The Smash-Up

by Ali Benjamin

  No, “predictable” isn’t a word he’d use to describe his wife at the moment.

  “Aw, don’t mind me,” Jarrett says. “I’m jealous, that’s all. As it happens, not too many girls swipe right for guys like me.”

  Lonely. The kid is lonely. “Sounds like you just haven’t met the right girl yet,” Ethan reassures him.

  “Could be,” Jarrett says, but he shakes his head as he speaks, like even as his mouth is saying that love is still possible, his body can’t help but disagree.

  Ethan sizes him up: the kid’s not so bad-looking. A little unkempt, sure. Probably not a ton of job options, not around these parts, anyway, but Jarrett’s clearly a hard worker, and he’s friendly too. Ethan’s Pennsylvania hometown is filled with guys like Jarrett. Heck, Ethan himself might have been one of them, if not for that Kenyon scholarship. If Ethan knew any girls Jarrett’s age—other than Maddy, that is—he might introduce them.

  “How about you?” Jarrett asks. “How’d you meet your wife?”

  At Bränd, of course. He and Randy had been on the lookout for a filmmaker who could help out with the “Heaven Is a Gal Named Audrey” campaign. Zo was two years out of college when she walked into the Bränd office—all blunt bangs and big plans, wearing her take-no-crap attitude like a cloak. Randy had launched into one of his signature monologues: Bränd isn’t looking for a filmmaker per se. We’re looking for someone who can do with video what the ancient poets—the ones who once sang the epic poems that Homer would later codify into texts—did: unify audiences, bring them together around some core ideas, symbols. Make people feel something, you know? Everyone together, all at once, you don’t get that so much anymore, do you?

  By this point, Ethan had heard a variation of this speech about a hundred times. As usual, he stayed quiet through Randy’s rambling. Three times, though, he met Zo’s eye across the table. Three times, they’d both been unable to stifle a smile. As Randy went on and on, oblivious to what was unfolding in front of him, Ethan could hear, as if through Zo’s ears, how absurd this all sounded. Something was lost when Homer wrote those tales down, something essential, the creative juice, that feeling that you get when artist and art and audience are one in the same, I’m talking the feeling you get when you look at Picasso’s Guernica, that what-the-fuck feeling, that sense of being on the edge. That’s what Bränd is going for. Our goal isn’t just to sell product, it’s to wake people up, make them feel alive, see what I’m saying?

  By the time Randy finished, Ethan couldn’t even look at Zo for fear of cracking up. There was a long pause while Zo gathered herself. “Well,” she finally said, standing. “I’m not an ancient poet. Nor am I Picasso. I make films. Good ones. So if you ever need a filmmaker, feel free to give me a call.” She’d started toward the door, then paused. She pulled out a business card, set it down in front of Ethan. “And if you, Ethan, would ever like to have coffee, here’s how to find me.” Then she’d walked out the door without looking back, and Ethan felt like he’d won the motherfucking lottery.

  It wasn’t long before he and Zo were sleeping with their feet entwined, spending long, lazy Sundays at a café near her Brooklyn apartment at Fifth Avenue and Carroll Street, what was then the far outermost edge of Park Slope. They’d sit there for hours, he and Zo, sharing sections of The New York Times, pausing occasionally to read a paragraph aloud to each other.

  From the beginning, Ethan loved how grounded Zo was, how real. Around Randy, Ethan often felt whipped around, like he could never quite get his bearings. With Zo, by contrast, he knew exactly where he was, and who he was. She had a sharp wit, but she wasn’t afraid to be goofy. Occasionally, she laughed so hard at her own jokes that she snorted.

  Now, standing in the UPS Store, he longs to understand: where is that version of Zo now? Where is that humor, that ease, that laughter? The mutability, the sense of partnership, friendship? Where did all of it go?

  It was buried by laundry, maybe, or eroded to nothing from too many nights of trying to put a hyperactive child to bed. Consumed by fury, perhaps, at the whole damn world.

  Wherever it went, he misses it.

  Jarrett’s still waiting for an answer: how did he meet his wife? “Work,” Ethan says, like the answer is simple. “More than twenty years ago.”

  “And you’re still married. Well, kudos to that, man. You must be doing something right.”

  Ethan lingers at the UPS counter longer than he should. Maybe he needs the distraction, the friendly break from a world gone mad. He and Jarrett talk about the Corbury Road construction, about Arlo’s dispensary (“I hear it’s going to be like an Apple Store,” Ethan tells Jarrett, and even as he says it, he’s both pleased to have an insider’s scoop and irritated with himself for talking up Arlo’s business venture). Whether it will be a bad winter, how it is always a bad winter in Starkfield.

  It’s not the worst thing, talking to a lonely kid in a UPS Store. What is there to fear in such an ordinary world?

  And then Jarrett poses a question for which Ethan has no answer: “Listen, I’m just curious. When was the last time you were like, ‘I love my life, I just freakin’ love it’?”

  Ethan stares at the kid. “You ask all your customers this?”

  “Only the ones I like.”

  “Sure, yeah. I love life.”

  “See, that’s interesting, that answer. Because I didn’t ask you if you love life. I asked if you love your life.”

  Ethan hesitates—does he?

  He’s saved from having to answer, mercifully, by the phone: Jackie. At last.

  * * *

  —

  It’s Zo’s voice, not Jackie’s, on the other end of the phone. “It’s me, your criminal wife.”

  “Are you okay? How’s prison?”

  Zo whoops with laughter, then says—not to him—“He wants to know how prison was.” He hears a room full of women cheering.

  “Who’s there?” he asks.

  “Everyone,” Zo says. “Jackie called an emergency meeting. We’re at her house now, plotting and scheming. But to answer your question, being arrested wasn’t especially interesting. Mostly it was a lot of sitting around. And paperwork. Listen, Ethan, I’m going to be at Jackie’s pretty late.”

  “Zo, we have Parents’ Night, remember?”

  “Oh, right. Parents’ Night. Okay, so if you drop Alex off at Persimmon’s house by six, I’ll meet you at school. Speaking of which, did you get that appointment at Children’s?”

  “I’ve left a million messages,” he tells her. “I’m trying.”

  “Great, keep trying.”

  “Zo, what exactly are you all plotting and scheming?”

  “The revolution. Seriously. Check out our Twitter feed.”

  * * *

  —

  Ethan pieces the story together from fragments. The way one does these days.

  A week ago, it seems, the Starkfield Police Department sent out a tweet (because of course they have a Twitter account, who doesn’t? Ethan’s apparently the last man standing). The tweet itself was benign, a warning about a rainstorm that might lead to flooding. The tweet had included a screenshot of the Doppler radar, taken from a department computer.

  But whoever posted the warning had neglected to crop the image; clearly visible was every browser tab that had been open at the time. Of the six open tabs, four were pages for area activist groups. One of those groups was All Them Witches.

  Later that day, someone calling themselves @LeftyMamaBear458, had tweeted:

  @starkfieldPD: Why are you monitoring peaceful citizens’ groups??? #Overreach #abuseofpower

  Within minutes, the cops had deleted their original tweet, then reposted a new one with the image cropped so a viewer could no longer see their open tabs.

  @LeftyMamaBear458 followed up almost immediately with a screenshot of the origi
nal tweet:

  the @starkfieldPD surveils activists, then hides their misdeeds by deleting the public record #screenshotsare4ever #policestate #thisiswhatfascismlookslike

  At this point, the police chief decided to nip concerns in the bud. He released a statement—by tweet, of course—which included the sentence: To ensure the public safety, the Starkfield Police Department routinely monitors all potentially volatile public gatherings.

  The chief’s later assurances—he didn’t mean the activists themselves were volatile, he meant that the political environment was inherently volatile, the department remains committed to free speech, they protect peaceful protesters of every political leaning, Starkfield has had forty political protests since Inauguration Day 2017, all of which have occurred without incident—came too late. Already, several left-leaning publications reported on the incident, one even branding the Starkfield PD as “jackbooted thugs.” The attention didn’t last long, though; the world quickly moved on to the next outrage, and the incident was forgotten.

  It was forgotten, that is, until a member of one of those activist groups was arrested for hitting some cones in a construction zone.

  By the time Ethan knows any of this, the whole story has spun out of control.

  Tweet from @AllThemWitches:

  @StarkfieldPD, why did you arrest an activist with a clean record? @ResistanceNational, @ResistanceMass @ResistanceWesternMA, #thismachinefightsfacists #trumpedupcharges

  Tweet from @ResistanceMass:

  A seriously disturbing story from one of our chapters in western MA: #SisterResister with no criminal record ARRESTED without cause. We have followed up with the @starkfieldPD for more information. #Staytuned #FightThePower #protestispatriotic

  Tweet from @ResistanceMass:

  Update: we have learned the arrest was for hitting a cone in a construction zone. This peaceful activist/mom was ARRESTED and HANDCUFFED and TAKEN TO JAIL. She. Hit. A. Cone. WTF. #dystopia #MightDoesNotMakeRight

  Tweet from @ResistanceNational:

  Massachusetts activist harassed and arrested by police in rural community after hitting a cone. @Bostonglobe, @NYTimes, @washingtonpost.

  Tweet from @BettsbridgeResistance:

  Western Massachusetts Resisters, we are following up to see how we can be of support. Stay tuned! #Resist

  Tweet from @ResistanceWesternMA:

  We’re on it. #nosurveillancestate #persist

  Tweet from @Northampton­Peace­Brigade:

  Wow. Spread the word. Then call the @starkfieldPD to tell them what you think. #ActivismIsNotaCrime

  Tweet from @MassFreedomFighters:

  An activist arrested for her activism, folks! You know what to do! #Wonder­Resisters­Activate #This­Is­What­Democracy­Looks­Like #America2018

  And even as other accounts, representing opposite-and-amplified points of view begin to push back—Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time….Another bored mom without enuf to do…Lock her up!!!—Zo’s story continues to spread, bit by bit and click by click, 240 characters at a time, through the strange, boundless geography-free territory that is our new world.

  RT­@College­Progressives

  RT­@Resist­and­Persist­MA

  RT­@Four­Freedoms­MA

  RT­@Justice­Warriors­Mass

  RT­@Womyn­for­Peace­Massachusetts

  RT­@Womens­March­Boston

  RT­@Women­for­Justice

  RT­@Smash­the­Patriarchy­5789

  Ethan and Randy bet Bränd’s third and final Leap of Faith on a philosopher.

  By now, Ethan and Randy—these new kids in town, these youngbloods, these Gen-Xers—have gotten attention. Through their “Prufrock” and “Heaven Is a Gal Named Audrey” campaigns, they have proven they can generate buzz, grab headlines, make people stop in their tracks. They know how to make people feel things: loneliness and lust; nostalgia and trepidation; timelessness and time slipping away.

  They’ve got moxie, these upstarts. They have smarts. Instincts. Creativity. Youth.

  Now, Randy says, Bränd has one last thing to prove: that they can create a cult brand. Soon, after all, savvy advertisers won’t need to reach customers en masse. They’ll be able to microtarget customers, follow individuals as they move through cyberspace, nudge customers click by click into ever-increasing loyalty. The future of marketing isn’t about going wide, it’s about going deep—turning customers into superfans.

  But what—or whom—should they feature in this Third Leap of Faith?

  “Something esoteric,” Randy suggests. It’s after hours, they’re at the apartment, and they’ve been brainstorming for hours. Randy takes a swig of beer, sprawls backward on the floor, stares up at the ceiling. “A scientist, maybe, or some obscure deity. Some random old scholar.”

  Ethan goes to the closet, pulls his Intro to Philosophy textbook from a box. Hasn’t looked at this since sophomore year. He hands it to Randy, who opens it randomly, and places his finger on the page: Jeremy Bentham? No, Ethan tells him; utilitarianism is a snooze. Randy tries again: Wittgenstein? Nah, nobody understands that guy. They reject Thomas Aquinas (too religious), Claude Levi-Strauss (already branded as everyone’s favorite denim), and Ayn Rand (a non-starter: Zo practically broke up with Ethan when she saw The Fountainhead on his shelf).

  “How about this guy?” Randy hands the book to Ethan. Jean Baudrillard. There’s a black-and-white photo on the page: Older fellow, tweed jacket, balding. Thin shock of white hair above his ears. Playful look in his eyes. He looks erudite. Comfortable. Intellectual. Like a Platonic ideal, actually, of a postmodern French philosopher.

  Ethan reads the text and summarizes for Randy. “Okay, so Baudrillard talked about the nature of reality in the modern world. He argued that the line between reality and fakeness was becoming increasingly blurred. Eventually, we’ll be so awash in advertisements, in symbols stripped of their original meaning, that reality itself will vanish altogether. Then we’ll be in something called the hyperreality, the ultimate death of meaning.”

  “The hyperreality,” Randy repeats. Then he turns to Ethan, eyes bright. “Bingo.”

  “I dunno, Randy. That’s awfully cerebral, don’t you think? And such a dystopian worldview.”

  “Think about it, E: we’ll turn the guy who spoke about symbols into a symbol. They’ll call us geniuses. I think we might be geniuses, actually!”

  Ethan’s not convinced, but walking to work the next day, Randy presses the point. “Look around, E. We’re practically living in hyperreality already. Everyone’s just walking around flashing symbols at one another.” Randy shakes the flaps of his jacket. “Like this so-called barn coat. This is Ralph Lauren, I paid four hundred dollars for this. You think anyone who actually goes into a barn would pay four hundred dollars to keep themselves warm? This coat’s a symbol. I’m using it to signal something to the world.”

  “What, that you’re rich and spoiled?”

  “Sure! Probably! But what I’m not signaling is that I shovel manure.” Ethan’s not so sure about that, but Randy continues. “Now think about cyberspace, E. Pretty soon, we’ll live our lives there, which is hilarious, because nothing actually exists online, there’s no there there. On the Internet, everything is detached from its original meaning. Everything becomes a symbol ripe for the taking.”

  Ethan chews this over. “Ripe for exploiting, you mean.”

  “Call it whatever you, want, E. But buckle in, we’re going full-on hyperreality pretty soon.”

  Ethan’s not sure if his discomfort is with Randy’s proposed campaign, or with the world that Baudrillard describes. Already, too much of Ethan’s world feels…manipulated. Performed. Like the simplest decisions—where he went to school, what kind of shoes he buys, where and how he cuts his hair—feel more like a statement o
f identity than of utility. But Ethan doesn’t want that to be true. He doesn’t want to live in a world where everyone’s busy flashing symbols for others to decode, like some strange new language that he’ll have to learn and then relearn.

  Didn’t he do that already, when he moved from a blue-collar world into this new one? Wasn’t that transition enough? Is he going to have to continue learning the meanings for things, shedding old selves for new, like some sort of molting snake, forever?

  Does he ever get to simply be?

  Randy tries a different angle. “E, maybe think of this campaign as a cautionary tale: our way of making people aware of Baudrillard’s warnings. If we do our jobs right, maybe folks will pay a little more attention to what’s happening all around them.”

  Randy always did know the right thing to say.

  The Baudrillard campaign begins simply, with stickers. Each sticker features a minimalist pen-and-ink drawing of the philosopher’s face. Beneath the image, four words: Welcome to the hyperreality. Bränd makes these available at indie-music venues, coffee shops, skateparks, select college campuses renowned for their cool. Bränd also pays graffiti artists to tag buildings and bridges with Baudrillard’s image, then hires street teams to plaster posters all over hip neighborhoods in big cities: SoHo, Silver Lake, Wicker Park. These posters feature the original pen-and-ink drawings, along with the line, Will the real Jean Baudrillard please stand up?

  Ethan’s not exactly sure what’s supposed to happen next, and for a while, nothing does. Ethan figures this is it—the campaign over, the ultimate bust. Now, the Three Leaps of Faith will fade in people’s memories, and Bränd will continue to eke out work from small-scale web-design products. Kind of a ho-hum business model, but it’s a living.

  And then, like magic, the images take on a life of their own.

  Some hipster entrepreneur—Randy and Ethan don’t know who, don’t care—starts selling T-shirts and hoodies with their drawing. Then others do too. An anonymous artist creates a ’zine entirely devoted to Baudrillard’s work. On the MTA, there’s an underground movement to cover subway ads with Baudrillard’s face. Before long, there are Baudrillard-themed stickers that Bränd didn’t print, Baudrillard street art that Bränd didn’t commission. There are Baudrillard-themed hoodies and caps and bumper stickers. The campaign spreads well beyond its creators.