Across the room, Quasi can see the debate playing out on my face, watching as I wrestle with the notion.
“Alright, let me make one final appeal,” he says, going over to the screen and scrolling down.
He moves past the title and the stats, clear to the bottom of the screen to the section reserved for comments.
There, from a user named Veronica2773, is a single response.
This is too funny! And he’s kinda cute, in a dorky way. :)
Chapter Twenty-Five
Friday, January 21st, 2015
2:02 pm
The fingertips of Pearson’s left hand again appear along the edge of her computer, though she doesn’t push it to the side. I can’t be certain if she wants to lecture me about the veracity of my story or simply take another look at what Veronica2773 deemed kinda cute. They remain there a moment before disappearing, the screen remaining in place.
“And that was all it took?” she asks, staying in place behind her screen.
The cuffs rattle against the bar restraint in front of me as I raise myself up in the seat, pushing my hips back to sit erect. After four hours in the chair, my tailbone is beginning to scream at me and my neck is starting to ache.
Neither bodes well for the rest of the day.
“You have to realize,” I respond, knowing the question was a delicate way for her to continue the interview while still letting me know she doesn’t quite buy it. “This was three years ago. The man you see sitting here before you today is much, much different than the wide-eyed kid that was in that room.”
The top of her head rises to look at me, her eyes wide.
“I would hardly consider twenty-eight a kid.”
I tilt the top of my head to the left a few inches, letting her see the non-committal gesture.
“Depends on the person. Some people at twenty-eight have been to college and grad school. They’ve joined the Peace Corps, fought in the Army.
“Quasi and I were both still living at home. We’d scraped through high school by being virtually invisible, had lived the decade since the same way.”
I fall silent a moment, thinking about everything I’ve already shared here today.
The typing stops as she rises another inch behind the screen, her entire face visible. She fixes her gaze on me, wanting to ask follow-up questions, but waits in silence for me to continue.
She knows exactly what I’m trying to say. I don’t have to spell it out for her.
“Anyway, it wasn’t the comment that got me,” I say.
Accepting the cue, Pearson begins anew on her keyboard, her hair swinging down on either side of her face as she averts her gaze.
“It’s the fact that there was a comment,” I say. “It was one thing to have people just stumble on the video online and click on the link, it was arguably even something else to have them offer a like for it. It was an entirely different thing altogether for someone to take the time to watch, process, and write in about it.”
The sound of typing continues for a moment before Pearson looks up again. Her mouth is twisted into a thoughtful pose, wrestling with what I’ve just said.
“Hmm,” she offers. “Never thought of it that way. So that’s what got you on board?”
A smirk rocks my head back an inch as the same crooked smile crosses my features.
“God no, not even close. That’s what got me to back off my strict anti-social-media stance.”
The smile remains as I focus in on the back of her screen, remembering that night. A lot of time and experiences have passed since then, but I still recall every detail with great clarity. Over time, I must have replayed it hundreds of times.
At first, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had been resolute in standing my ground, if I had done something else, if things would have played out differently. Maybe I wouldn’t be in here. Perhaps Weinberg and Quasi would still be with us.
As the months crawled by though, I came to accept that things went the way they did for a reason. I knew exactly what I was doing at the time, even if I was hesitant or bashful or whatever else. This might not be exactly the ending I had always envisioned, but it’s pretty damn close.
I’d be lying if I claimed otherwise.
“It took us over two hours arguing about it that night,” I say, “and at least that many each of the next couple days.
“I was very against it, Quasi was firmly on board. Every time I tried to make an argument that it wasn’t worth it, he was there with a counter, aided considerably by the constantly growing stats from our one posted video.
“By Tuesday night, viewership for it had swollen to over a thousand hits. Hundreds of people claimed to like it, with only a few voting in the negative. That one comment turned into thirteen. Most of them were ridiculing me, but it didn’t matter, people were talking.”
I can almost sense excitement rolling off Pearson as she works. This sort of information had to have been what she was hoping for when agreeing to do this, getting an inside glimpse into where everything began.
It has become almost cliché for people to see the final product and analyze it to death, assuming that’s all there is to a story. Rarely do they stop to consider the winding path that deposited someone in that particular position.
The winding path is what I promised her when I first broached the idea. Obviously, I wasn’t allowed to do it directly but when making the pitch to the warden, it was things like unfettered access that I knew really caught his attention.
Just like Guard Brantley, everybody is hoping to have their moment in the warm glow of media spotlight.
Carmen Pearson is beginning to sense hers.
“So Tuesday night, you decided to go for it?” she asks.
I nod, again back in the moment.
“On Tuesday night, we sat down and made a list. We decided if we were going to do this, we were going to do it right. We thought of every essential life lesson a man like James Buchanan would have, still deluding ourselves into believing that’s what it was all about.
“When we were done with it, we shook hands and got straight to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tuesday, February 28th, 2012
8:38 pm
“Alright, where do I start?” I ask, rubbing my hands together in front of me.
The motion does little to alleviate the moisture between them as I pass them down against the thighs of my sweatpants, dark streaks appearing on the grey cotton.
“Nice,” Quasi comments, looking at the marks on either pant leg before looking up at me.
A feeling of annoyance passes through me as I stare at him, the collar of the same white t-shirt I know to be stained from sweat showing beneath his flannel.
“Shut up,” I say, wiping my hands over the front of my pants again in an attempt to dry them. “So, what do you think? Maybe the booze?”
“Oh, no,” Quasi says, shaking his head. “We’re not ready for that yet.”
I can feel my eyebrows pull together in confusion, wrinkles lining my forehead as I stare over at him.
“Not ready for it? We just made a big list of stuff we wanted to do. What do you mean not ready?”
“Just what I said,” Quasi replies, moving over and dropping himself into the desk chair.
Using his heel, he pushes himself over in front of the laptop, his body turned to face me.
“We’ve got a list of stuff to do, but we need to work on our platform first.”
His insistence on using the term platform somewhere north of two hundred times a day grates on my nerves as I watch him, the sudden sense of confidence he seems to posses only adding to my annoyance.
“Yeah, and who made you an expert on this stuff? Are you on Twitter? Facebook?”
His nose rises an inch in the air as he looks at me, the smile giving way to a resolute stare.
“As a matter of fact, I am on Facebook. Have thirty-seven friends, too.”
I’m not terribly familiar with the social media universe
, but that sounds like a relatively minuscule number.
Any thought I have of pointing that out though, is pushed away by the realization he’ll simply counter that at least he’s there at all.
Tough to argue with that logic.
“And I never claimed to be an expert,” he adds, the conceited expression falling away. “I just spent a good bit of time researching things the last few days, so I have a loose grasp on how this stuff works.”
Two hours of reading internet articles and he thinks he knows the best way to approach turning me into a bestselling author. A mixed pot of feelings wells within me, none of them good for my friend.
“What everybody kept saying is that you use your first work to build a following,” Quasi says. “From there, you let your fans spread the news of your future work, word of mouth bringing more people into the fray.”
His continued use of words I’ve never heard come from him before threatens to drive me mad, though I stare at him in silence as he prattles on.
“We’ve already got the first thing out there,” Quasi says, “which was the video. Now we’ll put together a couple of accounts, bring in a few people, and create some hype around your next video release.”
“Okay,” I say, a tiny bit of the disgust I feel peeling away. “How do we do that though? How do we use this video to attract people to me in other venues?”
“Easy,” he replies, “we just take a screenshot of you somewhere in the video for an avatar. Maybe that point where there’s smoke all around you and the tears and snot are running down your face?”
“What? No!” I snap, jumping two inches off the ground and stamping my feet.
The impact of it rattles the shelf above my bed, knickknacks quivering in place.
“We’re not going to use that. I look like I an idiot!”
The sudden outburst sends Quasi back an inch, his chair touching the desk behind him.
“But that’s how people know you. Without that - at least for a little while - they won’t have any way of finding you. Once we get things up and running, we’ll be able to manage it however we want.”
The explanation sounds easy enough, though enormous uncertainty still surrounds the entire thing. I don’t like the notion of using my worst moment as the image to lure people in, and I’m still not comfortable with the idea of people I know seeing it and holding it against me.
I slide to the edge of the bed and sit down as Quasi turns to face the computer. Beginning with Facebook, he starts inputting information, creating the profile that will be my link to fans the world over soon enough.
“Okay,” I say, conceding his point on the picture, “but I don’t want to use my name. I still have to walk around every day, you know.”
A small sound escapes him that sounds like a snort, though with his back to me I can’t be sure.
“That makes sense,” he replies, continuing to work on the profile page.
Facing away from me, I can hear him typing away, though I can’t bring myself to look at what he’s inputting. If I do, I know I’ll only balk further at the entire enterprise, wanting to pull the profile and halt everything.
As much as it pains me, as much as the sweat returns to my palms, I remain perched on the edge of the bed.
“How about we use the name James Buchanan?” I ask.
That was the original purpose in all this anyway, to create a venue for my character to be seen, pay homage to my father.
The typing stops as Quasi ponders it a moment, his face rising to gaze at the wall in front of him.
“Good, but what if you write other books? And it might confuse people who think the profiles belong to the character and not you?”
These are both good points, things I hadn’t considered. The disgust deep inside rises a little higher as I consider their source, not particularly caring for the sudden role reversal we seem to have found ourselves in.
“So what do you suggest then, Oh Wise One?” I ask, disdain dripping from my tone.
At this he rotates in the chair to look at me, his features still twisted up in thought.
True to form, my sarcasm has flown right by him.
“You’ve never mentioned a pen name, so maybe some form of your own name? Not Charles, but how about Charlie or Chucky?”
My mother has called me Charlie since I was born. The kids on the playground called me Chucky around the time the movie of the same name came out as form of torment. No way am I willingly signing up for either.
“Hell no,” I say, shaking my head for emphasis.
To my right, Quasi opens his mouth to respond, but thinks better of it and closes it just as fast. Silence falls between us as we both think on it, trying to determine the perfect moniker to feed to the masses.
“What about Chaz?” Quasi offers.
On first impression, I have no real qualms with the name. Never in my life has anybody ever called me Chaz. There is no clear negative connotation attached to it. If anything, it almost rings exotic, suggesting a swarthy Latino gentlemen beloved by the ladies.
“I like it,” I say, nodding as a smile crosses my face.
“Chaz Doyle it is,” Quasi says, turning to face the computer.
Hearing the full name, something catches in the back of my mind.
“No,” I say, “no Doyle. How about Chaz D?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saturday, March 3rd, 2012
9:17 pm
The brakes on Quasi’s car squeal loudly as we pull to a stop on the back edge of the parking lot. The sound does nothing to appease my already taut nerves, the shrill noise passing through my skull, bringing a wince to my face.
“Are we really sure we want to do this?” I ask, my features still folded up as I gaze through the front windshield.
Three days of research have led us to a joint called The Deuce. Located eighteen miles south of town on a lonely stretch of asphalt, the place was selected for a few different reasons.
The first is the name and look of the place. Neither of us is quite sure why it’s called The Deuce, though there is enough present before our eyes to make a strong connection to the bodily function usually associated with the term.
Little more than a double wide trailer with a set of wooden stairs in front of it, the exterior certainly fits the moniker. Neon signs blaze forth from each of the windows, advertising everything from Budweiser to something called Blue Moon. A handful of motorcycles are clustered along the front, a smattering of trucks with mud slung along the sides behind them.
From where we sit, it is clear we are the only sedan in the place.
“Are you kidding me?” Quasi asks, anticipation and excitement so palpable it is practically rolling off him. “This is perfect. See that sign in the window? I didn’t even think they made Red Dog anymore.”
I track over the windows quickly before finding the emblem he’s referring to, a bulldog emblazoned in red. Never before have I seen or heard of the brew, though that doesn’t necessarily mean a whole lot.
The second reason we chose the place was just for facts like that. It would have been easy to go down to the Applebee’s on the corner and ask for a drink, but that would have undercut our credibility before we’d even really built any.
There is no chance James Buchanan would ever be seen drinking a pastel-colored margarita from a neighborhood family restaurant. Our doing so would only expose us as the frauds we were trying to avoid being.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter, feeling a quiver pass through me.
“Hey, got to give the people what they want, right?” Quasi says, slapping me on the thigh as he jerks open the driver’s side door and steps out.
As he does so, a splash of cool air hits my face, bringing with it the realization that I am sweating profusely.
“Right,” I whisper, climbing out and meeting him in front of the car.
In the quiet of the night, we can hear the faint sounds of a jukebox playing a rock song I can’t pl
ace. In the background is the low din of voices, though the parking lot is lifeless.
The third and final reason we had arrived on The Deuce was because we knew without a doubt that we wouldn’t be seen here. There was no concern about one of our family members walking in and ordering a beer, looking down the bar and seeing us on the opposite end.
Ditto for our respective coworkers.
Neither one of us keep up with much of anybody we went to high school with, not that they would probably recognize us anyway. As part of bringing about the Chaz D handle, we had decided a change of look was in order. My preferred fashion of choice was jeans or sweats, t-shirts once the weather got warmer. Never did I wear shorts unless it was absolutely unavoidable, same with sleeveless shirts or tank tops.
After much debate, and even a few pencil sketches, we decided that like James Buchanan, Chaz D needed to be a man that dressed in black. The kind of guy that wore boots, a thick belt, a leather jacket and had a gold chain around his neck.
My closet was woefully unprepared for such an undertaking, something that was remedied through three trips to various Goodwill stores. By the time we were done, we had amassed the ensemble I am currently wearing.
The thick woven chain swings from my neck, thumping against my chest as I come to a stop beside Quasi. The gold paint on the outside of it is starting to wear thin in various places and it occasionally catches and pulls the hair at the base of my neck, though for three dollars, we both felt it a steal.
Dressed in a solid black t-shirt and jeans, my upper body continues to sweat under the weight of a faux leather coat. It smells vaguely of grease and mint, though where that combination could have possibly come from, I have no idea.
The boots were the hardest for us to find, finally having to settle for a scuffed pair of loafers that we removed the tassels from. All in all, not quite the way I had envisioned my lead character, but not far off.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 58