“The dichotomy,” he announces. “One of these is for the 2003 Yaris that belongs to our friend with the forks in his frontal lobe. It’sgray, go figure. The other is for abrand-new Porsche convertible that belongs to that nice woman floating in the hot tub over there.”
I stare at the keys for a moment. “Are you asking me to choose?”
“I’m asking if you want toentertaintonight,” he says. “There’s no wrong answer. I’ve had it both ways, and honestly, keeping a low profile is the smart choice. When people talk about this in a hundred years, they’ll already have a hell of an unsolved mystery. Bare minimum, we’ve given them a three-season true-crime podcast with absolutely no filler.”
I believe Eddie when he tells me there’s no right or wrong answer, but I also know the one he hopes I pick. I know this because, deep down, it’s the one I also want. It might not be the smart choice, but it’s the honest one.
“Let’s take the Porsche,” I finally reply.
He nods. “Atta girl.”
Eddie stands, and it’s only now that I notice a distinct rip in the belly of his suit, a hole through the fabric that continues into his flesh below. It appears to be a bullet wound, likely from the security guard when she took her shots and then promptly got her head smashed in.
It’s notjusta hole, though. Something within the tunnel draws my attention, a strange hidden shape finally revealed. Inside the wound, this foreign object appears tomove.
Eddie pauses, taking a moment to smooth out his sparkling, blood-splattered suit, then he continues across the pool deck as I follow along.
When we pass the table with the two unfurled napkinsand the clutter of utensils, I seize the moment. I reach out as inconspicuously as I can, snatching one of the steak knives and stuffing it into my pocket.
Eddie doesn’t notice. His mind has already checked off this box and moved down the list, ready for more important things.
* * *
People think it takes no skill to be an influencer, that all these followers just tumble into our laps through sheer happenstance. They think we’re lazy and clueless and self-centered.
I amoneof those things, but I’m sure as hell not lazy or clueless.
To be honest, this critique is much less universal than you might think. Young people—people my age—understand that social media is just another way of connecting. Old people—people Eddie’s age—are the ones who really let it rip in the complaints department.
But the truth of the matter is, crafting my own digital brand takes a lot of skill and discipline.
As we cruise toward the edge of town, I find myself drawing on one of these overlooked influencer skills, a talent not discussed very often because the more my audience knows about it, the more the magic is ruined. The truth is, I don’t always feel like recording something or commenting on this week’s online drama with a warm, relatable smile and a hot take.
I get it done anyway.
Regardless of my mood, I’ve developed the uncanny ability to put on a smile and crank out upbeat content, which is genuinely difficult work. Unless you’re incredibly skilled at controlling your emotions and painting on a grin, bad vibes tend to creep out in subtle, subconscious ways. I can justfeelit, and the comments, shares, and likes will all confirm this important parasocial truth.
You must smile. You must act natural. You must fully commit. Tonight, I’m fighting for my life, not generating scheduled content, but the skillset remains the same.
“Cheer up,” Eddie commands as we pull out onto the road.
Time forvideo mode. Time forgood-vibes mode. Time tolike, share, and subscribe.
I reach out and turn up the music, nodding along as the steady, groovy rhythm of Steely Dan’s “Reelin’ In The Years” comes rollicking over the stereo. The convertible top is down, at Eddie’s request, and our music cascades out through the darkness.
“I love this song,” I shout, glancing up and catching sight of my face in the rearview mirror. A tear is rolling down my cheek, and I immediately reach up to wipe it away. Maybe I’m not as good at this as I thought.
The skater was crying before he jumped, I remind myself.Maybe tears are okay.
Either way, Eddie doesn’t notice, his eyes focused on the road ahead. His arm rests atop the car door, hand tapping along to the rhythm with precise enthusiasm.
As the chorus ends, Eddie tilts his head back and startsbelting along with the next verse. “You been tellin’ me you’re a genius since you were seventeen,” he sings. “In all the time I’ve known you I still don’t know what you mean!”
Eddie raises both arms into the air, wiggling his fingers in the night breeze.
“That’s us, right?” Eddie shouts. “That line.”
“Uh … yeah!” I reply. I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, but my inner creep meter lets out a confident chirp. It’s the same feeling I get when inquiries about a potential sponsored post turn weirdly intimate, or when the guy who’s on his third drink starts leaning in too close.
