Social Misconduct

by S. J. Maher

  I googled myself and discovered that my topless selfie was enjoying a second life on a Reddit forum, where a lively conversation was taking place about me. Some anonymous posters were convinced that I had posted it on purpose. Some of them thought it was especially pathetic, considering that my breasts were so small. In spite of myself, I found that hurtful.

  Most pathetic were confused guys defending me by saying I should feel free to share a picture of my breasts. The worst was an argument between a guy who said I deserved to get raped and another guy who said I wasn’t hot enough to rape.

  It made me so furious. Who were all these horrible men?

  I thought about replying, writing an acid open letter mocking them, or maybe engaging with one of them, humiliating him on Twitter, and then screencapping it, putting it online, hoping it went viral, but I decided not to. Whatever credit I earned in the social media world would inevitably lead to even more people googling my topless self. Did it matter? Everyone I knew would see the stupid picture at some point.

  I researched Reddit’s policies around inadvertently released selfies and sent them an email asking them to remove the picture and the discussion forum, which I copied to Jess.

  I wanted to start working on a campaign for WordUp, but first I needed to move some cheese. I wrote two slightly different spam pitches for two groups of five thousand cheese lovers, sent them, and then checked my sock puppets.

  Linda had been pumping Cheese of the Month with scheduled tweets and Facebook messages.

  Irene Winslow, the Cheese of the Month proprietor, had sent her a cheerful message on Facebook thanking her for her support!

  Linda sent her back a chatty message, telling her that she was friends with me and that I was working hard to make the project work.

  “It’s really helping,” Irene replied immediately. “I can’t believe how well it’s going this week!”

  29

  James is parked on a dark, empty side street, which is good. I hustle him along, my arm in his, telling him how nice he is to let me sleep on his couch but warning him that he shouldn’t expect anything, trying to act like a drunk college girl. I’m looking over my shoulder for that fuckface Irena, who had to be sure that it was me she saw and is likely now talking to the police.

  James keeps trying to stop to grope me, but I keep him moving, thinking, Please, roofie, do your stuff! Please drug this muscle-bound bro.

  When we get to his car, a tacky yellow Mustang, he’s still talking pretty clearly, still sounding drunk but not drugged.

  “There’s my girl,” he says. He pats the car trunk affectionately and presses the unlock button on his keychain.

  “Awesome,” I say. “Your car is so cool!”

  I need a few more minutes. I can’t let him drive. He’ll pass out and kill us both.

  “God,” I say. “I’m feeling kind of . . .”

  I stop on the sidewalk and put my hand on my head.

  “You’re just tired,” he says. “Hop in.”

  “I don’t know. I think I might need to . . .”

  I turn to a wall and lean against it, smooshing my face against the bricks.

  “So tired,” I say.

  “You’re fine,” he says and puts his hand on my back.

  Oh fuck.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  He rubs my shoulders. I can feel how powerful his hands are. They’re disgusting.

  I freeze. He’ll leave me alone if I freeze.

  “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” he says, and his kneading slows and becomes rhythmic. It’s his idea of foreplay.

  I am inert as he rubs me. He presses his big, muscle-bound leg between mine and starts to lightly scratch my back.

  I think about running. I think about screaming. I don’t do anything.

  Suddenly I can feel him erect, pressing against my behind.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t. Wait.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all fine. I’m going to take care of you.”

  Then his mouth is on my neck, and I am trapped by 250 pounds of steroid-pumped Jersey bro. He sucks at me.

  I struggle to control my rising sense of panic. He wraps his arms around me and grabs my breasts roughly. Wow. He’s going for it. My heart thumps. I am going to have to run for it. Except he’s an athlete and can catch me in about ten seconds.

  Maybe I should make myself vomit, or pee myself, or poop myself, desperate anti-rape techniques I learned about at college.

  “I’m going to thuck you so hard,” he says and slides his hand inside my bra.

  I feel like a trapped thing. Wait. Did he say thuck?

  I wriggle, try to push myself off the wall but he’s too heavy.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I ask him.

  “I’m going to take you home and thuck the thucking shit off you.”

  His voice is slurred. It’s working. Oh please, let it work.

  I manage to turn around to face him. His arms drop to his side. He stares at me with a dazed smile.

  “Yeah?” I say. “You going to thuck me good?”

  I put my hands on his shoulders and give him a kiss on the lips.

  “Yeth,” he says. “Thuck. You.”

  He’s suddenly like a broken automaton with a huge erection.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’re going to do it! You ready?”

  He nods stupidly. I pull the keys from his pocket, then walk him around to the passenger door. He’s collapsing as I get the door open and I have to wrestle him into the seat and lift his enormous right leg into the car and slam the door.

  Then I’m behind the wheel. I start the car.

  Oh, this is good!

  30

  After my meeting with Craig and Rebecca, I went back to see Kevin. He had reinstalled the software on my phone.

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  “Sorry. It was wiped clean.”

  “Isn’t that weird?”

  “Kind of. I mean, not something we have ever had to deal with here. It’s odd, for sure.”

  “How can I prevent it from happening again?”

  He told me again to reset all my passwords, which I did for the next hour, setting up my phone again, which was tedious.

  Every now and then, I’d peek at my mentions, which continued to be a nightmare of anonymous men’s rights activists and perverts and weirdos. Some of them had seized on feminist blog posts I wrote in college, decided that I was a “social justice warrior,” obviously a desperate, attention-seeking slut, and made memes of my pic, tweeting with abbreviation hashtags I didn’t understand or want to understand.

  Block. Block. Block.

  I also had a lot of supportive messages from friends and strangers, which I spent some time liking. I wasn’t ready to respond to what had happened to me. But I did send some messages from sock puppets, trying to guide the conversation—simple messages of encouragement—being careful not to use the puppets I was using to sell cheese.

  Beatrice arrived and put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey, honey,” she said. “How are you? Want a smokey treat?”

  I really did.

  “So?” she said in the elevator. “How you doing?”

  “Better than I was this morning. Did you see the tweet?”

  “I did.”

  “Kind of a disaster.”

  She gave me a smoke.

  “They’re just boobs, you know?” she said. “You know how many girls have had this happen to them? Life goes on. Any idea how it happened?”

  I told her my tale of woe as we puffed on her menthols. It felt nice to have a cigarette and great to unload. I swore her to secrecy and told her about my suspicions about Declan and the file I’d opened.

  “Holy fuck. You got phished.”

  “I know. It’s so strange. He seemed like such a nice guy. And supersuccessful. Why would he want to do something like this to me?”

  “Are you sure it was him? Could it be your ex?”
<
br />   “I don’t see that. He doesn’t have the skills or the, um, ambition. And he’s got an ugly new girlfriend. Why would he want to fuck with me?”

  “But he has the picture, right? Because you sent it to him? And he might have your social passwords?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. It was true. JFXBF and I used to use each other’s laptops and phones all the time. If he wanted to, he could have recorded all my passwords. But he couldn’t even keep track of his own passwords. It didn’t make sense.

  But it did get me thinking about JFXBFNGF, who did social for a bunch of Brooklyn pubs. Could she be trying to destroy me? Great. Another suspect to fret about.

  My legs felt weak and I felt nauseated.

  Beatrice asked if I was okay.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  But inside, I was thinking, Time for an Ambien.

  31

  James’s apartment is in a drab concrete building in a depressing area on the edge of Jersey City and Newark. The elevator smells like old pee and Lysol.

  I prop James against the wall and press the button and get him, eventually, into his apartment. I steer him to his bed, plop him facedown, and liberate his wallet.

  He has $77. That means that I have $122. Not good. I dig into the front of his pants and pull out a wad of ones and fives. $134. Still not good.

  There is also a pill bottle in his pants, with five little white pills in it. Roofies.

  I leave him in dreamland and wander around his apartment, looking for stuff to steal.

  There isn’t much, unless you like sports posters, girlie mags, or empty pizza boxes. It is a sty, which makes sense. He is a pig.

  I go into the bathroom, have a quick shower, and then rummage through his medicine chest, but it doesn’t have anything good, unless you like body spray.

  In the fridge, I find a couple of green apples. I eat one and put the other one in my bag for later. There’s a decent chef’s knife in a drawer, which I take.

  In the living room there’s a lousy laptop, which Douchebro is too stupid to protect with a password.

  I open an incognito browser window and google news about the Hipster Killer. I’m shocked at how many stories there are. I read them all, which leaves me a nervous wreck. I’ve been painted as a monster and have no idea if I could ever convince anyone of the truth. I’m overwhelmed by the horror of my situation, by the false picture of me given out by the media and police.

  I sit quietly, breathing slowly. I can’t solve this all right now. I have to focus on one thing at a time and forget about clearing my name until I’m in a safe space.

  One thing at a time. Take no chances.

  I don’t dare log into my email or social accounts, since they might be able to track me that way, but I decide to check into Facebook as Linda Wainwright.

  I log in, no problem, and then Linda sends a quick Facebook note to Irene Winslow, proprietor of Cheese of the Month.

  Hey Irene,

  I don’t know if you’ve seen the news but it looks like Candace is in some kind of trouble.

  She seemed so nice but the things they’re saying about her are so terrible!

  It must be really upsetting for you after all the work she did promoting your business.

  I don’t know what to think.

  Anyway, I hope you’re doing okay in spite of it all. Let me know if I can help. I really admire you and your business and I hope this doesn’t wreck it all.

  Your friend,

  Linda

  Then I close the laptop and go stand in the bedroom doorway, looking at Douchebro, who is comatose, lying facedown on his messy bed. I need your PIN, buddy.

  This is a job for Miss Busy.

  32

  After my smoke with Beatrice, I went to Washington Square Park to eat a tofu burrito from by CHLOE.

  As I started on the burrito, I got a text message from a number I didn’t recognize.

  I hear you’re going to work on the WordUp campaign.

  Who is this?

  Want a list?

  I don’t know who this is.

  Say yes. Of course you want a list.

  I shivered, freaked out. Was this Declan? Did I want to know or did I want another list?

  I found myself typing.

  Yes. I want a list.

  Course you do.

  Then there was a link to a file. I clicked it: goodr3ads3mailz.zip.

  It was like I was watching someone else. I was desperate to make a success of WordUp but I did not want to get phished again. I pinched my bottom lip and tried to figure out what I was doing and why. It was too late for that, though. I had already downloaded the list.

  I decided not to open it on my phone. I emailed it to myself.

  I texted the number.

  What is this?

  Entire Goodreads membership list.

  All of it?

  All of it. You’re welcome.

  Who is this?

  This time when I ask you to do something for me you’d better do it.

  Suddenly I felt queasy. I put down my burrito and stood up. I looked around the park, wondering if somebody could be watching me.

  My phone pinged. There was a fresh text.

  Are you going to do what you’re told this time, Sugar Tits? Think about how you can show me you’ve learned your lesson.

  I tried to think of something to text back and then decided to block the number. I shouldn’t have engaged, but it was too late now. Time to close the door on this.

  I needed to call Declan, tell him that I couldn’t handle his weird games. I started running through what I would say in my head.

  I enjoyed meeting you the other night, but I find the texts offensive and upsetting and I think it would be better if we didn’t communicate further. I’ve repeatedly expressed that through our electronic communication.

  Or would it be better just to say hi, tell him I wanted to talk to him about his texts, and see what he said? He might apologize right away.

  I got back to my desk, but before calling, I decided to have a look at the list he’d sent. I opened it on my Mac. It was a cvs file with 75 million email addresses. If it was the list of all Goodreads members, I had the key to turn WordUp into a huge overnight success.

  I needed to test the addresses. I created a Gmail account called Goodreadsrewards and wrote up a quick promotional email, offering free e-books. I included a link to a dummy click-counter site and sent the email to five hundred addresses. The counter started to go off immediately. It worked. They were Goodreads members. I hoped they’d get over their disappointment about the lack of free books.

  I decided to call Declan in the hallway, from my cell phone, so that nobody could eavesdrop.

  I googled his office number, entered it into my phone, and got his receptionist, Amanda.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Walsh is not available at the moment; can I take a message?”

  “Yes, please. Ask him to call Candace Walker.”

  Next, I tried the number he texted me from.

  It didn’t even ring, but connected immediately with what sounded like a maniacal man. He laughed for a few seconds, then took a deep breath, and laughed even harder. It was a nasty laugh, a cackling. I could tell after a minute that it was a recording, like a laugh track from a horror movie. Then the phone gave the “call failed” beep.

  I got chills. Who would set up something like that for their cell phone message?

  I decided to call Declan’s office again.

  “Amanda, sorry to be a pest,” I said, “but I wonder if you could add that it’s important that Mr. Walsh get back to me as soon as he can.”

  She agreed to pass on the message.

  When I got back to my desk, Wayne was there for the first time that day.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m really sorry about your, you know, pic.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I felt horrible to think of him looking at the picture. And it pissed me off to think that he, an
d other so-called decent guys, would look at it, invading my privacy.

  I didn’t know how to express any of that to him. I sat there, trying to think of what to say, and gave up. Back to work.

  I checked the cheese conversions. Ninety-two! I analyzed them by pitch. There was little difference between the two most recent come-ons. Likely not statistically significant. I was probably good to go with a blast to the whole list.

  I whooped and did one of my little cheese conversion dances.

  Wayne looked over at me.

  “More cheese success?”

  “Ninety-two conversions, and I’m just getting started. Ready to send out the big blast. I think I’ll have a thousand tomorrow.”

  Beatrice looked over and smiled, but she looked irritated.

  I felt embarrassed to have celebrated while she was likely smarting at being overlooked for the job I was now enjoying. I worried that I seemed obnoxious.

  “How’s Bowhunting.com going?” I asked.

  “Oh, crappy,” he said. “It’s not going to work. The search engine optimization is already nearly ideal. I think if you’re into bowhunting, and you’re online, you already know about Bowhunting.com.”

  “I think you need a new client.”

  “I know. I’m supposed to meet with Alvin tonight to talk about the next project. Rebecca’s going to ask you to come as well.”

  33

  When I leave Douchebro’s sty, I have his bank card and PIN, $134 in cash, a chef’s knife, a green apple, five roofies, and a disgusting yellow Mustang with a quarter tank of gas.

  I drive north, looking for a quiet bank machine. I find one, in a closed minimall, park in the next minimall parking lot, tuck my hair up under my Devils hat, keeping my head low, so the security camera won’t get a good shot of me.

  Score. The PIN works. But he only has $64 in his bank account. Loser.

  Oh, well. I now have $198 in my escape fund, and also a car.

  I figure I should cover some ground before dawn, because I don’t want to be driving such an obvious vehicle after it’s reported as being stolen by the Hipster Killer.

  I am exhausted, but I have no choice but to move. I throw the bank card out the window as I head for I-80.