I google #MeToo Ivan King.
Nothing. Which makes sense. He’s only been officially selling his snake oil for a couple years. But then, there are older videos, some of them from his early days, when he didn’t know about bounce boards and lighting. Surely he made a mistake at some point, and I’m not talking about technical shit.
I google gross things: Ivan King blow job. Ivan King affair. Ivan King rumor. Ivan King harassment. But it’s the same every time. Ivan King decent. Ivan King loyal. Ivan King ally.
There’s no way, Mary Kay. I remember my old life in L.A., fighting with RIP Forty about our screenplays and the one good piece of advice he gave me—Trust your gut, Old Sport. It’s all in there—and I do that now. I trust my gut and I know I can be stubborn about technology. I hate the name. I hate the clear intention to shrink our attention span even more. But I do it. I go on fucking TikTok.
This is the miracle of the creative process. Of inspiration. You. Because I love you, I am in touch with all the narrows of my soul, my talent. I didn’t think someone like you existed. You found me and I do exist and my instinct was right—good job, gut—and I find Megan.
Megan isn’t very popular on TikTok—she doesn’t shoot her whole face, only her mouth—but I like her for bucking the shallow, image-obsessed system. I like Megan’s voice, too. She’s indignant. Brave. Rattled. It takes a few TikToks to tell her whole story—San Francisco tech fucks, you can do better—but I listen to the whole damn thing. And then I play her videos again and this time, I write it all down:
This is pretty scary. My #MeToo isn’t famous but he isn’t not famous but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what he did to me. The part of me that loves Ivan King says that I’m acting with my feelings, not my brain, because that’s how men kept women down for so long, by telling us that we feel too much. But I do have feelings and I can’t hold it in anymore. I met Ivan King at his workshop. He told me that I had true potential but that I lacked confidence. He told me he could tell that I had never had an orgasm with a man and at the time it was true and I told him that wasn’t true and he knew I was lying because if you know Ivan, you know how he is. How he just KNOWS. He said that sex is an activity. The single most important activity. He said that without good sex I would never reach my true potential. He could tell I had never been in love. I cried a lot. He said I wasn’t attractive because men have intuition too. They can tell when you haven’t been loved correctly, when you’ve faked too many orgasms and blamed yourself. So I did it. I took my clothes off. I know I did this myself. He didn’t hold me down. He didn’t “make” me do anything. I put my “thinking cap” on and I kept that hat on during sex. He abused his power. I know I can’t be the only woman who got played. He makes it so hard to come forward. He makes us blame ourselves for having feelings. But I am sick of pretending that I don’t. Because if you ask me, no one has more “feelings” than Ivan King. If this happened to you, please tell me. #MeToo is good, but it’s not perfect or Ivan King would be on the way down, not on the way up. I saw him in GQ and well… I just had to speak up.
My fingers are numb and my left eye is twitching and I wrote it once and I doubled back to check for accuracy—as Megan’s megaphone amplifier, I owe it to her to nail every word—and then I do what Megan should have done.
I dump Megan’s manifesto on Reddit, where people like to pay attention to every word.
And now I wait.
We live in strange times—refresh, nothing—because for all the men who are exposed, there are plenty of bad men who carry on in the shadows because they know how to convince women that they’re emotionally responsible for whatever the men did with their dicks—refresh, nothing—and I forgot about how good it feels to tell the truth and help a wronged woman seek justice—RIP Melanda would be so proud of me—and I refresh.
Nothing.
But I am patient. I believe Megan. I believe in her so much that it wouldn’t surprise me if she called me right now to thank me for sharing her story. (I linked the transcript to her TikTok. Unlike RIP Forty Quinn, I give credit when credit is due.) Megan has dirty blond hair—refresh, nothing—and slouchy shoulders and credit card debt from Ivan King—refresh, nothing—and I find her other accounts and I learn about her overdue bills from personal trainers and therapists and… grad school. Yes! She’s a grad student—sadly, snobs care about shit like that—and she’s relatable, fiercely intelligent in the classroom, but less confident when it comes to her personal life. She contacted Ivan because she thought he could help make the pain go away and he made it worse and she’s not alone and that’s why he should be canceled. I refresh.
Nothing.
I feed my cats—cats were made for moments of tension like this—and they want to sleep but I get some yarn and fuck with them and they’re just like me. They want that yarn so bad. And then they get it. And then they run because it’s more fun to chase the yarn than it is to have the yarn.
I go back to my computer. Refresh. Nothing. Fuck you, Internet!
I walk to Blackbird and I order the toast my fecal-eyed neighbor likes so much. I wait for the toast—come on #IBelieveMegan—and I go on Instagram and the women in my life are a wreck. Love is trying to teach Forty to play golf—he’s a child—and you are next-level insane, allowing Ivan to preach to a small group of women at the library.
“Joe!”
That’s my toast and I get my toast and I eat my toast and I wipe my hands. Calmly. Thoroughly. I pick up my phone. Refresh. Something.
But it’s not something good. A brainwashed user named ClaireSays has come on here to attack Megan. Claire calls Megan a liar—the fucking nerve—and Megan is not a liar. When someone says something you don’t like you can’t just declare their voice illegitimate and Claire is racking up approval because people love to hate. She accuses Megan of being paid off—fucking conspiracy theorist, Claire—and she says Megan needs help. And then she contradicts herself and says that Megan should be in prison for slander and WHICH THE FUCK IS IT, CLAIRE? I want to jump into the screen and throttle Claire and put her in a basement to teach her the danger of fake news but I can’t do that. And I don’t even need to do that because what’s this?
It’s a user named Sandra2001 and Sandra says what I needed to hear: He did it to #MeToo. I didn’t even know who Ivan was. A friend (witness) dragged me to his “seminar” at a Marriott and there were so few of us that Ivan said drinks were on him. He paid for the drinks. My friend had to go. He told me he had “literature” in his hotel room. I said he could bring it to the lobby. He said that I was being unfair, treating him like a predator. So we got in the elevator and he took his pants off and I kicked him and got out on the 44th floor. That was ninety-one days ago today. I blamed myself. I got in the elevator. But Ivan should go down. Thank you, Megan. #IBelieveMegan #DethroneIvanKing Also, he sent me dick pics the day after. He said it was “fun.”
I stare at the screen and it might be the only time in my life that a hashtag made me smile. Sandra wants justice and Sandra adds another comment.
Dear ClaireSays and all other women throwing shade. You’re not as bad as the men. You’re worse.
Sandra wants a revolution. She wants to save other women from Ivan the Predator and she wants it all to start right now.
#MeToo, Sandra, #MeFuckingToo.
37
The world moves fast on a story like Ivan King. There have been nineteen more accusations and Ivan is now trending on Twitter. Seven hours and eight minutes after #MeganIsSoBrave spoke her truth on Reddit, my phone rings. It’s you.
I follow the news, so I answer with empathy. “Mary Kay, are you all right?”
Ivan is screaming in the background—way to cave in to those emotions, Ivan—and you are quivering. “Joe,” you say. “I had no idea.”
“Do you want me to come—”
“Yes,” you say, cutting me off. “Joe, please come over. Now.”
I grab my coat—Here I come to save your day—and I’m on your street a
nd I spot a For Sale sign planted in your front yard—not anymore!—and I don’t fight the big fat smile that comes from deep inside.
I saved you from making a terrible mistake and if the noise in your house is any indication—it is—you won’t be abandoning our home to join Ivan’s fucking cult. Even on the edge of your property, I can hear him screaming. He’s on the phone with what sounds like a lawyer—this is no job for a publicist—and I knock once—polite and heroic—and you wave me in. Ivan is out of sight, in the kitchen, and what a relief it is to be here, to see you, Mary Kay. You’re you again, in black tights and a black skirt and a purple V-neck sweater. You touch my arm and lean in. “He’s… going… crazy.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m here.”
The Meerkat is stretched out on the sofa with her security blanket—what’s up, Columbine?—so I sit in RIP Phil’s chair while you join the Meerkat on the sofa.
Ivan kicks your wall. “But that bitch is lying, Jerry! Do something to shut these cunts up! They are gonna kill my brand!”
Ivan wanted to be in GQ and now he’s in GQ—the headline of the hot take think piece made me happy: THE POWER IS OUT… BUT WAS IT EVER ON? Yep, Ivan is a dark star now and his Wikipedia page is blistering: Ivan King—Middling “life coach” and half brother of Sacriphil front man Phil DiMarco. King rose to infamy when dozens of women came forward and outed the “coach” for destroying their lives. Ivan still isn’t famous but he sure is infamous, and the next time he’s in a Marriott lobby bar packed with women, they won’t be trying to get into bed with him.
They’ll be trying to kill him.
There’s more good news, Mary Kay. Ivan’s wife, Alisa, started a Twitter account last night and her first tweet was a good one: #MeToo.
Ivan throws his phone at your wall and just misses a framed photo of you, RIP Phil, and the Meerkat and you snap. “Ivan. That’s enough.”
“Right,” he snorts. “Because that’s you, Emmy, always looking out for your family. Just calm the fuck down and let me think.”
Megan was right, Mary Kay. Ivan is a fucking pig.
I must be patient. You’re a lot like Love Quinn, drawn to these bad men, prone to enabling them even when they’re abusing you. You should have kicked him out but instead you’re providing safe harbor, as he mouths off in front of your daughter—that Megan came on to me—and he picks up an empty can and tosses it on your carpet.
“Where’s the fucking beer in this house?”
You jump off the sofa and run out to the garage and Ivan continues defending himself by attempting to discredit all nineteen women who have joined #MegansArmy. It’s a classic excuse, the code of dishonor that keeps men like Ivan in control. He grabs his phone off the floor (finally) and shows us a picture of a woman named Wendy Gabriel. “See this one?” he snarls. “I didn’t lay a hand on her. She grabbed my hand and put it on her leg. But they don’t tell you that part of the story.” He spits at the article in his phone. “Fuck you, fake news!”
You return from the garage with two beers and he groans—This is a Michelob Light—but he pops one can and shoves the other in the freezer and goes back to screaming at his lawyer about how he never harassed anyone. Ever!
I’m worried about Nomi. She’s been staring at the same Klebold poem in her book for several minutes now and I’m a protective stepfather. I pick up the remote and turn on the TV. She looks at the TV. “Can you put on a movie?”
“Sure. What do you feel like?”
She stares at the ad for an antidepressant. “Something soft.”
I go to the guide and see Cheaper by the Dozen 2 and I click on it and she grunts. “Well not that soft. Do they have that Hannah movie you told me to watch?”
We’re not going there now and she opens her book. “Whatever,” she says. “I’m reading.”
Ivan is still screaming at his lawyer and we need to get him out of this house. Ask him to leave, Mary Kay. Do it. You chew your upper lip and crack your brass knuckles and Ivan says he’s sorry and it’s a hollow apology and his voice peters out as he slams the bathroom door. I get out of Phil’s chair and toss the remote to the Meerkat and you follow me into the kitchen.
“Mary Kay,” I say. “You don’t need to let him stay here. You know how it goes with these things. It’s only gonna get louder.”
“It’s not that simple, Joe.”
Nomi opens Columbine—regression is the word of the day—and you sigh. “This is embarrassing but this house belongs to him.”
This is good, you’re opening up to me and I nod. “Okay…”
“It’s a long story. Phil and I weren’t the best with money.”
“So the house is in Ivan’s name?”
You are embarrassed and you shouldn’t be and we’re so close, Mary Kay, inches away from true freedom. Words away from it.
Ivan slams the bathroom door and he’s on the phone again. “You call yourself a lawyer? You wait four hours to call me back and you pooh-pooh me when I suggest we offer these girls some money? Since when did all these women become allergic to money? Before or after they became allergic to dick?”
Nomi closes her book and picks up her phone. “I’m gonna go see if I can get back into NYU.”
See that, Mary Kay? That’s good news and we’re already back on track. But then Nomi tosses her phone onto the sofa and sighs. “I don’t know who to email about school and maybe I won’t even bother with college.” She grabs the remote. “I mean why bother when our whole family is so messed up no matter what we do?”
She makes a good point, but she won’t feel so dismal once you and I start our family. You try to sit by her and she pushes you away. “Nomi, damn it, look at me. I love you. I promise things will get better.”
She’s crying but she’s still fighting you, pushing you away, the way she did when she was inside of you, hesitant to leave your womb and enter this nightmare of a world. The third time you try, she lets you envelop her and she is back in your womb now, crying softly into your bosom.
It’s a tender moment between mother and daughter and I remain silent, respectful, but Ivan slams his phone on your table. He spills beer on your hardwood floor. “Well, the witches are winning. Good job to their dads and great job to their moms.”
“Ivan,” you say, reminding him of his own fucking niece. “Come on, now. I’m asking you to cool off.”
He whines that he can’t cool off because there aren’t enough places to sit in this fucking house so I jump out of RIP Phil’s chair. “Ivan, please. Have a seat.”
He doesn’t thank me and he doesn’t move. “I can’t sit around while there’s an active witch hunt.” And then he contradicts himself and takes my chair. The living room is silent, except for the family on the screen. Ivan starts to cry.
My work here is done—you know it, I know it—and I put on my coat and wave goodbye to the Meerkat so that you can send Ivan on his way, which you will. The crying was a white flag and the man knows he is a goner.
But then Ivan sits up and says, “Well there is one piece of good fucking news.”
You look at Ivan and Nomi looks at Ivan and I don’t look at Ivan because I don’t want to know that he booked an appearance on some daytime talk show to defend himself.
He grabs the other beer out of the freezer. “I will be able to cover my attorney fees…” He pops the can.
All eyes on Ivan, even mine. And he grins. “Because I sold the house.”
Your face says it all. You don’t speak. You turn white and you never really wanted to move and he’s cavalier. Heartless. This is your home and he’s boasting about a cash buyer and you’re looking around the living room—this is where you live—and your Meerkat looks at you and snarls, “So what now, Mom? Are we homeless?”
38
You’re not homeless. And if any man on this island deserves to be sainted, that would be me. I opened my home to you—Generous Joe!—and you live with me now!
Sort of. It’s funny how life comes full circle.
When I chose this house, I was in prison. I showed it to Love because I thought she’d be happy about the guesthouse, a place for her parents to stay when they visited. She scoffed at me—That’s way too small for them—but I stuck to my guns because I loved my house. It’s on the water. It has character. It’s not an L.A. Craftsman—I got so sick of those houses—and they’re popular in L.A. because they keep the heat out. But on Bainbridge, we get weather. You want a house with a lot of windows, a place that lets you soak up the sun. I thought my guesthouse would be empty until Forty’s old enough to leave his matriarchal prison, but now you and the Meerkat are in my guesthouse.
It was a rough month, Mary Kay. You had no time for me, too busy pleading with iMan to reconsider and cancel the sale. But that narcissist fuck wouldn’t budge, especially when his dutiful wife filed for divorce.
I had to tread lightly. Ivan left to go to rehab—copycat much?—and you began hunting for a new home. You were more exasperated every day, agitated by well-heeled Mothballs making passive-aggressive remarks about your spending, as if going without your lattes would have made you a millionaire. I was polite. And then, two weeks before your pending homelessness, I knocked on your office door.
“How you holding up?”
“Terrible,” you said. “Lunch?”
I insisted on taking you out—That’s what friends are for—and we had a nice, long, lingering lunch at Sawan. I mentioned my guesthouse in passing and one week later, you insisted on taking me to lunch. This time, we went to Sawadty and you mentioned my guesthouse. It was your idea to move in—it had to be your idea—and you insisted on paying rent. We haven’t been sleeping together—moving is stressful—and my phone buzzes: Are you awake?
It’s your first night in a new house and new houses can be scary. It’s after 2:00 A.M. and I’m your landlord—you insist on paying rent—so I respond, as any good landlord would.
Me: You okay?
You Love Me Page 29