play daddy and daddy with the kittens and went to find the bathroom.

  While I peed, I checked my phone. I had sold five more Cheese of the Month Club subscriptions. Ka-ching!

  And I had a new text from Declan!

  Are you ready to do me a favor now?

  Sure.

  You won’t want to do it but you kind of have to.

  What is it?

  If you don’t do what I ask, you’ll be sorry.

  ???

  When you’re finished peeing, don’t pull your panties back up. Put them in your purse. I want you to walk around without them.

  I dropped the phone. How did he know I was peeing?

  I picked the phone back up and wiped it with some toilet paper. Ew. Bathroom floor.

  There was a fresh message.

  Do what I say.

  You’re being creepy. Like, really creepy. Stop it.

  Don’t pull your panties up. I want you to walk around with no panties. Do it.

  I don’t think this is funny. I don’t like this.

  I closed the chat window.

  I sat there and tried to figure it out. He had to be at the Guggenheim. He must have seen me go into the bathroom. Maybe he came to the event after I tweeted about it. He must be the creepiest creep in the history of creeps. It was hard to reconcile the sweet Irish boy I had kissed the night before with the freak on my phone. Wow. Just wow.

  I decided to text Francis.

  Francis, don’t hate me but I need you to do me a favor.

  What is it, darling?

  I just got a supercreepy text message from someone I think is at this e
vent.

  I remembered that I had a picture of Declan. I texted it to Francis.

  He’s cute.

  I think he’s a weirdo. Do you mind watching for him near the bathrooms? I’m afraid he might be spying on me.

  Affirmative. Deploying.

  I finished up in the bathroom, washed my hands and fixed my makeup, and checked my phone.

  Francis reported back.

  007 here. No sign of creepy hot guy.

  Are you out there?

  Agent Jason and I are surveilling the door.

  Be right out.

  They were waiting for me, leaning against a railing. There was no sign of Declan.

  “FML,” I said. “That was weird AF.”

  I showed them the chat and started telling them about meeting Declan the night before. Someone came out of the men’s room just as I started and the sound of the door made me jump.

  “I think I need to get out of here,” I said. “I’m totally freaked out.”

  “Of course,” said Francis. “I’ve had enough kittens anyway.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. I don’t want to leave here alone.”

  Jason had to stay to look after the kitties. We went back for one last look.

  Rose and Smokey were curled up together in the hamper, their heads on each other’s paws. I had to take one more picture. It was really cute.

  I tweeted it with the text: These little cuties need someone to look after them!

  Then my phone died. That was weird, since the battery should have had some life left, but it shut down and wouldn’t reboot.

  23

  When An Infinite Number of Monkeys finish their first set, Pat comes back to the bar. Douchebro is with his friends.

  I like Pat a lot better, especially after he stops making terrible music, and I start flirting fairly outrageously, asking him about his life as a rock star and letting him know that I like him, talking fast, touching him, trying to make him like me.

  I’m getting a little drunk, and starting to get carried away. When he leaves to go to the bathroom, I give my head a shake. I have to keep my eyes on the prize: a ride out of town.

  Then, suddenly, James is also at the bar. When Pat comes back, I’m forced to introduce them to each other. They shake hands, then things get awkward.

  “Hey, bro,” says James. “Cool music. Awesome hobby. I bet chicks like it.”

  Pat smiles.

  “I like it,” he says. “I don’t know how awesome it sounded tonight, though. Sounded kind of muddy. You play?”

  “No,” James says. “I play lacrosse.”

  He taps the logo on his shirt and flexes his big chest muscles.

  God. He’s awful.

  “Cool,” says Pat. “That’s the one like field hockey, right?”

  Douchebro scowls, then laughs and puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to demonstrate ownership.

  I give him a weak smile and turn and make an isn’t-this-awkward face at Pat.

  “That’s the one,” says James. “It’s not for everyone. It’s a bit rough. How you doing, bro? You look tired.”

  Pat smiles again.

  “I am tired. But it’s time for me to play again. See you around.”

  He winks at me and says, “See you later,” then heads for the stage.

  James takes this as his cue to take Pat’s spot and starts to really lay it on. He touches me a lot and keeps giving me these little spiels, telling stories designed to show what a good guy he is. It is increasingly awful, but I play along, and he buys more shots. Every now and then I look up and watch Pat play.

  James starts to talk about his place, which is nearby, and suggests I could crash on his couch so that we could get an early start in the morning.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “My friend might worry. I have no phone.”

  “I can text her,” he says, taking out his phone. “What’s her number?”

  “Eight. Two. I can’t remember. Shit. Eight. Two. Four. I have to pee. Can you watch my stuff for me?”

  24

  Francis and I had a drink at a little French place a few blocks west of the Guggenheim, and I told him the whole story of Declan, the cheese list, and the creepy texts. He theorized with me about it, trying unsuccessfully to figure out how Declan could have known I was in the bathroom. Then he walked me to my subway platform and waved good-bye as I started the long ride back to my messy little apartment in Williamsburg.

  When I got home, I plugged in my phone and it immediately booted up. The battery indicator showed that it was a quarter charged, which I couldn’t figure out.

  I had a fresh text message from Declan.

  I warned you.

  WTF?

  I also had a bunch of emails from Twitter, telling me that my cute kitty pic had been retweeted by a ton of randos.

  I clicked on Twitter to look and opened the most recent retweet, which was prefaced with “I volunteer!”

  When the picture opened, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

  Somehow, I hadn’t tweeted the cute kitty pic, but a topless selfie.

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

  I jumped to my feet and shook the phone.

  No. No. No.

  I could not have tweeted the world a topless pic! I did, though. There it was.

  I’d taken the picture last Christmas, when JFXBF was with his parents in Indianapolis and texting me about how much he missed me. I was missing him, and feeling sexy, so I took a nudie shot of myself in the bathroom mirror and sent it to him. I was smiling seductively, trying to look pouty, with my boobs stuck out.

  OMFG.

  I dropped to my knees and started to sob. I had to repeatedly wipe the tears out of my eyes to page through the tweets.

  Someone called @amateurhawties, who had 180,000 followers, had retweeted my picture.

  I had a bunch of direct messages from friends letting me know that I’d tweeted a topless picture of myself, and a bunch of lewd tweets directed at me, mostly offering to look after my cuties.

  There were 138 retweets, some terribly crude, some without comment, a few that were sarcastic or insulting, mocking the size of my breasts. What was wrong with people?

  It was like a nightmare, except that I was awake, hunched over my phone, sweating and pinching my lips and cursing.

  I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head.

  I needed to get rid of the tweet, explain that it was sent in error, and reconcile myself to the fact that no matter what I did, my topless selfie would be out there forever.

  I’d have to put in some serious time on search engine optimization, so that this pic wouldn’t be the first thing you’d get if you googled me. Jess would maybe help me. Oh God. How could I have been so stupid?

  I deleted the tweet and sent a new one: Photo in last tweet sent by mistake! Apologies! :-( These are the cuties I meant to send. I uploaded the cat picture and checked the tweet immediately to make sure I’d sent the right one.

  Then I replied to all the emails and DMs expressing concern, explaining that I’d sent the topless selfie by mistake. Then I checked Twitter again. Some jerk called @BlackPillForever had tweeted a screencap of my topless shot, making fun of me for deleting it.

  Attention whore gets second thoughts!

  He also tweeted a link to my Facebook profile and LinkedIn profile.

  I checked his profile. His avatar was an old black-and-white picture of Zorro, with his mask and black hat. His biography said “Supreme gentleman with no Stacy.”

  I paged through his tweets, which were full of vicious attacks on female celebrities and weird acronyms and slang that I didn’t know or want to know.

  I blocked him, blocked @amateurhawties, blocked all the weirdos who’d retweeted the pic with rude comments, and started to think about how I could get past this.

  I realized I’d better send an email explaining the situation to Craig and Rebecca.

  I was starting the painful task when I got a new text message.


  It was from Declan.

  Nice little titties. Small put perky.

  I had decided not to reply to his texts anymore. I stared at it, trying to understand how the nice Irish boy had turned so creepy, when another text popped up.

  I told you you’d be sorry.

  I blocked the number and knuckled down to hours of social media damage control.

  25

  At the end of the night at the Lucky 7, Douchebro and I are at the bar, him buying Jägerbombs, bragging to me, his hand on my ass. The band is done. The place is emptying out.

  Pat comes by to wave good-bye, and I see that he’s leaving with his arm around a girl. She’s a stringy-haired pale girl with a tatted muffin top.

  Why did you flirt with me, you jerk? Hope you’re happy.

  I turn away for a minute to watch them leave—without a backward glance—but I keep an eye on Douchebro in the mirrored pillar next to me.

  The minute I turn, I see him drop something in my shot. He’s trying to roofie me!

  His plan is obvious. I’d get all groggy and wake up the next morning on his couch with no memory of being used as a sex toy all night.

  What a pig. What a fucking pig.

  I turn and smile at him.

  “Hey, sexy,” I say.

  He smiles down at me and squeezes my ass.

  I put my hand on his bicep and squeeze it.

  “You must work out a lot.”

  “Not that much, really. I’ve always been strong.”

  He thinks I’m buying his shit.

  “You probably have girls throwing themselves at you all the time, don’t you? Big man on campus.”

  He shakes his head. “Not really.” But smiling so I’d know that women were, in fact, constantly throwing themselves at him.

  “Liar,” I say. And I drop my hand from his bicep to his chest.

  “No, really. They’re not.”

  I have to stop myself from laughing. I believe him. Women are definitely not throwing themselves at this guy.

  “I know that’s a lie,” I say. “Well, I’m not going to be another one of them. I’m not easy.”

  “I know. I can tell a classy girl when I meet one.”