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Charitable Getting: Draft 2, Chapter 4


CHAPTER FOUR

On Thursdays, Sparks usually left SparkVISION at 4:30 sharp, bound south to a weekly board meeting of some Chicago arts enrichment council he belonged to. This usually meant that the staff left at 4:35, but on that particular Thursday John and Ian were engaged in a very different activity: moving the couch.

"We definitely should be getting overtime for this," John remarked, watching Ian from across the length of the slightly-battered leather lobby couch. Ian ignored the remark and crouched to get his hands under his end of the couch, so John rolled his eyes and did the same.

"Ready?" Ian asked.

"Ready," John replied.

"And...heave..."

The couch moved about a foot before it began to unbalance and they were forced set it down again. John stood up and rubbed the back of his head, glaring when Ian opened his mouth. He knew it made his hair stand on end in the back, but he wasn't going to put up with any styling recommendations from Ian, whose personal look appeared to be "comb and go".

"I'm not made for this," John announced. "I'm made for looking elegant and lounging against things and writing ad copy. 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 mused.

"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, twirling a little in the smart, businesslike skirt-set she was wearing as she passed.

"It's tweed," Ian replied. "Hard-wearing!"

"It's tailored," Naomi retorted. "Besides, I have popcorn to make."

"And I have vodka!" Sarah announced, holding up a frost-covered bottle and smiling like a corporate-casual Vanna White.

"Erin forgiven you for the webinars yet?" John asked Ian, as they bent to pick up the sofa again.

"I think so," Ian said. "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?" Vicky 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 from view behind the arm of the couch. The couch itself fell to the floor with a thud that yanked John's end out of his hands, 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 Vicky in the hall.

"Ian's tripped," John told her, amused. "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!" John yelled, and gave the sofa a push to emphasize his determination. He heard Ian scuttling backwards and put all his strength behind one last enthusiastic shove. The sofa burst into the conference room. John raised his arms in triumph.

"That's very impressive," Jess said, patting him on the head (though she had to stand on tiptoe to do it). John had the distinct feeling he was being given the Intern Treatment.

"I need a drink," Ian announced. "And maybe some ice. VICKY!"

"Yes?" Vicky called from the hall.

"ARE THERE ICE PACKS IN THE FRIDGE?"

John watched as Vicky ducked into the kitchen and reappeared with an object in each hand, neither of which was easily identifiable. He stood aside to let her pass and she gave him a brief shy smile.

"You can have a beef burrito that expired in 2007," she said, holding up one package, "or you can have Mystery Vegetables. Um. Or I could go get…something medical?" she added uncertainly.

"Vegetables," Ian requested, settling into a corner of the sofa and balancing 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, prodding through the bag at a freezer-burned chunk of broccoli. Roxy, carrying a laptop and a handful of cords, brushed past John into the conference room and flicked the switch to lower the projection screen from the ceiling. She set the laptop on the table and began plugging in cords with what seemed to John like reckless abandon.

The projection screen, and the projector that sat in the middle of the table, were both supposed to be for presentations and video conferences. They also made an awesome impromptu movie theater, and Roxy had a seemingly unlimited supply of DVDs, though they did skew heavily to film noir.

While Roxy set up the projector, Sarah and Naomi arrived with snacks and Jess sent Vicky back out to fetch office chairs, which were generally more comfortable than the plastic armless ones in the conference room. John, getting dibs on a seat while he could, carefully and casually sat just far enough from the unoccupied 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.

"Pizza's ordered," Erin announced as she arrived. 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 Vicky's portion) before disappearing again to wait at the door for the delivery.

"I'm bailing," Anna said, leaning in the doorway. "Dinner date."

"Traitor," John grunted.

"Trent's taking me to Tru. Eighty dollar steaks."

"Did you tell him it was movie night?" Ian asked.

"He just called up and told me to meet him at the restaurant, there wasn't really any discussion. And this might be the only time in my life I get to eat an eighty dollar steak, so I'm going. 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 the offices got chilly fast.

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?.

John knew this was probably a neurosis. It wasn't like anyone would care, anyway. But that was why he liked Cee: she was cool with his weirdness, she didn't care that he was…well, private…and she liked proofreading his writing. Plus she had really pretty green eyes.

Under the blanket, Cee rubbed her knee against his.

***

Someone in Roxy's film had just shot someone else, and someone was definitely very angry about it, 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 some bizarre forties film" and "getting tanked." It was just that checking her email was a compulsive tic, and sometimes a link 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. 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."

"That can't be legal," Zoe said, looking at Sarah questioningly.

"I'd have to check, but it seems pretty iffy to me," Sarah agreed.

"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," Erin continued. Nearly everyone was watching her now, with varying degrees of glee and disgust on their faces. "The Home Fund has admitted Connors is to blame but Connors himself has declined to comment."

"Astroturfing?" Vicky asked hesitantly.

"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. Erin made a grab for it back and he held it out of reach, so she punched him in the arm. "Ow! Seriously, though, how epic is it that some moderator somewhere totally brought down the hammer on a CEO? That's chops."

"Is it...ethical?" Vicky ventured. "It's...it's outing someone, isn't it?"

"Sparks wants to talk to you," Naomi called from the hallway. Erin's phone rang. Ian handed it back to her and she looked down, frowning when she saw Sparks's number on caller ID.

"I'm teleconferencing you and Naomi!" Sparks yelled down the line when she answered. In the background she could hear cars going past.

"Where are you?" Erin asked.

"Just got out of the board meeting, I'm walking to my car. Where are you?"

"In the same room as Naomi," Erin replied.

"Great! Don't stand too close, you'll get feedback."

Erin sighed. The best way to deal with her boss, she'd found, was just to agree with him and make other arrangements later. "What is it?"

"This ethics thing! Astroturfing. Naomi's given me the scoop."

"Yeah, she got it from me," Erin said.

"So you're up to speed, that's good! Hey, we don't do that, the astroturfing thing."

"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."

A very long evening suddenly loomed large in front of Erin, and she cursed her innate desire to share horrible gossip the minute she came across it.

"Can you work on it? Where are you? Are you at home?" Sparks asked.

"I'll take care of it," Erin said.

"I'm pulling some transparency-statement 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. Naomi promptly began redialing.

"I need to make a list," Erin announced. "Two lists. Clients to call tomorrow and 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 Vicky, who squeaked and ran ahead of her out of the room.

"I'll call the lawyers," Sarah said, looking resigned. "Naomi, send me the transparency statement, so they can clear it?"

"Can do," Naomi called, turning her head away from her phone for a moment. "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," Erin ordered.

"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. Erin grinned.

"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 some guy in a fedora proclaimed undying love for a peroxide blonde on the projection screen.

Sometimes being a manager meant doing the work of three people; sometimes it meant that while everyone else ran around insanely, you had nothing to do at all.

***



Date: Friday, 12/11/09
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 --

Oh man I can't even say this stuff with a straight face. It is bananas, you guys. Bananas.

Does everyone know what a sockpuppet is? An internet sockpuppet, I mean. I assume pretty much everyone in the business knows what astroturfing is, but we have a lot of people who aren't in the business reading this, and I'm probably going to have to explain wank, huh? This industry, I don't know, you think the internet and your professional life can be kept separate, but that is a lie.

Okay, here's the deal: 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 at home all the time.

I don't do it online. You know who does it online? Fourteen-year-olds who want access to porn or to harass each other without leaving the comfort of their own home. And, apparently, Bertram Connors.

Connors went on a popular internet messageboard and had two sockpuppets engage in a discussion about the merits of The Home Fund, a charity that provides housing and rent subsidies for the homeless. It sounds like grassroots but smells like fake, and that's why we call it "Astroturf". And, as with real Astroturf, it can result in epic burn.

Ethically, especially for charities who pride themselves on their transparency, the whole thing is not good. 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.

But if you're not actually employed by The Home Fund, it's also really funny.

The thing is that everyone says the internet is powerful but users of the internet don't ever really believe it. The PoliScreen messageboard is just a place for people to shout at each other over incidentalia. The moderators are volunteers, it's not like they're investigative journalists or something. And yet last night a PoliScreen moderator revealed, with IP evidence, that an entire internet conversation had been held between one person's sockpuppets (oh my God, seriously). That's pretty huge for some woman sitting in a Starbucks somewhere, moderating from her laptop in her spare time.

The thing is, if Connors had simply copped to making a mistake, the whole thing might have died down. Instead, 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.

And the internet knows nobody does this, and they proceeded to shout their faces off over whether this is just like viral marketing, or whether it's illegal, or whether PoliScreen should be calling people out, because everyone's just realized PoliScreen has a lot of information about who has said what on their messageboard for the past five years.

The internet: not as anonymous as you think, kids!

Now, I have reservations about the moderator at PoliScreen calling Connors 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 (or someones) I'm not. I'm just trying to convince you I'm not Someone.

With this social taboo against Outing in place, 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.

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Chapter Five

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