Charitable Getting: Chapter Two
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originalsam_backupETA 10/1/10: This is a FIRST DRAFT of Charitable Getting. Please see this post for the index to the second and most current draft.
Chapter Two
From: Ian
To: Sarah, Hanna, Jess
Date: Friday 12/4/09 13:04
Subject: Heads up READ ME NOW
To my favorite admin, our best Starving Intern, and a woman I am very sorry I roped into doing a webinar:
Cee's just put leftover bagelwiches and chip bags from the lunch meeting in the kitchen and asked me to send out a mass email.
You have five minutes before the vultures descend!
IB
--
Ian Butler
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Front Desk Administration
"Providing for those who provide for the providers"
***
On Fridays, disasters and extreme workloads allowing, Sparks always left at 4:30, meaning that most of the staff left at 4:40. At 4:40 on this particular Friday, however, John and Ian were engaged in a very different activity: moving the sofa.
"We definitely should be getting overtime for this," John remarked, as Ian crouched at one end of the sofa and got his hands underneath it. "Ready?"
"Ready!"
"And...heave..."
The sofa moved about a foot before they set it down again. John stood up and rubbed the back of his head. It made his newly-shorn hair stand on end, and he saw Ian hide a grin at the cowlick he was undoubtedly sporting.
"I'm not made for this," John announced. "I'm made for looking elegant and lounging against things. Why can't we push it again?"
"It'll mark up the floors," Ian panted.
"Can't we put it on rollers?"
"Yeah, that'd work, a sofa on rollers. Every time the clients try to sit down, WHAM, it hits the opposite wall. Actually, that'd be pretty funny," Ian said, a thoughtful look on his face.
"Well, sliders then," John suggested impatiently. "Those little platforms they have."
"If you want to risk expensing it, you go right ahead," Ian said. "Naomi, help us move this."
"Not in this outfit, darling," Naomi called. "Besides, I have popcorn to make."
"Vodka!" Sarah announced, appearing from the Legal pod, holding up a frost-covered bottle like a corporate-casual Vanna White.
"Erin forgiven you yet?" John asked, as they bent to pick up the sofa again.
"I think so," Ian said. "I helped her with the PowerPoint. We'll know she did if -- "
"Oof!" John grunted, as they finally got the sofa up all the way, and proceeded to carry it to the doorway of the conference room.
" -- if she remembers to order at least one thin-crust pizza," Ian finished.
"Do you um. Um. Need any help?" Hanna asked, appearing from the staff kitchen. "Because I think I'm in the way in there."
"Nope, we've got this, just -- " Ian began, as they reached the doorway. Suddenly, he disappeared behind the arm of the couch. The couch itself fell to the floor with a thud, John dropped his end, and from the other side of the door there was a yelp of pain.
"Every time, I tell you, watch the little step up," John said with a sigh. "Every single time I say, better let me go through first, I remember the step. No, you said, I'll remember it this time, I'll go backwards, it's not fair that you always have to go backwards."
"Ow," Ian called.
"That looks like an awkward place to put a sofa," Jess said, joining Hanna in the doorway of the kitchen.
"Ian's tripped," John told her. "Someone climb over and haul him out of the way, I'm shoving this and goddamn the floors."
"On it," Jess announced, stepping up on the sofa and swinging around the door frame. Ian's head appeared over the edge of the sofa. "Are you seeing double?"
"It's okay, I caught myself," Ian grumbled, hauling himself up by his right hand. "I think I twisted my wrist, that's all. I can totally get this the rest of the way in."
"I told you I'm sliding it and damn the floors!" John yelled, and gave the sofa a push to emphasize his determination. Ian scuttled backwards, and the sofa burst into the conference room as John shoved enthusiastically.
"I need a drink," Ian decided. "And maybe some ice. HANNA."
"Yes?" Hanna called from the hall.
"ARE THERE ICE PACKS IN THE FRIDGE?"
She appeared in the doorway a minute later. She had something in each hand, neither of which was readily identifiable.
"You can have a beef burrito that expired in 2007 or Mystery Vegetables," she said. "Or I could go get...something?"
"Vegetables," Ian requested, settling into a corner of the sofa. He balanced the rigid bag of vegetables on his wrist. "Thank you."
"Are those my veggies?" Jess asked.
"If they are, trust me, you don't want them," Ian replied, poking a freezer-burned chunk of broccoli. Roxy sat down next to him and began remote-programming the large display screen on the opposite wall, which was supposed to be for presentations and video-conferences and also happened to have digital TV reception. It only picked up a few channels, but one of them aired college football games.
John carefully and casually sat just far enough from the other arm of the sofa that someone else could squeeze in, if necessary. Not, he told himself, that this looked suspicious or weird. It was just that he didn't like to sit up against the arm of the sofa.
Zoe and Naomi arrived with comfortable office chairs, and Hanna followed with the popcorn.
"Pizza's ordered," Erin announced. John glanced at Ian, who was fiddling with his frozen vegetables. "Everyone pay up."
Folded, crumpled, and flattened five-dollar bills appeared in everyone's hands, and Erin collected them (two from Zoe, who always paid Hanna's portion) before disappearing again to wait at the door for the delivery.
"I'm bailing," Anna announced, leaning in the doorway. "Dinner date."
"Traitor," John grunted.
"Union Arms is taking me to Tru. Eighty dollar steaks. Sorry, suckers," she told them, and disappeared.
"Cee, come over here and console John, Anna abandoned him," Sarah ordered, dropping into an office chair and kicking off her chunky heels.
"Oh, I'll just take one of the office chairs," Cee said. John very casually avoided looking at her or at the empty space beside him.
"Sorry, I called dibs," Sarah said. "There's room on the sofa. Squeeze in."
"Are you sure it's -- "
"It's fine!" John said. "There's room. Here."
In addition to a bottle of beer, Cee had one of the promotional blankets that a former client hadn't managed to give away before going out of business. She calmly settled in and offered him a democratic and totally platonic half. It was only logical to share; the building switched off the heat at five-thirty, and by seven on a Friday most of the offices were getting chilly.
John was pretty sure nobody knew about him and Cee, except maybe Sarah. Possibly Ian. But probably not either of them, and anyway Sarah was mixing drinks and Ian was fussing with his wrist. And Roxy and Ian were sharing a blanket too (a Halloween leftover with dancing spiders on it) and Roxy was married, so it wasn't like it was a metaphor or anything. Why would it be? Everyone was too busy chattering away about football.
John didn't really get football.
It wasn't his thing; he'd grown up in a small town but fled to the big city to be a bohemian writer just as soon as he could. He sort of got tailgating, and preferred his tailgating indoors on a sofa in front of a big-screen TV. And he almost always remembered which color of football helmet to root for.
That was why he liked Cee: she was cool with his weirdness, she didn't care about football either, and she liked proofreading his writing. Plus she had really pretty green eyes.
Under the blanket, Cee rubbed her knee against his.
***
Ohio was down by ten and on their own thirty-yard-line when Erin sat up straight in the chair and burst out laughing.
It wasn't that she meant to distract everyone from their two-pronged plan for "watching the Ohio lose" and "getting tanked," but sometimes an email crossed your inbox that was too great not to share immediately.
"Sockpuppets," she announced, as explanation, when everyone turned to look at her. "Astroturf!"
"Are we playing word-association?" Zoe asked hesitantly. Erin took a deep breath, laughed again, and then composed herself.
"Bertram Connors, head of The Home Fund, is accused of acting as a 'sockpuppet' in a scandal on a major internet messageboard," she read, and Roxy bent over her shoulder to read along. "A moderator on a website for political debate revealed late Friday that she had used sophisticated IP-tracking software -- "
"Sophisticated!" Roxy snorted.
" -- to identify Connors as four separate users. These four 'sockpuppets' often engaged in public debate on the area of the messageboard that she moderated. The area in question is heavily trafficked by would-be donors."
"Oh, no," Sarah said. "He got spanked, didn't he. And not in the fun way."
"The moderator of the PoliScreen messageboard accused Connors of 'astroturfing' and called him out in a public post on the website, where the New York Times picked it up. The Home Fund has admitted Connors is to blame but Connors himself has declined to comment."
"Astroturfing?" Hanna asked.
"Pretending a campaign or discussion started spontaneously, when really the whole thing was planned," Naomi told her, studying her fingernails. "Like grassroots, only fake. Considered very sketchy."
"Hang on, hang on, I'm finding the messageboard -- ooh, firebombed," Roxy said, staring at her laptop screen. "So many people are trying to get onto it, the servers crashed."
"That's what you get for getting the New York Times involved," Sarah pointed out.
"I bet there were cat macros," Ian said.
"Reportedly, one of the 'sockpuppets' owned by Connors attempted to defend himself. Screen captures from the fallout show other members of the messageboard filling the comments with mocking, sarcastic images, known as 'macros'," Erin read out. Ian threw both of his arms in the air in triumph, then yelped when the frozen vegetables on his left wrist fell off and hit him in the face.
"You couldn't have done that if you tried," Jess snorted.
"I should get Sparks on the phone," Naomi said. "This is going to affect our clients' intake, especially this close to the holidays."
"Why?" Cee asked. "We didn't astroturf anyone."
"Ever heard the phrase 'tarred with the same brush'?" Naomi said, stepping outside the conference room.
"This is awesome," Ian said, taking Erin's phone out of her hand.
"Seriously, how epic is it that some moderator somewhere totally brought down the hammer on a CEO? That's chops."
"Is it...ethical?" Hanna ventured. "It's...it's outing someone, isn't it?"
"Sparks wants to talk to you," Naomi called, as Erin's phone rang. Erin looked down, frowned when she saw his number, and answered.
"I'm teleconferencing you and Naomi!" Sparks yelled down the line. In the background she could hear cars going past.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"State Street, I was shopping. Where are you?"
"In the same room as Naomi," Erin replied.
"Great! Don't stand too close, you'll get feedback."
Erin sighed. "What is it?"
"This ethics thing! Astroturfing. We don't do that."
"I know, boss."
"You know, but nobody else does! We gotta get the word out! And make sure our clients don't do this either. Can you work on it? Where are you? Are you at home?"
"I'll take care of it," Erin said.
"I'm pulling some transparency information," Naomi added, her voice echoing on the line and in Erin's ear from ten feet away.
"Team spirit! Awesome!" Sparks shouted. "Hey, why are you two together?"
"Don't worry, we have it under control," Naomi said, and hung up. Erin, before he could launch into another round of questions, hung up as well.
"I need to make a list," she announced. "Two lists. Clients to call on Monday, clients to call at home tonight. John, can you -- "
"I'll write up a statement of condemnation for the website," John sighed, throwing the blanket back and heading for the Creative pod.
"Oh! I have art for that!" Zoe said, following him.
"Come on, I'll set you up with a phone, you can make some calls," Jess told Hanna, who squeaked and ran ahead of her out of the room.
"I'll get the lawyers back in. Naomi, send me the transparency statement, so they can clear it?" Sarah was already halfway down the hall. "John!"
"Condemnation on your desk in twenty!" John called.
"Make sure you draft up a statement from our clients that they don't do this," Naomi said.
"You want a novel and maybe some short stories with that as well?" John asked drily.
"I'll make a personal statement from Sparks for Monday," Cee said. "John, I can proof for you."
"And I am going home," Ian announced.
Several people turned and glared.
"What? You don't need a receptionist to do all this," he said.
"How come he never has to work past quitting time?" John hollered from the Creative pod.
"It's why they pay me the little bucks!" Ian shouted back, easing his arm into his coat.
Erin was left standing alone, listening to them yell down the hallways at each other, as Michigan finished off Ohio and took the game on the TV in the empty room.
***
Date: Saturday, 12/04/09
Subject: Astroburns
As those of you working in the charitable sector are aware, yesterday evening Bertram Connors was publicly spanked for attempting to gain attention for The Home Fund by --
All right, here are three words everyone needs to learn, at least two of which are in every news article about Connors:
Sockpuppet
Astroturf
Wank
None of them mean what you think they mean.
A sockpuppet is an online personality who doesn't exist, used by a person who does exist to gain access to areas they wouldn't be allowed, or to voice opinions they shouldn't. If you have more than one sockpuppet, they can argue with each other, which is fun. I do this with my socks all the time. I don't do it online.
Astroturfing occurs when a deliberate plan is laid out to create a spontaneous-seeming event or campaign. It derives from "grassroots"; literally, it's fake grassroots. Sockpuppets are often used in Astroturfing, because it looks like several different people have come together to discuss something nobody else might be interested in. Much like the real astroturf, this can result in epic burn.
Wank is where the internet turns rabid on someone who, among other things, commits sockpuppetry and astroturfing. This is the fun part.
Ethically, especially for charities who pride themselves on their transparency, none of these are good things. If you want to convince people to give you money in exchange for essentially nothing, you have to make sure they trust you not to be skeevy and underhanded about it. Skeevy and underhanded people have this appalling tendency to take the money and run.
Do I think The Home Fund took the money and ran? No. I think Bertram Connors showed a lack of judgment. Do I think The Home Fund is skeevy and underhanded? Well, now, a little bit, I do, because their CEO showed a lack of judgment.
What happened when PoliScreen revealed that an entire internet conversation had been held between sockpuppets of one person, originating from the same IP address, is a classic example of wank. If Connors had simply copped to making a mistake, the whole thing might have died down, but this morning he released a statement defending himself: he was tired, he was working in the company's best interests, "everyone does it".
NOBODY DOES THIS. Don't believe Bertram Connors. If you need reminding, I could make bumper stickers.
Now, I have reservations about the moderator at PoliScreen calling him out. When an internet persona is revealed to be a real person, with a real address easily located by a real Google search, that's called "outing" and usually it's frowned upon by the internet as unethical. The ground rule is: don't take your fights offline. People have been stalked for less. And I have a vested interest in upholding this social bylaw, because I work for a not-for-profit and I don't want to be outed. Among other punitive damages (being fired, being stalked) it would seriously kill my mystique.
On the other hand, I'm not trying to convince you I'm someone I'm not. I'm just trying to convince you I'm not Someone.
With this social taboo against Outing in place, which has been strictly enforced on messageboards since yours truly was a tot with a Tandy, the question becomes not whether Outing is justifiable, but which is the more serious crime.
Is it worse to lie in an honest effort to drum up attention for a (reasonably deserving) charity or to out that person as a liar and ruin the entire charity's reputation?
I could leave this one to the philosophers, and I'm sure there will be some in the comments. But to my mind, if you pretend to be more than one person for the purposes of getting attention, you deserve all the attention you get when you're found out. PoliScreen acted in the best interests of the public when they outed Connors, and I applaud them for it, even as I caution them not to make it a habit.
The Home Fund is a good charity. They do good work. Bertram Connors should absolutely be fired as their CEO, and whoever comes in to fill his place should institute a policy of open documentation. Several other charities and charitable facilitators have published statements of condemnation and transparency. Several more will, I'm told by reliable sources, be publishing them on Monday.
Don't let Bertram Connors fuck up your holiday giving season. Tell your donors and your clients: NOBODY DOES THIS. Give them bumper stickers. Link them here and I'll tell them personally.
And then make absolutely sure nobody at your company has a sockpuppet.
Now I have to go wash all my socks.
***
Tanya Montray leaned back in her desk chair and rubbed her eyes. The news didn't sleep or take weekend breaks, and neither did the internet; Tanya, however, harbored dreams of sleeping in on a Saturday morning someday.
"Writer's block?" the duty reporter asked sympathetically, from one desk over.
"Road rage," she replied, then considered it. "No, news rage. Maybe just rage."
"What happened?"
She leaned forward and tilted the monitor around so he could see it.
"Bloggers," he snorted.
"That's the second time this guy's stolen my story," she said. "He liveblogged that charity event, too, the one I was going to use for a feature on declining giving."
"So?"
"So normally I wouldn't care, but this guy has a readership in the high double digits. Almost a quarter of our print circulation. He doesn't have to verify anything he says, he doesn't even have to pretend to be objective, and he doesn't have to get anyone's approval before he just throws something out there." She tapped her fingers on the desk in frustration. "Blogging is just blogging, it's not journalism. These people, you know, they want all the respect a journalist gets without any of the training."
"You don't know that," the duty reporter pointed out. "He might be a journalist."
"You can't be a blogger and be a journalist," she declared. "You can be a blogger with a journalism degree, or a journalist who blogs, but you can't be both."
"Well, is his story solid?"
She looked at it, rubbed her eyes again, and sighed. "Yeah."
"Look, it's a niche blog," he told her. "Not everyone's going to read it. You can still do a good, solid story on it."
"I hate not being first."
"And that's why you work for the Tribune while he's just a blogger," he said. Tanya scowled. "Let it go, Montray."
"Yeah, whatever." She settled in to work on the story, but it gnawed at her. She was pretty sure Non Prophet wasn't trained as a journalist, or he'd be more careful with his commas; he probably wasn't even a trained writer. Just some guy who thought he could announce stuff without corroboration, writing to the internet in his boxer shorts.
On the other hand, if he was just some guy, not an internet presence floating out there in the ether...well, he worked in the charitable sector, lived in Chicago, and had been present at the SparkVISION dinner. That narrowed the field. SparkVISION wasn't likely to provide her with a guest list, but they did have a client list on their website...
***
On Monday, Cee arrived to the sound of crashing from the kitchen. Ian, normally to be found imperturbably brewing the coffee, was standing at the kitchen sink looking frustrated and swearing under his breath. He was wearing his favorite "It's Monday and nobody will notice I'm not in dress code" outfit -- khakis, boots, and a white Oxford shirt. The shirt had the left sleeve rolled up almost to the shoulder, where it had been neatly pressed into Ian's usual crisp creases. On his left arm, where the sleeve ought to be, was a fiberglass cast extending from just above the elbow to just short of the knuckles, bending the arm at a permanent ninety-degree angle.
"I can't wash the coffee pots with one hand," he announced.
"I thought you washed them on Friday," she said. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Ninjas," Ian retorted. "And I did wash the pots on Friday, but then everyone worked late on Friday night and made more coffee."
"You broke your arm falling over when you were moving the sofa, huh?"
"Wrist, in three places. I got it looked at on Saturday when it wouldn't stop hurting. And now I can't rinse the coffee pots. People want coffee!"
"Sarah wants coffee."
"Sarah deals with lawyers all day. She needs coffee," Ian corrected. He put the coffee pot in the sink, filled it with water, and tried to swab the sponge around in it, one-handed. It spun around the sponge. He gave up, rinsed it out, and poured fresh water in. Cee watched in amusement as he filled the machine, clumsily fixed the lid on the carafe, shoved it under the percolator, and flipped the switch on.
"If people want clean coffee pots they are going to have to wash them themselves," Ian announced. "It's not hard."
"See an old pot, rinse it out," Cee agreed, because disagreeing seemed perilous at best.
"How did damage control on Friday go?" Ian asked, apparently mollified now that the coffee was percolating. He went to the fridge, took out a can of soda, and then looked at it sadly. Cee took mercy on him and popped it open.
"Everything's waiting on Sparks' signature," she said, handing it back.
"I smell coffee," Sarah announced, appearing in the doorway. "Mother of God, Ian, what did you do?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Ian sulked. "Were you here all weekend?"
"Just until the lawyers got here, and then I went home while they duked it out and came back when they fell apart and needed me," Sarah replied. "Did you see Non posted about it?"
"Haven't checked yet," Ian said, gesturing with the cast in the general direction of his desk.
"It's reasonably funny. Hey, can I sign your badge of shame?"
"I don't think dress code allows that." Ian tucked his arm against his stomach protectively. "I saw the updates to the website, all the new stuff looks good."
"It's very strategic," Cee said. " Here's a scandal that happened on Friday. We don't do that! Now look over here at our shiny new webinars. I hope Erin's webinar is stunning."
"WEB-FUCKIN'-ARS!" Erin's voice, and the slam of the door, announced her arrival in the office. "COFFEE!"
"Sarah has dibs," Ian called.
"Am I still allowed to stab you?" Erin asked, coming around the corner.
"You wouldn't stab a man in a cast, would you?"
"I swear to God, if you broke your arm to get out of being stabbed..."
"Keep it down! Some of us are trying to write soulless press releases and enjoy our desktop-single-serve coffee," came a voice from the Creative pod. Anna's slightly-less-frizzed brown hair and narrowed brown eyes appeared over the edge of her cubicle.
"Some of us spent all weekend with Union Arms?" Cee guessed. Anna's eyes shifted back and forth.
"He's double jointed," she whispered loudly, and disappeared again.
Cee contemplated the fact that most people probably didn't work in an office where they covered ninjas, webinars, and advanced sexual positions before nine in the morning.
"...knooooows, anything goes," drifted out from the elevator lobby. Everyone exchanged glances.
"Good authors too who once knew better words
Now only use four letter words, writing prose
Anything goes..."
"Himself is here," Cee announced, and regretfully left the administrative coffee klatch to go see if Sparks needed anything. He greeted her in the lobby with jazz hands.
"When charities who should know better
Are posting sockpuppet letters on sites that blow
Anything goes!"
"Do the sites blow, or the letters?" she asked, following him into his office.
"From what I read? Both," he said, seating himself. "Did you see Non mention it? I'm glad we're on top of this. How the hell does he get his intel so fast?"
"I don't know," Cee said. "He's got a good grapevine, I guess."
"Must be it," Sparks mused, then shook himself back to reality. "Okay. I'm signing things. Which one of these is my very sincere open letter to our clients?"
"Top sheet, and underneath is a statement from legal affirming and avowing that we don't practice sockpuppetry," she said.
"We should do a flash animation for the website," he suggested, signing with a flourish. "Sockpuppet theatre. Some kind of weekly thing."
Cee was certain that, wherever Roxy was, she'd just felt an all-body twitch. Zoe was probably having spasms. "That might send the wrong message."
"Really?"
"I think so. Maybe we should see how the webinars play out, first?"
"You are full of good ideas," he told her. "Did I tell you I sent Erin a list of songs she could open the webinar with?"
"I'm sure she appreciated that," Cee said, making a mental note to ask Erin about the playlist. Her reaction was sure to be spectacular. "In more business-relevant news, the interns are arriving today."
"I love interns," Sparks said. "So young and brave. How many do you think will cry today?"
"We have a pool going. Five dollars a square. You can have five at five pm and get all of them by ten am free. And no bribing Sarah to make them cry."
Sparks counted out five dollars from his wallet and handed them to her. "She doesn't need bribing. Are we including Hanna in the 'all'?"
"She's been promoted to Senior Intern and doesn't count."
There was a knock on the door-frame and John, still in his coat, leaned through.
"Can I steal Cee for a minute?" he asked.
"Is the copier broken again?" Sparks asked.
"It's the toner conversion packet. Cee's the only one who knows how to fix it," John said, eyeing Sparks carefully.
"Oh, the toner conversion packet," Cee said vaguely. "You have to lock the door when you're doing that. People can't burst in, it's very delicate."
"Can't Ian do that?" Sparks demanded.
"Uh, I don't know how, and also..." Ian leaned in the other side of the door from John and waggled his fingers in the cast.
"Why do you have a cast on?" Sparks demanded.
"I'm going to go take care of the packet," Cee said hastily, sensing an opportunity for an exit.
"Because I broke my wrist," Ian explained, as Cee followed John down the hall.
"Well, what did you do that for?" Sparks's voice faded away as John shut the door behind them and locked it.
***
"I can smell it," Sarah remarked, leaning on Ian's desk and polishing her glasses as he got down to the business of the day.
"Smell what?" Ian asked, without looking up from the purchase order he was filling out.
"Fresh meat," Sarah announced with a sharklike smile.
Ian raised his head and sniffed. "Oh -- sorry, it's the building cafeteria. For some reason their vents are right near our window. I talked to the building guys about it but they say it's a duct issue, they can maybe fix it next spring -- "
"You're cute," Sarah said, ruffling his hair. "Not that kind of meat. Although..." she sniffed delicately while Ian fussed his hair back into place. "Mexican Surprise for lunch again?"
"Probably."
"Anyway, I meant the interns."
"Yep, Jess has a new batch coming in to help with the holiday outreach," Ian said.
"Arriving in three...two...one..." Sarah counted down, and the elevator on the other side of the glass entry doors beeped.
"How do you know these things?" Ian demanded.
"Mystic senior admin secrets." Sarah donned her glasses again. "One day you too will be a mistress of the black arts of administration."
"I don't want to be a mistress of black arts," Ian told her. "And be nice."
Sarah's eyes widened in faux-shock behind her glasses. "If I'm nice, how will they ever learn anything?"
"If you can't be nice, be quiet. Hello!" Ian turned to beam at the young, bored-looking woman who had just entered the office. "How can I help you?"
"I'm supposed to see Jess?" the girl said, leaning on the desk. "I'm here about the internship?"
"Intern, right!" Ian agreed. He picked up the phone, started to move his left hand to dial, then sighed and clenched the phone between ear and shoulder, dialing with his right hand. "Jess, the first of the interns has arrived."
Sarah sized the girl up. So far everything she'd said was a question, which wasn't an auspicious start. She was also wearing three-inch heels, and had perfectly-manicured black fingernails.
"Right. Ok!" Ian said, hanging up the phone. "Jess is going to be meeting with you and six others, so if you want to have a seat, I'm going to call her when all of you arrive. You can hang your coat in the closet, it's that wooden door," he added, gesturing to a door in the far wall.
"Six others?" the girl asked. "I didn't know this was an interview? I thought I got the job?"
"You did?" Sarah said. "We need more than one intern?"
"Sarah," Ian muttered, then smiled large at the girl again, who smiled back with a little too much gusto. "This is Sarah, she's the senior admin for the Legal department. Depending on how well you do, you might get to work with her!"
The girl looked at Sarah, who gave her a toothy smile, then turned to Ian. "Do you get an intern?"
Sarah saw Ian's polite, slightly chilly smile, and mentally shook her head at the girl. He's too much car for you, honey, and he's not even that much car.
"Ah, no, answering the phones is kind of a one-man job," Ian replied.
"So, what did you do to your arm?" she asked.
"Tell you what -- hi," Ian interrupted himself to greet a young man who'd just walked in. "Tell you what, have a seat, and Jess will be out just as soon as everyone arrives."
"Dude," the man said, stopping at the desk and staring openly at Ian's cast. "Did you get pins in that thing?"
"Intern?" Sarah asked brightly. "You must be Thing Two."
"Uh...I guess," he answered. "Hey, can I get validated?" he added, holding up a parking receipt.
"You're cute. Feel validated," Sarah said.
"Just -- take a seat, we're still waiting for a few of you to arrive," Ian said, glaring at Sarah. She smiled sweetly back at him, then turned to regard the woman, who had taken the seat closest to Ian's desk, and the man, who had taken the furthest seat from both of them.
"What are you doing?" Ian whispered.
"Staring," Sarah whispered back.
"Don't call it staring. Call it 'evaluating'."
The elevator beeped again, and two more young people walked out. Sarah kept perfectly silent as Ian went through the okay-interns-have-a-seat-Jess-will-be-out-soon comedy sketch. She lingered, staring at the newcomers for a while, and then took a chocolate out of the candy dish as she turned to go.
"Leaving so soon?" Ian asked.
"I like to keep an aura of mystery," Sarah replied. She winked at him and returned to the Legal pod, strolling like the world was her catwalk.
From her desk, she had an unimpeded view down the hallway, which allowed her to see all the comings and goings and also kept Ian honest; not that he was the sort to download pornography at work, but the knowledge that she could see him did tend to keep his Solitaire playing to a minimum. As she watched the new arrivals, who arranged themselves around the room as far from each other as possible, she began laying out the tools of what she liked to think of as her secondary trade: tormenting the incompetent, the arrogant, and the proud.
She kicked at one of the three boxes of files next to her desk until it was in front of the desk, laid out two Bates stamps and set a key to the records room between them, put three contract drafts on top of the file box, selected several dull pencils from a drawer, and called one of SparkVISION's three lawyers, the one that all the admins privately nicknamed Mr. President. It wasn't that he had political designs, so much, as that he thought he ruled the free world.
Thus armed, she sat down, pulled out a mirror to be sure her hair and makeup were impeccable (and perhaps a little imposing), and waited for the Intern Tour to make its way around to her.
***
Chapter Three
Chapter Two
From: Ian
To: Sarah, Hanna, Jess
Date: Friday 12/4/09 13:04
Subject: Heads up READ ME NOW
To my favorite admin, our best Starving Intern, and a woman I am very sorry I roped into doing a webinar:
Cee's just put leftover bagelwiches and chip bags from the lunch meeting in the kitchen and asked me to send out a mass email.
You have five minutes before the vultures descend!
IB
--
Ian Butler
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Front Desk Administration
"Providing for those who provide for the providers"
***
On Fridays, disasters and extreme workloads allowing, Sparks always left at 4:30, meaning that most of the staff left at 4:40. At 4:40 on this particular Friday, however, John and Ian were engaged in a very different activity: moving the sofa.
"We definitely should be getting overtime for this," John remarked, as Ian crouched at one end of the sofa and got his hands underneath it. "Ready?"
"Ready!"
"And...heave..."
The sofa moved about a foot before they set it down again. John stood up and rubbed the back of his head. It made his newly-shorn hair stand on end, and he saw Ian hide a grin at the cowlick he was undoubtedly sporting.
"I'm not made for this," John announced. "I'm made for looking elegant and lounging against things. Why can't we push it again?"
"It'll mark up the floors," Ian panted.
"Can't we put it on rollers?"
"Yeah, that'd work, a sofa on rollers. Every time the clients try to sit down, WHAM, it hits the opposite wall. Actually, that'd be pretty funny," Ian said, a thoughtful look on his face.
"Well, sliders then," John suggested impatiently. "Those little platforms they have."
"If you want to risk expensing it, you go right ahead," Ian said. "Naomi, help us move this."
"Not in this outfit, darling," Naomi called. "Besides, I have popcorn to make."
"Vodka!" Sarah announced, appearing from the Legal pod, holding up a frost-covered bottle like a corporate-casual Vanna White.
"Erin forgiven you yet?" John asked, as they bent to pick up the sofa again.
"I think so," Ian said. "I helped her with the PowerPoint. We'll know she did if -- "
"Oof!" John grunted, as they finally got the sofa up all the way, and proceeded to carry it to the doorway of the conference room.
" -- if she remembers to order at least one thin-crust pizza," Ian finished.
"Do you um. Um. Need any help?" Hanna asked, appearing from the staff kitchen. "Because I think I'm in the way in there."
"Nope, we've got this, just -- " Ian began, as they reached the doorway. Suddenly, he disappeared behind the arm of the couch. The couch itself fell to the floor with a thud, John dropped his end, and from the other side of the door there was a yelp of pain.
"Every time, I tell you, watch the little step up," John said with a sigh. "Every single time I say, better let me go through first, I remember the step. No, you said, I'll remember it this time, I'll go backwards, it's not fair that you always have to go backwards."
"Ow," Ian called.
"That looks like an awkward place to put a sofa," Jess said, joining Hanna in the doorway of the kitchen.
"Ian's tripped," John told her. "Someone climb over and haul him out of the way, I'm shoving this and goddamn the floors."
"On it," Jess announced, stepping up on the sofa and swinging around the door frame. Ian's head appeared over the edge of the sofa. "Are you seeing double?"
"It's okay, I caught myself," Ian grumbled, hauling himself up by his right hand. "I think I twisted my wrist, that's all. I can totally get this the rest of the way in."
"I told you I'm sliding it and damn the floors!" John yelled, and gave the sofa a push to emphasize his determination. Ian scuttled backwards, and the sofa burst into the conference room as John shoved enthusiastically.
"I need a drink," Ian decided. "And maybe some ice. HANNA."
"Yes?" Hanna called from the hall.
"ARE THERE ICE PACKS IN THE FRIDGE?"
She appeared in the doorway a minute later. She had something in each hand, neither of which was readily identifiable.
"You can have a beef burrito that expired in 2007 or Mystery Vegetables," she said. "Or I could go get...something?"
"Vegetables," Ian requested, settling into a corner of the sofa. He balanced the rigid bag of vegetables on his wrist. "Thank you."
"Are those my veggies?" Jess asked.
"If they are, trust me, you don't want them," Ian replied, poking a freezer-burned chunk of broccoli. Roxy sat down next to him and began remote-programming the large display screen on the opposite wall, which was supposed to be for presentations and video-conferences and also happened to have digital TV reception. It only picked up a few channels, but one of them aired college football games.
John carefully and casually sat just far enough from the other arm of the sofa that someone else could squeeze in, if necessary. Not, he told himself, that this looked suspicious or weird. It was just that he didn't like to sit up against the arm of the sofa.
Zoe and Naomi arrived with comfortable office chairs, and Hanna followed with the popcorn.
"Pizza's ordered," Erin announced. John glanced at Ian, who was fiddling with his frozen vegetables. "Everyone pay up."
Folded, crumpled, and flattened five-dollar bills appeared in everyone's hands, and Erin collected them (two from Zoe, who always paid Hanna's portion) before disappearing again to wait at the door for the delivery.
"I'm bailing," Anna announced, leaning in the doorway. "Dinner date."
"Traitor," John grunted.
"Union Arms is taking me to Tru. Eighty dollar steaks. Sorry, suckers," she told them, and disappeared.
"Cee, come over here and console John, Anna abandoned him," Sarah ordered, dropping into an office chair and kicking off her chunky heels.
"Oh, I'll just take one of the office chairs," Cee said. John very casually avoided looking at her or at the empty space beside him.
"Sorry, I called dibs," Sarah said. "There's room on the sofa. Squeeze in."
"Are you sure it's -- "
"It's fine!" John said. "There's room. Here."
In addition to a bottle of beer, Cee had one of the promotional blankets that a former client hadn't managed to give away before going out of business. She calmly settled in and offered him a democratic and totally platonic half. It was only logical to share; the building switched off the heat at five-thirty, and by seven on a Friday most of the offices were getting chilly.
John was pretty sure nobody knew about him and Cee, except maybe Sarah. Possibly Ian. But probably not either of them, and anyway Sarah was mixing drinks and Ian was fussing with his wrist. And Roxy and Ian were sharing a blanket too (a Halloween leftover with dancing spiders on it) and Roxy was married, so it wasn't like it was a metaphor or anything. Why would it be? Everyone was too busy chattering away about football.
John didn't really get football.
It wasn't his thing; he'd grown up in a small town but fled to the big city to be a bohemian writer just as soon as he could. He sort of got tailgating, and preferred his tailgating indoors on a sofa in front of a big-screen TV. And he almost always remembered which color of football helmet to root for.
That was why he liked Cee: she was cool with his weirdness, she didn't care about football either, and she liked proofreading his writing. Plus she had really pretty green eyes.
Under the blanket, Cee rubbed her knee against his.
***
Ohio was down by ten and on their own thirty-yard-line when Erin sat up straight in the chair and burst out laughing.
It wasn't that she meant to distract everyone from their two-pronged plan for "watching the Ohio lose" and "getting tanked," but sometimes an email crossed your inbox that was too great not to share immediately.
"Sockpuppets," she announced, as explanation, when everyone turned to look at her. "Astroturf!"
"Are we playing word-association?" Zoe asked hesitantly. Erin took a deep breath, laughed again, and then composed herself.
"Bertram Connors, head of The Home Fund, is accused of acting as a 'sockpuppet' in a scandal on a major internet messageboard," she read, and Roxy bent over her shoulder to read along. "A moderator on a website for political debate revealed late Friday that she had used sophisticated IP-tracking software -- "
"Sophisticated!" Roxy snorted.
" -- to identify Connors as four separate users. These four 'sockpuppets' often engaged in public debate on the area of the messageboard that she moderated. The area in question is heavily trafficked by would-be donors."
"Oh, no," Sarah said. "He got spanked, didn't he. And not in the fun way."
"The moderator of the PoliScreen messageboard accused Connors of 'astroturfing' and called him out in a public post on the website, where the New York Times picked it up. The Home Fund has admitted Connors is to blame but Connors himself has declined to comment."
"Astroturfing?" Hanna asked.
"Pretending a campaign or discussion started spontaneously, when really the whole thing was planned," Naomi told her, studying her fingernails. "Like grassroots, only fake. Considered very sketchy."
"Hang on, hang on, I'm finding the messageboard -- ooh, firebombed," Roxy said, staring at her laptop screen. "So many people are trying to get onto it, the servers crashed."
"That's what you get for getting the New York Times involved," Sarah pointed out.
"I bet there were cat macros," Ian said.
"Reportedly, one of the 'sockpuppets' owned by Connors attempted to defend himself. Screen captures from the fallout show other members of the messageboard filling the comments with mocking, sarcastic images, known as 'macros'," Erin read out. Ian threw both of his arms in the air in triumph, then yelped when the frozen vegetables on his left wrist fell off and hit him in the face.
"You couldn't have done that if you tried," Jess snorted.
"I should get Sparks on the phone," Naomi said. "This is going to affect our clients' intake, especially this close to the holidays."
"Why?" Cee asked. "We didn't astroturf anyone."
"Ever heard the phrase 'tarred with the same brush'?" Naomi said, stepping outside the conference room.
"This is awesome," Ian said, taking Erin's phone out of her hand.
"Seriously, how epic is it that some moderator somewhere totally brought down the hammer on a CEO? That's chops."
"Is it...ethical?" Hanna ventured. "It's...it's outing someone, isn't it?"
"Sparks wants to talk to you," Naomi called, as Erin's phone rang. Erin looked down, frowned when she saw his number, and answered.
"I'm teleconferencing you and Naomi!" Sparks yelled down the line. In the background she could hear cars going past.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"State Street, I was shopping. Where are you?"
"In the same room as Naomi," Erin replied.
"Great! Don't stand too close, you'll get feedback."
Erin sighed. "What is it?"
"This ethics thing! Astroturfing. We don't do that."
"I know, boss."
"You know, but nobody else does! We gotta get the word out! And make sure our clients don't do this either. Can you work on it? Where are you? Are you at home?"
"I'll take care of it," Erin said.
"I'm pulling some transparency information," Naomi added, her voice echoing on the line and in Erin's ear from ten feet away.
"Team spirit! Awesome!" Sparks shouted. "Hey, why are you two together?"
"Don't worry, we have it under control," Naomi said, and hung up. Erin, before he could launch into another round of questions, hung up as well.
"I need to make a list," she announced. "Two lists. Clients to call on Monday, clients to call at home tonight. John, can you -- "
"I'll write up a statement of condemnation for the website," John sighed, throwing the blanket back and heading for the Creative pod.
"Oh! I have art for that!" Zoe said, following him.
"Come on, I'll set you up with a phone, you can make some calls," Jess told Hanna, who squeaked and ran ahead of her out of the room.
"I'll get the lawyers back in. Naomi, send me the transparency statement, so they can clear it?" Sarah was already halfway down the hall. "John!"
"Condemnation on your desk in twenty!" John called.
"Make sure you draft up a statement from our clients that they don't do this," Naomi said.
"You want a novel and maybe some short stories with that as well?" John asked drily.
"I'll make a personal statement from Sparks for Monday," Cee said. "John, I can proof for you."
"And I am going home," Ian announced.
Several people turned and glared.
"What? You don't need a receptionist to do all this," he said.
"How come he never has to work past quitting time?" John hollered from the Creative pod.
"It's why they pay me the little bucks!" Ian shouted back, easing his arm into his coat.
Erin was left standing alone, listening to them yell down the hallways at each other, as Michigan finished off Ohio and took the game on the TV in the empty room.
***
Date: Saturday, 12/04/09
Subject: Astroburns
As those of you working in the charitable sector are aware, yesterday evening Bertram Connors was publicly spanked for attempting to gain attention for The Home Fund by --
All right, here are three words everyone needs to learn, at least two of which are in every news article about Connors:
Sockpuppet
Astroturf
Wank
None of them mean what you think they mean.
A sockpuppet is an online personality who doesn't exist, used by a person who does exist to gain access to areas they wouldn't be allowed, or to voice opinions they shouldn't. If you have more than one sockpuppet, they can argue with each other, which is fun. I do this with my socks all the time. I don't do it online.
Astroturfing occurs when a deliberate plan is laid out to create a spontaneous-seeming event or campaign. It derives from "grassroots"; literally, it's fake grassroots. Sockpuppets are often used in Astroturfing, because it looks like several different people have come together to discuss something nobody else might be interested in. Much like the real astroturf, this can result in epic burn.
Wank is where the internet turns rabid on someone who, among other things, commits sockpuppetry and astroturfing. This is the fun part.
Ethically, especially for charities who pride themselves on their transparency, none of these are good things. If you want to convince people to give you money in exchange for essentially nothing, you have to make sure they trust you not to be skeevy and underhanded about it. Skeevy and underhanded people have this appalling tendency to take the money and run.
Do I think The Home Fund took the money and ran? No. I think Bertram Connors showed a lack of judgment. Do I think The Home Fund is skeevy and underhanded? Well, now, a little bit, I do, because their CEO showed a lack of judgment.
What happened when PoliScreen revealed that an entire internet conversation had been held between sockpuppets of one person, originating from the same IP address, is a classic example of wank. If Connors had simply copped to making a mistake, the whole thing might have died down, but this morning he released a statement defending himself: he was tired, he was working in the company's best interests, "everyone does it".
NOBODY DOES THIS. Don't believe Bertram Connors. If you need reminding, I could make bumper stickers.
Now, I have reservations about the moderator at PoliScreen calling him out. When an internet persona is revealed to be a real person, with a real address easily located by a real Google search, that's called "outing" and usually it's frowned upon by the internet as unethical. The ground rule is: don't take your fights offline. People have been stalked for less. And I have a vested interest in upholding this social bylaw, because I work for a not-for-profit and I don't want to be outed. Among other punitive damages (being fired, being stalked) it would seriously kill my mystique.
On the other hand, I'm not trying to convince you I'm someone I'm not. I'm just trying to convince you I'm not Someone.
With this social taboo against Outing in place, which has been strictly enforced on messageboards since yours truly was a tot with a Tandy, the question becomes not whether Outing is justifiable, but which is the more serious crime.
Is it worse to lie in an honest effort to drum up attention for a (reasonably deserving) charity or to out that person as a liar and ruin the entire charity's reputation?
I could leave this one to the philosophers, and I'm sure there will be some in the comments. But to my mind, if you pretend to be more than one person for the purposes of getting attention, you deserve all the attention you get when you're found out. PoliScreen acted in the best interests of the public when they outed Connors, and I applaud them for it, even as I caution them not to make it a habit.
The Home Fund is a good charity. They do good work. Bertram Connors should absolutely be fired as their CEO, and whoever comes in to fill his place should institute a policy of open documentation. Several other charities and charitable facilitators have published statements of condemnation and transparency. Several more will, I'm told by reliable sources, be publishing them on Monday.
Don't let Bertram Connors fuck up your holiday giving season. Tell your donors and your clients: NOBODY DOES THIS. Give them bumper stickers. Link them here and I'll tell them personally.
And then make absolutely sure nobody at your company has a sockpuppet.
Now I have to go wash all my socks.
***
Tanya Montray leaned back in her desk chair and rubbed her eyes. The news didn't sleep or take weekend breaks, and neither did the internet; Tanya, however, harbored dreams of sleeping in on a Saturday morning someday.
"Writer's block?" the duty reporter asked sympathetically, from one desk over.
"Road rage," she replied, then considered it. "No, news rage. Maybe just rage."
"What happened?"
She leaned forward and tilted the monitor around so he could see it.
"Bloggers," he snorted.
"That's the second time this guy's stolen my story," she said. "He liveblogged that charity event, too, the one I was going to use for a feature on declining giving."
"So?"
"So normally I wouldn't care, but this guy has a readership in the high double digits. Almost a quarter of our print circulation. He doesn't have to verify anything he says, he doesn't even have to pretend to be objective, and he doesn't have to get anyone's approval before he just throws something out there." She tapped her fingers on the desk in frustration. "Blogging is just blogging, it's not journalism. These people, you know, they want all the respect a journalist gets without any of the training."
"You don't know that," the duty reporter pointed out. "He might be a journalist."
"You can't be a blogger and be a journalist," she declared. "You can be a blogger with a journalism degree, or a journalist who blogs, but you can't be both."
"Well, is his story solid?"
She looked at it, rubbed her eyes again, and sighed. "Yeah."
"Look, it's a niche blog," he told her. "Not everyone's going to read it. You can still do a good, solid story on it."
"I hate not being first."
"And that's why you work for the Tribune while he's just a blogger," he said. Tanya scowled. "Let it go, Montray."
"Yeah, whatever." She settled in to work on the story, but it gnawed at her. She was pretty sure Non Prophet wasn't trained as a journalist, or he'd be more careful with his commas; he probably wasn't even a trained writer. Just some guy who thought he could announce stuff without corroboration, writing to the internet in his boxer shorts.
On the other hand, if he was just some guy, not an internet presence floating out there in the ether...well, he worked in the charitable sector, lived in Chicago, and had been present at the SparkVISION dinner. That narrowed the field. SparkVISION wasn't likely to provide her with a guest list, but they did have a client list on their website...
***
On Monday, Cee arrived to the sound of crashing from the kitchen. Ian, normally to be found imperturbably brewing the coffee, was standing at the kitchen sink looking frustrated and swearing under his breath. He was wearing his favorite "It's Monday and nobody will notice I'm not in dress code" outfit -- khakis, boots, and a white Oxford shirt. The shirt had the left sleeve rolled up almost to the shoulder, where it had been neatly pressed into Ian's usual crisp creases. On his left arm, where the sleeve ought to be, was a fiberglass cast extending from just above the elbow to just short of the knuckles, bending the arm at a permanent ninety-degree angle.
"I can't wash the coffee pots with one hand," he announced.
"I thought you washed them on Friday," she said. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Ninjas," Ian retorted. "And I did wash the pots on Friday, but then everyone worked late on Friday night and made more coffee."
"You broke your arm falling over when you were moving the sofa, huh?"
"Wrist, in three places. I got it looked at on Saturday when it wouldn't stop hurting. And now I can't rinse the coffee pots. People want coffee!"
"Sarah wants coffee."
"Sarah deals with lawyers all day. She needs coffee," Ian corrected. He put the coffee pot in the sink, filled it with water, and tried to swab the sponge around in it, one-handed. It spun around the sponge. He gave up, rinsed it out, and poured fresh water in. Cee watched in amusement as he filled the machine, clumsily fixed the lid on the carafe, shoved it under the percolator, and flipped the switch on.
"If people want clean coffee pots they are going to have to wash them themselves," Ian announced. "It's not hard."
"See an old pot, rinse it out," Cee agreed, because disagreeing seemed perilous at best.
"How did damage control on Friday go?" Ian asked, apparently mollified now that the coffee was percolating. He went to the fridge, took out a can of soda, and then looked at it sadly. Cee took mercy on him and popped it open.
"Everything's waiting on Sparks' signature," she said, handing it back.
"I smell coffee," Sarah announced, appearing in the doorway. "Mother of God, Ian, what did you do?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Ian sulked. "Were you here all weekend?"
"Just until the lawyers got here, and then I went home while they duked it out and came back when they fell apart and needed me," Sarah replied. "Did you see Non posted about it?"
"Haven't checked yet," Ian said, gesturing with the cast in the general direction of his desk.
"It's reasonably funny. Hey, can I sign your badge of shame?"
"I don't think dress code allows that." Ian tucked his arm against his stomach protectively. "I saw the updates to the website, all the new stuff looks good."
"It's very strategic," Cee said. " Here's a scandal that happened on Friday. We don't do that! Now look over here at our shiny new webinars. I hope Erin's webinar is stunning."
"WEB-FUCKIN'-ARS!" Erin's voice, and the slam of the door, announced her arrival in the office. "COFFEE!"
"Sarah has dibs," Ian called.
"Am I still allowed to stab you?" Erin asked, coming around the corner.
"You wouldn't stab a man in a cast, would you?"
"I swear to God, if you broke your arm to get out of being stabbed..."
"Keep it down! Some of us are trying to write soulless press releases and enjoy our desktop-single-serve coffee," came a voice from the Creative pod. Anna's slightly-less-frizzed brown hair and narrowed brown eyes appeared over the edge of her cubicle.
"Some of us spent all weekend with Union Arms?" Cee guessed. Anna's eyes shifted back and forth.
"He's double jointed," she whispered loudly, and disappeared again.
Cee contemplated the fact that most people probably didn't work in an office where they covered ninjas, webinars, and advanced sexual positions before nine in the morning.
"...knooooows, anything goes," drifted out from the elevator lobby. Everyone exchanged glances.
"Good authors too who once knew better words
Now only use four letter words, writing prose
Anything goes..."
"Himself is here," Cee announced, and regretfully left the administrative coffee klatch to go see if Sparks needed anything. He greeted her in the lobby with jazz hands.
"When charities who should know better
Are posting sockpuppet letters on sites that blow
Anything goes!"
"Do the sites blow, or the letters?" she asked, following him into his office.
"From what I read? Both," he said, seating himself. "Did you see Non mention it? I'm glad we're on top of this. How the hell does he get his intel so fast?"
"I don't know," Cee said. "He's got a good grapevine, I guess."
"Must be it," Sparks mused, then shook himself back to reality. "Okay. I'm signing things. Which one of these is my very sincere open letter to our clients?"
"Top sheet, and underneath is a statement from legal affirming and avowing that we don't practice sockpuppetry," she said.
"We should do a flash animation for the website," he suggested, signing with a flourish. "Sockpuppet theatre. Some kind of weekly thing."
Cee was certain that, wherever Roxy was, she'd just felt an all-body twitch. Zoe was probably having spasms. "That might send the wrong message."
"Really?"
"I think so. Maybe we should see how the webinars play out, first?"
"You are full of good ideas," he told her. "Did I tell you I sent Erin a list of songs she could open the webinar with?"
"I'm sure she appreciated that," Cee said, making a mental note to ask Erin about the playlist. Her reaction was sure to be spectacular. "In more business-relevant news, the interns are arriving today."
"I love interns," Sparks said. "So young and brave. How many do you think will cry today?"
"We have a pool going. Five dollars a square. You can have five at five pm and get all of them by ten am free. And no bribing Sarah to make them cry."
Sparks counted out five dollars from his wallet and handed them to her. "She doesn't need bribing. Are we including Hanna in the 'all'?"
"She's been promoted to Senior Intern and doesn't count."
There was a knock on the door-frame and John, still in his coat, leaned through.
"Can I steal Cee for a minute?" he asked.
"Is the copier broken again?" Sparks asked.
"It's the toner conversion packet. Cee's the only one who knows how to fix it," John said, eyeing Sparks carefully.
"Oh, the toner conversion packet," Cee said vaguely. "You have to lock the door when you're doing that. People can't burst in, it's very delicate."
"Can't Ian do that?" Sparks demanded.
"Uh, I don't know how, and also..." Ian leaned in the other side of the door from John and waggled his fingers in the cast.
"Why do you have a cast on?" Sparks demanded.
"I'm going to go take care of the packet," Cee said hastily, sensing an opportunity for an exit.
"Because I broke my wrist," Ian explained, as Cee followed John down the hall.
"Well, what did you do that for?" Sparks's voice faded away as John shut the door behind them and locked it.
***
"I can smell it," Sarah remarked, leaning on Ian's desk and polishing her glasses as he got down to the business of the day.
"Smell what?" Ian asked, without looking up from the purchase order he was filling out.
"Fresh meat," Sarah announced with a sharklike smile.
Ian raised his head and sniffed. "Oh -- sorry, it's the building cafeteria. For some reason their vents are right near our window. I talked to the building guys about it but they say it's a duct issue, they can maybe fix it next spring -- "
"You're cute," Sarah said, ruffling his hair. "Not that kind of meat. Although..." she sniffed delicately while Ian fussed his hair back into place. "Mexican Surprise for lunch again?"
"Probably."
"Anyway, I meant the interns."
"Yep, Jess has a new batch coming in to help with the holiday outreach," Ian said.
"Arriving in three...two...one..." Sarah counted down, and the elevator on the other side of the glass entry doors beeped.
"How do you know these things?" Ian demanded.
"Mystic senior admin secrets." Sarah donned her glasses again. "One day you too will be a mistress of the black arts of administration."
"I don't want to be a mistress of black arts," Ian told her. "And be nice."
Sarah's eyes widened in faux-shock behind her glasses. "If I'm nice, how will they ever learn anything?"
"If you can't be nice, be quiet. Hello!" Ian turned to beam at the young, bored-looking woman who had just entered the office. "How can I help you?"
"I'm supposed to see Jess?" the girl said, leaning on the desk. "I'm here about the internship?"
"Intern, right!" Ian agreed. He picked up the phone, started to move his left hand to dial, then sighed and clenched the phone between ear and shoulder, dialing with his right hand. "Jess, the first of the interns has arrived."
Sarah sized the girl up. So far everything she'd said was a question, which wasn't an auspicious start. She was also wearing three-inch heels, and had perfectly-manicured black fingernails.
"Right. Ok!" Ian said, hanging up the phone. "Jess is going to be meeting with you and six others, so if you want to have a seat, I'm going to call her when all of you arrive. You can hang your coat in the closet, it's that wooden door," he added, gesturing to a door in the far wall.
"Six others?" the girl asked. "I didn't know this was an interview? I thought I got the job?"
"You did?" Sarah said. "We need more than one intern?"
"Sarah," Ian muttered, then smiled large at the girl again, who smiled back with a little too much gusto. "This is Sarah, she's the senior admin for the Legal department. Depending on how well you do, you might get to work with her!"
The girl looked at Sarah, who gave her a toothy smile, then turned to Ian. "Do you get an intern?"
Sarah saw Ian's polite, slightly chilly smile, and mentally shook her head at the girl. He's too much car for you, honey, and he's not even that much car.
"Ah, no, answering the phones is kind of a one-man job," Ian replied.
"So, what did you do to your arm?" she asked.
"Tell you what -- hi," Ian interrupted himself to greet a young man who'd just walked in. "Tell you what, have a seat, and Jess will be out just as soon as everyone arrives."
"Dude," the man said, stopping at the desk and staring openly at Ian's cast. "Did you get pins in that thing?"
"Intern?" Sarah asked brightly. "You must be Thing Two."
"Uh...I guess," he answered. "Hey, can I get validated?" he added, holding up a parking receipt.
"You're cute. Feel validated," Sarah said.
"Just -- take a seat, we're still waiting for a few of you to arrive," Ian said, glaring at Sarah. She smiled sweetly back at him, then turned to regard the woman, who had taken the seat closest to Ian's desk, and the man, who had taken the furthest seat from both of them.
"What are you doing?" Ian whispered.
"Staring," Sarah whispered back.
"Don't call it staring. Call it 'evaluating'."
The elevator beeped again, and two more young people walked out. Sarah kept perfectly silent as Ian went through the okay-interns-have-a-seat-Jess-will-be-out-soon comedy sketch. She lingered, staring at the newcomers for a while, and then took a chocolate out of the candy dish as she turned to go.
"Leaving so soon?" Ian asked.
"I like to keep an aura of mystery," Sarah replied. She winked at him and returned to the Legal pod, strolling like the world was her catwalk.
From her desk, she had an unimpeded view down the hallway, which allowed her to see all the comings and goings and also kept Ian honest; not that he was the sort to download pornography at work, but the knowledge that she could see him did tend to keep his Solitaire playing to a minimum. As she watched the new arrivals, who arranged themselves around the room as far from each other as possible, she began laying out the tools of what she liked to think of as her secondary trade: tormenting the incompetent, the arrogant, and the proud.
She kicked at one of the three boxes of files next to her desk until it was in front of the desk, laid out two Bates stamps and set a key to the records room between them, put three contract drafts on top of the file box, selected several dull pencils from a drawer, and called one of SparkVISION's three lawyers, the one that all the admins privately nicknamed Mr. President. It wasn't that he had political designs, so much, as that he thought he ruled the free world.
Thus armed, she sat down, pulled out a mirror to be sure her hair and makeup were impeccable (and perhaps a little imposing), and waited for the Intern Tour to make its way around to her.
***
Chapter Three
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Date: 2010-01-16 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 04:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-16 04:51 pm (UTC)Two tiny nitpicky things that threw me off:
"this guy has a readership in the high double digits" - he has 95 readers? Is it a newspaper term that means thousands, or something? Puzzled over that for a bit.
"I don't want to talk about it," Ian sulked - can you sulk a word? Probably just a style preference.
Hee, looking forward to the interns now. You can just feel the awkward vibes.
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:40 pm (UTC)You can totally sulk a word! I do it often. :D
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Date: 2010-01-16 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 05:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 05:08 pm (UTC)1. I wonder if it's not so much that Ian and Bo have been characterized more clearly than the others than it is that your audience instantly recognizes them. It may be a little of both, but once the Sam-Ian BossBoss-Bo connections are made, a whole lot of other things are inferred about those characters just because they are people we are already familiar with. Is it wrong that I'm thinking of this kind of like a RP fanfic about your life? That I already knew Ian was accident prone before it was called out as a character point? I guess the broader question is: who is your target audience for this piece? For this story in particular, a non-Cafe audience will have a very different experience.
2. The time with Sarah at the front with Ian waiting for interns helped her stand out as an individual to me. I now connect her with a position in the company, a set of skills, and the inklings of a personality outside the broader group. Is there any possibility of introducing some of these characters more slowly from the get-go? Maybe two or three were not at the Charity event for various reasons? Holidays/sick time/client functions/etc. I find any time I'm introduced to more than three or four new characters at a time I tend to lose them in the din.
3. While it is absolutely the case that people who spend a lot of time together (ie: work together) start to sound like each other (evoke each other's speaking patterns, senses of humour, etc.) I'm finding that a barrier to connecting with the individual characters. I'm struggling to figure out who is a main character and who is a secondary character, or whether or not this is meant to be a true ensemble piece, and this is partly because of the rapid-fire dialogue from multiple sources that all sounds the same. Again, this has a lot to do with the who's-who game as well.
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Date: 2010-01-16 06:07 pm (UTC)On another note -- this chapter's Non Prophet entry felt off. Like he couldn't figure out how to say what he meant to say, and started over three or four times in the writing of it. And I'm not sure whether that's part of the story or a problem with it -- I'm not sure if Non's blogging felt uncomfortable because Non was clearly trying to do some frantic damage control and panicking about potential threats to his own anonymity, or if that's your discomfort in writing Non showing through -- it's a bit Sam-tries-to-explain-something-about-the-internet-in-a-way-that-won't-sound-like-Sam, I'm afraid. And we don't know Non's voice well enough yet to be able to tell whether his apparent uncertainty is indicative of some particular anxiety on his part about potentially being unmasked or whether it's basic to the way he writes -- but if the way he writes is as choppy as that all the time, how did he acquire his internet fame?
Really, I think it again boils down to characterization -- you've swung to the other extreme from where Nameless was and are jumping into the story so fast we haven't gotten a proper introduction to anybody, including anonymous internet bloggers.
~ c.
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Date: 2010-01-16 05:56 pm (UTC)I have some thoughts about Non. I think you might want to spend a little time explaining why Non is so famous, instead of having every character take it for granted that we know his name. What makes him stand out from the many other niche blogs out there?
As someone who knows that his blog is modeled after your blog, I'm inferring a lot about the answer to that question that isn't actually in the text. Does he also write about his personal life and family, like you do? Does he have other common posting topics (cooking, writing aspirations, fandom), like you do? Has he ever written about why he blogs, like you have? These are all things that I love about you, that I want to love about Non - but I can't, because he hasn't done them.
Just from the story, all we see so far are two article-style posts talking about non-profit insider info. As someone who doesn't work for a NFP, if the first post I ever read was the party report, I probably wouldn't keep reading. I don't care about the party for it's own sake - I want a hook about why I care about Non, and why I want to read more about his life.
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 06:07 pm (UTC)the thoughtful look here seems unnecessary, you can gather it from context
"I bet there were cat macros," Ian said.
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Date: 2010-01-16 06:18 pm (UTC)(sorry, comment fail)
Nonprophet's blog really makes this whole thing accessible to....me, anyway, but anyone who isn't aware of what all these things are.
I also have no idea where this is going or what the plot is. Perhaps it is, again, my unfamiliarity with this entire universe, but the only thing I guess will happen is the revelation of who Non is. You could have time-travellers burst through the door and it wouldn't seem out of character to me--I can't get a good sense of expectations of this world or universe.
Setting is also an integral part of this, with moving the sofa and the layout of desks for interns and all, but I don't have any idea of what this office looks like, how big it is, where desks/cubicles/offices are positioned, etc. Is it upstairs? Is there an elevator, or windows, or a plant? The gong seems to go for modern hardwood-and-palm-trees decor, but also the fact that it's hated by everyone suggests it's a bit out of character and thus it's typical gray-caret white-walls cubicle-style. I think a slight description of setting, just some essential details worked in subtly, would help a lot.
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Date: 2010-01-16 06:10 pm (UTC)"Seriously, how epic is it that some moderator somewhere totally brought down the hammer on a CEO? That's chops."
Paragraphing, Sam, paragraphing.
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 06:14 pm (UTC)I know this is meant to be fast paced, but I feel like you're missing some descriptive bits that might help. For example in the moving of the sofa Naomi won't help because of what she's wearing, but you don't tell us anything about it. Whether or not it's an excuse or she actually looks dressed up. Just that little bit of insight would give us a bit more on her personality and would go quite a distance to differentiating her from other characters (I don't actually remember what she does - accountant?). Sarah on the other hand has a much more distinct personality already and she doesn't have that much more dialogue.
Also, I'm not jargon-literate I'm afraid. You did a really good job of explaining Sockpuppet, Astroturf and Wank but what does "this guy has a readership in the high double digits" mean? I thought he was said to have 50k hits a day in the last chapter. Would people really not say 'tens of thousand' instead of double digits?
I am enjoying the people, the pace and the setting so far but I'm a little concerned that it feels as though there are about ten main characters and so far I can identify Ian, Bo and Sarah.
xx
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:47 pm (UTC)For me the problem is -- if there is a description, say, of Naomi in that moment, it kind of feels shoehorned in, very expositionary. It's something I need to work on, because not only am I bad at description but this is the first large cast I've put into a novel, so. New challenges :)
High double digits is a bad phrase, yeah, you're not the only one who noticed that. I've changed it :)
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Date: 2010-01-16 06:29 pm (UTC)I've got a distinct feeling of familiarity with this characters, as if you had talked about them before, or as if they're intangibles of your blog.
I love the interns (they're disturbingly familiar them too XD) and Sarah set on terrorising them.
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 06:35 pm (UTC)Btw, have you read Cory Doctorow's books? This reminds me a little of Makers(I think that can be blamed mostly on Sparks), but much more character-focused and a bit less OMG TECHNOLOGY IS AWESOME SEE HOW AWESOME IT IS.
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:49 pm (UTC)I have not read Cory Doctorow's books; I always get him mixed up with some other author.
Technology IS awesome, but it requires people still to operate it. People are always my focus, which is funny as I'm kind of a misanthrope :D
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Date: 2010-01-16 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 05:49 pm (UTC)Actually this is funnier than you know, because most of the characters are based on people I know, but they gave their consent and encouragement while I was writing it :D
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Date: 2010-01-16 08:26 pm (UTC)I'm keeping the characters more or less straight as I go through; my main problem (and, yes, it probably is my problem rather than yours) is that because I identify Ian as you, to a degree, I expect every scene to be in his point of view, even when it isn't!
Excitedly anticipating chapter three...
more concrit this time
Date: 2010-01-16 09:03 pm (UTC)Seriously though, I did find the description: Suddenly, he disappeared behind the arm of the couch. The couch itself fell to the floor with a thud, John dropped his end, and from the other side of the door there was a yelp of pain. - confusing. It seems like each action happened separately and after a pause, which...doesn't seem possible. Also "disappeared behind arm of the couch" seems to suggest he suddenly crouched down or hid just behind the arm of the couch, rather than the couch itself.
ETA: Another thought that struck me during the football-game scene...the scene made me think that this office is definitely fictitious, because I don't know if there's a work environment where everyone gets along, is comfortable with each other, there's no tension with the one awkward/weird guy whom no one likes and doesn't want to hang out with. Know what I mean? Where, basically, is Coworker Fail? Everyone seems to be young, from the exact same culture and worldview. There's no fussy conservative looking down at Anna's relationship, etc.
Another confusing bit before that:
"Can't we put it on rollers?"
"Yeah, that'd work, a sofa on rollers. Every time the clients try to sit down, WHAM, it hits the opposite wall. Actually, that'd be pretty funny," Ian said, a thoughtful look on his face.
It really seemed to me like John was just suggesting putting it on rollers for the move (also, this is before I understood that apparently moving the sofa is a regular end-of-week activity, which really helped in comprehension once that was figured out), so Ian's response didn't make sense, implying it would stay permanently on the rollers.
Also, the little John insights (before the big one thinking about who knew about him and Cee) struck me as random and bewildering, because the POV wasn't solidly in his until that later paragraph.
I found the first scene's conversation (during the football game, then as the wank began) still pretty confusing - again with all the names and people we're not sure about yet. But it is starting to develop - let's see, John/Cee, Roxy = married, Anna/Union Arms. Sara = scary lawyer. Zoe is an artist, Cee a proofreader, John a writer. Roxy does tech stuff (and so does Erin? Though she said she hated tech people in the first chapter). Jess is the Youth Director person. No clue about what Naomi or Anna do (though I checked the first chapter again to confirm Anna's also a writer). This is just recapping to see what I've figured out and remember for myself now.
Cee contemplated the fact that most people probably didn't work in an office where they covered ninjas, webinars, and advanced sexual positions before nine in the morning.
AHA, good one.
Sparks is definitely growing on me, though I want to see him in a serious conversation. Favorite line of his:
"I love interns," Sparks said. "So young and brave. How many do you think will cry today?"
Re: more concrit this time
Date: 2010-01-18 06:33 pm (UTC)I wondered about putting someone in SparkVISION who isn't well-liked or doesn't do their work or whatnot, but that's much less common in small offices than in large ones. Also, it felt a bit too much like The Office, and I loathe what happens to Dwight on that show, both what he does and what's done to him.
Re the John POV -- I'll work on strengthening that. I wrote it accidentally from Ian's POV for part, so its probably lingering remnants of that.
Sara = scary lawyer.
She's actually a legal secretary, but that'll become more clear as things progress. Same thing with Cee -- she's not a proofreader, she's a PA, but she proofs John's stuff because PAs are good at that :D Differentiating everyone is definitely something I need to work on.
Sparks is definitely growing on me, though I want to see him in a serious conversation.
I'll have to look ahead and see when that happens -- it does happen, as Sparks is an immensely intelligent man who just happens to also have twice the normal levels of joy in his system -- but it might not be for a few chapters. Hm.
Re: more concrit this time
From:Re: more concrit this time
From:no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 09:40 pm (UTC)I didn't get "He's too much car for you, honey, and he's not even that much car." Too much car? Don't know that term.
I feel like I have a grasp on Sarah, Ian, Sparks' and Erin's characters - who they are, what they do, what their personality is generally like. Every one of these characters have had one on one conversations (generally with Ian) rather than simply appearing in group scenes. Everyone else is pretty much interchangeable with a few footnotes at the end of their name (Cee - with John. etc). The large group scenes would be a lot more fun if I could keep the people straight.
Of course Ian is accident prone. Of course he is.
Just so you know, I'm half betting on Ian being Non Prophet because it makes sense because you wrote this novel. I'm half betting on it not being Ian just because you're anticipating your audiences' reaction being like mine.
I love the scene with Sarah, Ian, and the interns. Love it.
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Date: 2010-01-17 12:16 pm (UTC)Ditto on the car thing. As in 'to drive'?
:)
Jaydeyn
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Date: 2010-01-16 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-17 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 05:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-17 07:01 am (UTC)Also: Chapter Three will be posted on Monday, 1/18 - Yay, like a birthday present for me!
The comment devoid of actual feedback. Insert positive response to Chapters 1 and 2 *HERE*.
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Date: 2010-01-18 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-17 07:26 am (UTC)I'm not having much trouble keeping the characters distinct (as in, I know their names, and can remember roughly who interacted with whom and in what way), but some of them aren't too distinctive yet. The ones who have been given more "screen time" do stand out, though, so I assume that as the story goes on, I'll have more to associate with each character. Ian and Non are favourites, of course. And the banter is awesome.
As far as the plot goes, I liked the introduction of Tanya, and also have lots of fun speculating about the identity of Non. "He" claims to work for a not-for-profit, and I wonder whether the wank in this chapter is a bit of foreshadowing, but I do trust that you have unexpected plot twists up your sleeve. Looking forward to the next part!
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Date: 2010-01-18 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-17 12:02 pm (UTC)I'm now fully convinced you are Ian and Bo is secretly John Barrowman mixed in with BossBoss. Does BossBoss sing as well?
"If they are, trust me, you don't want them," Ian replied, poking a freezer-burned chunk of broccoli.
May I suggest adding a 'through the bag' or something here, because it took me a while to wonder how it got out of the bag, or if Ian was just holding a chunk of frozen veggies.
"You did?" Sarah said. "We need more than one intern?"
This was brilliant.
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Date: 2010-01-17 07:15 pm (UTC)Oh good, it's not just me. :D His little song is the highlight of chapters one and two for me. I hope there are more of those.
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Date: 2010-01-17 10:09 pm (UTC)IanSam. :P I definitely agree with the people who say this is RPF about your life, because I'm inferring things about the characters I recognize, and the rest are just kind of blurry.Also, I don't know how much you care about the football terminology, but I've never heard Ohio State referred to as plain Ohio.
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Date: 2010-01-18 06:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-18 01:12 am (UTC)Also, I have to say that the journalist character is rather transparently a plot device dressed up as a person. I think most journalists aren't rabidly foaming at the mouth trying to out bloggers; they're more worried about keeping their jobs. Particularly at the Trib, which as-you-know-Sam has had so many troubles lately. So I'd say she needs work, either more backstory or a better hook for her to be outing Non.
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Date: 2010-01-18 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 03:49 am (UTC)I really like the dialogue in this chapter. It just pops perfectly. Also, while I agree with some of the criticisms of the section from John's POV above, I feel like I have a lot better hook on his character now.
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Date: 2010-01-18 06:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-19 01:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-19 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-19 06:38 am (UTC)"Good authors too who once knew better words
Now only use four letter words, writing prose
Anything goes..."
SO YOU JUST DID THAT!
I assume you know this, but I will inform you on the off chance you don't because if you don't my internet flailing is pointless and weird. John Barrowman sings that song beautifully on his album thus adding to his undeniable Captain Jack flair.
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Date: 2010-01-20 02:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
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