And that’s when things get interesting.
Which is to say, worse.
So much worse.
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, heart pounding, having taken screenshots and saved links and backed everything up on a thumb drive just in case, I look at the time. It’s just after four p.m., which means Mom won’t be home for an hour or so.
I take a few bracing breaths, review my plan, if you can call it that, and then launch myself out of my room before I can chicken out.
“Dad,” I call out, as I march down the stairs to the basement. There I find everything in chaos. Dad’s files are on the floor outside his office/Jack’s room; his computer, printer, a mess of cables, and an ancient lamp are set up on the bar. There are paint cans sitting at the bottom of the stairs, and all of Jack’s trophies are piled haphazardly on the coffee table.
Dad, meanwhile, is perched behind the bar on the creaky vintage stool, hunched forward and bashing at the keyboard of his laptop like a man possessed.
“Dad,” I say.
He looks up, blinking like he’s having trouble coming back to earth.
“Libby!”
Easy, I think. Go easy.
“What . . . ah, what are you going to do with Jack’s stuff?”
A heartbroken expression crosses Dad’s face and then disappears so fast I’m not sure I really saw it, then his mouth twists like he’s tasted something sour and he says, “Throw it out. Or he can send me his address and I’ll ship it to him, at his expense.”
“Isn’t that . . . a little harsh?”
“Jack . . . is a disappointment,” he says, then zeroes in on me. “You, however . . .”
Here we go.
“I just found out about your takedown of Perry Ackerman,” he says, puffing up with pride. “That was heroic!”
“No, Dad, it was dumb. It got me fired.”
“Bah! You don’t need that job anyway.”
“Yes, I do,” I say, still trying to figure out how best to deal with this, and with the other thing, because the plan I had when I came down here (make a grand speech that will completely change my dad’s mind about everything and magically turn him into a totally reasonable person) doesn’t look promising.
“Well, you can get another one!”
Right, I think but do not say. How’s that going for you?
“You should have told us Perry was harassing you,” Dad continues, clearly in the zone where no input is needed from me to continue the conversation. “I shouldn’t have to hear about this at the hardware store.”
And I shouldn’t have to be trying to hang on to a job where I’m being sexually harassed, but here we are.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“I would have liked the chance to be there for you,” Dad says, looking disconcertingly concerned all of a sudden.
“Listen, Dad, you wanted me to be independent, so that’s what I’m trying to do.”
Yes, that has to be the strategy—convince him I’m doing what he’s wanted me to do all along, and get him to back off.
“You were right,” I continue, trying to channel my mother and her work-around skills. “About how the job, and all of this, would help me build character. It really has. I’ve learned so much. And I take things so much less for granted. That’s why I’m hoping that you’ll . . . continue with your very wise hands-off . . . uh . . . parenting, and let me handle this.”
“But Libby, I want to help. You can’t ask me to do nothing.”
“That is what I’m asking. Please, Dad, stay out of it. That’s how you can help.”
“Okay, sure,” he says. “Fine.”
Sure.
I see his furtive glance toward the laptop and know for certain that Roland Rickland/@RicksNotRolling will be back posting the second I leave.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to sort through my rampaging thoughts and emotions, and then open them again with new determination. I’m not going to be able to distract him, or do a crafty work-around like Mom would. Gentle reasoning isn’t going to work and staying silent isn’t an option anymore. I have to speak—really speak—not fling silent words against the walls of my mind, not submerge myself so deep that I don’t even have words. I have to channel Jack, and cut to the chase.
“I want you to get off of Facebook, Dad,” I say, feeling like I’ve hurled myself off a cliff.
“Facebook?” he blusters. “I hate that place. Why would I even be there?”
“I know you are.”
“Oh, really? What am I doing, then?” he says, chin up and arms crossed.
“You’re on the residents group, for one thing.”
“No, you can look. I’m not there.”
“Yes you are, Roland.”
“Who?” he says, voice cracking, but widening his eyes with almost convincing innocence.
“I know it’s you, Dad,” I say, keeping my tone level while inwardly quaking at being so direct with him. “I’m asking you, begging you, not to post anything else. Not on the Pine Ridge group, not on Martina’s blog. And I would love it if you would delete what you’ve already posted.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, obviously pleased with himself for managing to do his shit disturbing in such a way that no one can pin it on him, or so he thinks.
“Dad,” I say, edging closer to the other problem, “if I can tell you’re Roland, others will figure it out, too.”
“Well, so what if I am?”
“Because,” I push on, “let’s say someone on there wonders, ‘Hmm, who is this Roland Rickland person?’ At that point they are one Google search away from the rest of it.”
“What rest of it,” he says, holding himself very still.
“The rest of it,” I say, at the edge of another cliff now, but forcing one fear to override another. “The rest of the garbage that I just discovered. @RicksNotRolling, and your lesser pen names: RickRoland, RolledOverRick, RickandRoll, OvertheRollRick. Your secret online identities with which it looks like you’ve been aiming to win some kind of award for being the most frequently blocked and banned. Is this what you’ve been doing all this time while we thought you were looking for work? Picking fights with strangers on the internet?”
“I’ve been very successful with my online endeavors,” Dad says, pulling his usually slouching form up to full height, fire in his eyes. “Sure, I get banned and suspended once in a while, but that just shows you I’m getting to people. I’m an influencer. A writer.”
“It’s not writing, Dad,” I say, the awfulness of everything I found on my search propelling me forward. “Arguing with people to the point that you threaten them with . . . what was that one I read? ‘I’ll hunt you down and smash your imbecilic head in’?”
“I didn’t—”
“I took screenshots.”
“But I would never follow through on any of those threats!” Dad says, having the nerve to look offended. “That’s just talk.”
“It’s not just talk when it contains a threat of violence! You also posted some poor woman’s address online and encouraged people to come after her. That’s more than talk—that’s an action that endangers someone.”
“That woman . . .” Dad says, his face reddening, “was being a real bitch. She threatened me, in fact! She’s a lobbyist—the worst kind of lobbyist! And anyway that address wasn’t even her primary residence.”
“Do you hear yourself?” I ask, suddenly fighting tears. “It’s horrendous. And then there’s all that photoshopping, putting politicians with strippers, and heads of famous people on other people’s bodies. It’s not even good photoshopping, Dad. It’s so obvious.”
“It’s meant to be obvious! Did you see the one where I put all the EU leaders in thongs and Speedos? People loved that.”
&nb
sp; “It’s gross, Dad. It’s so ugly. If you looked at it all at once like I just did, I think you’d see that. The memes, the threats, I mean, yes, there are a few that people seem to have found funny, but they’re mean-funny. And then all those essay-length arguments in comment sections, some of them even well-researched, but then you devolve into name calling and threats. It’s such a waste.”
“But don’t you get it?” Dad says, moving out from behind the bar, totally animated and excited now because his delusions are a fortress that apparently cannot be penetrated by facts. “I can write! And I know all about Perry Ackerman. I get why you lost your cool with him. I’ve heard stories. Hell, I’ve seen him do it! I have dirt, and I’m a writer, Libby! You can tell your side of the story, and I can add what I know. The two of us—we can take him down.”
“‘Take him down’? No, Dad. No, no, no.”
“Libby”—he takes my hands in his—“I don’t mean writing something for Martina’s blog or those idiots on Facebook. I’ll write a real article. An exposé! I’ve been waiting for a chance like this my whole life. You’re not impressed with RicksNotRolling, fine, I get that. But I’m trained for this situation.”
“I’m sorry, but what you’ve been doing . . . that’s not training, Dad.”
“I don’t mean the internet stuff. I was trained formally. In journalism, Libby.”
“What?”
“Yes! I did two years of journalism school before I met your mother. I was going to travel the world following leads and covering wars and exposing atrocities and conspiracies. I was good. Top of my class, almost. I was going to be a teller of truth,” he says, eyes shining suddenly. “A light in the dark. So I didn’t get to do that then, but now there’s the internet. I created @RicksNotRolling because I wanted to accomplish something. Open a dialogue with people who think differently, see if we could find common ground.”
“Finding common ground isn’t exactly your specialty, Dad.”
“But I can write.”
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t write about this. For one thing, Mom already made the big effort of going to Perry to ask him to forgive me.”
At this, Dad looks aghast and then horrified.
“Whether you agree with her or not, she went to bat for me, Dad. And because of it, Perry called Dev and Dev offered me my job back.”
“But you can’t just let that bastard get away with—”
“Just stop!” I burst out. “If I’m going to fight, it’s my fight. If I’m not going to fight, that’s my choice too. But this is not your fight.”
“I have a right to help my daughter.”
“Please, Dad,” I say, trying to dial it back. “Please. I believe you want to help, but I think your help might make things worse, no matter how good your intentions.”
“You can say whatever you want, Libby,” he says with building fury, and I realize I’m losing whatever control I had of the situation. “If I want to go to bat for you, or if I want to say any damned thing I want, I have that ability!”
He starts stomping back toward his office, then remembers he’s moved it to the bar and changes direction.
“You don’t even know my side of the story, Dad. You don’t have the facts. And I’m not going to give them to you!”
“I don’t need them!”
“Do you hear yourself? You don’t need the facts? That can’t be what they taught you in journalism school.”
“I don’t need them because I have enough of my own! I was going to give you the chance to be part of this, but guess what?” he says, all ablaze now. “I don’t need you. There’s years’ worth of stories about Perry. And some of those anonymous posts about him on the blog of your friend? Those people are being chicken-shits, but I know who they are. I know who some of them are, for sure, because I know the stories. I’ll figure out who the others are and then I’m going to publicize their names, drive them out from under their little rocks and make them denounce him publicly.”
“Dad . . .” I’m practically choking with horror at this. “You can’t do that!”
“I can’t? You don’t get to tell me!” he says, suddenly yelling right in my face. “No one tells me what I can or can’t do, do you understand? NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO DO.”
His face is twisted with fury, his spittle landing on my face, and I shrink back.
Then he breaks away, snarling, and heads back to his desk, hauling himself up onto the stool and spinning deliberately away from me as he starts whacking at maximum velocity on his keyboard.
I stand there, staring at his back, my heart racing, and try not to spiral into despair.
There will be no getting through to him now. I failed. And yet I have to stop him. Somehow I have to stop him, but what can I do—rip the laptop from his hands? He’d just use his phone, or Mom’s laptop, or he’d go to the library, or worse—he might run into the streets and start shouting at passersby.
My eye snags on the modem, plugged into the wall just around the corner, and Dad’s phone, parked at the end of the bar.
I can’t stop him from writing, but . . . maybe I can slow him down?
Yes.
I grab the phone, then tiptoe over to the modem, tug its wires free, clutch it to my chest, and then take the stairs up, two at a time.
At the top of the stairs I take the U-turn into the back hallway, zoom past my room on the right, and then into the bathroom where I lock the door, put the modem and the phone in the tub, and close the drain.
I stare into the tub, hand on the faucet.
Holy crap. This is what my life has come to—I’m about to drown our modem and my father’s cell phone. In the bathtub.
I’m going to commit technocide.
Ridiculous.
And what if soaking the technology causes some kind of toxic leak?
No, this isn’t the answer. I just need to get myself, and the technology, out of the house.
I snatch the phone and modem from the jaws of death-by-drowning, sticking the former in my pocket and shoving the latter awkwardly into the back waist of my jeans before yanking my hoodie down over it.
Less than a minute later I’ve grabbed my backpack, shoes, and keys, jumped in the car, buckled up, and am pulling out of the driveway.
I guess that makes it technapping . . . ha ha haaaaaa . . .
I may be having a psychotic break.
18
FULL OF CRAZIES
I drive past Ackerman Park (grabbing butts since 1967!), then pull off the road half a mile later at a spot that overlooks the river, turn off the car, and dial Jack.
He surprises me by answering after just two rings.
“Libby!” he shouts over the background noise. “Hang on, I’m going outside.”
There’s some rustling and I hear Jack asking someone to cover him, and within a few seconds the din recedes.
“Hey, sis, what’s up?”
“You’re going to think I’m crazy but I have to stop Dad. So I stole the modem and the—”
“Whoa, slow down. Stop Dad from what?”
“Jack, he’s a troll!”
“Well, he is a bit—”
“No, an internet troll—and not the awesome, funny kind, either. I found all this . . . here, wait a sec . . . I’m sending you some pics. They’ll explain better than I can,” I say, and take a few seconds to message him a bunch of screenshots. It’s only a few moments before I hear his notifications beeping.
“Okay, lemme look,” he says. “Oh, man, okay . . . oh jeez, what the hell. You sure this is him?”
“He admitted it. He’s proud of it.”
“Damn. Okay. What were you saying about the modem?”
“Right,” I say, my thoughts tumbling as I try to catch him up. “So he’s been up to no good online, and in the meantime he’s found out about Perry, and now he wants to
write an exposé, and it’s bad enough if he does that but if people also—”
“Wait, wait, what about Perry? You mean Ackerman?”
“Oh,” I say, remembering that Jack knows nothing about that part of the story. “Yes.”
“My man, Perry!” Jack says. “What’s going on with him?”
I close my eyes and suppress a groan as I remember that Perry was (and still is) a big supporter of the high school football team when Jack was on it. He bought their jerseys, hosted postgame parties, came to every game.
“Ever notice anything about how your man Perry was with . . . females?” I ask, and then hold my breath, hoping Jack isn’t about to disappoint me.
“Uh-oh, what’d he do?” Jack says, but he says it with a mix of dread and affection, the way you might ask a dog you love if he ate your shoe.
“I don’t think I can talk to you about this,” I say.
“What? Of course you can.”
“All right, your man Perry was sexually harassing a teenage girl. Groping her, making comments and gross jokes, and she freaked on him, and now the town is in an uproar.”
“Shitty but not surprising,” Jack says. “Dude needs to learn to keep his hands to himself. But this girl—why didn’t she just leave? I’ve seen Perry trying to hit on people, but usually they just laugh at him, maybe give him a swat, and walk away. But instead she freaked on him? Sounds like this girl’s just looking for attention. Anyway, what’s this got to do with Dad?”
My brain is exploding in fifty directions and I want to smash something.
“Lib?”
I really should just hang up. But instead I grip the phone and start speaking with barely controlled fury.
“This girl,” I say, “was most assuredly not looking for attention. This girl couldn’t walk away because Perry was her customer. At a restaurant. Called the Goat. And this girl needed the money she was making so she could pay for rent and college tuition because she is fucking broke.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait, Libby . . .”
“This girl didn’t have the option of walking away from the hug-with-pelvic-thrust, or the boob grope or the butt grab, or millionth sexist joke or implied sexual threat. This girl just wanted to make her money and go home and she is not enjoying the attention from the video that’s gone viral of her screaming like a psycho at Perry Ackerman, or the attention of the accompanying viral video that depicts her with a tail, and barking like a dog, or even the attention of the photos someone posted that show Perry’s hands on her ass for all the world to see,” I spit. “Newsflash: no one wants that kind of attention. Fuck you, Jack.”
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