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Roger
Ispend a lot of time thinking about all the ways I’m going to ruin that son-of-a-bitch publisher’s life. Initially, I imagine all the ways I’ll skewer him in court.
Eventually, I call Gerald.
“Let’s sue the bastard for everything he’s worth!” I shout into the phone before he can even say hello.
“You can’t sue him, Roger,” he tells me, his patience thinning.
“The hell I can’t. Isn’t that why I have your firm on retainer?”
“You also have me on retainer to give you sound legal advice.”
“Then advise me on how to ruin that fucker’s life.”
“You have noproof.”
“Bullshit. There’re pictures everywhere!”
That’s no joke — social media is crawling with images of Natalie and me in every sort of undress you can imagine. Along with pictures of my wild nights out, which I’m pretty sure include pictures of someone who isn’t even me. But when did the internet ever care for details?
“There’re pictures everywhere,” Gerald agrees, “but you can’t trace it back to anyone.”
I hang up on him without a response.
My legitimate avenues of revenge blocked, I imagine all the ways I will physically assault the scumbag when I finally get my hands on him. The fantasies range from different types of medieval torture, to just wailing away at the guy with my bare knuckles. I run on dreams of vigilante vengeance for a few days before finally calming down.
Which, of course, is when Buddy decides to take particular delight in sending me all sorts of pics he finds on various sites across the internet. I pretend to be good-natured about it, then I finally call him up.
“Buddy, I can’t find the asshole behind this and throttle his neck, but I’m more than happy to use yours as a substitute.”
“Sorry, Roger,” he mumbles. “You’re usually more of a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy about this stuff.”
“Not right now,” I say flatly.
There’s a pause on his end. Then he asks, “How’s it going with her?”
“I have no comment to make at this time,” I say in my best talking-to-the-press voice. It tells him everything he needs to know. He stops sending me those pics.
Still, just when I think I’m over the humiliation and frustration, I imagine someone like Jared Barron and his slimy lawyers cackling over the images. I think of every single lewd comment they might make, and the rage boils over again.
Finally, just when that newest wave of anger subsides… I think of Natalie. She must be seeing these as well. Given the trajectory her life’s been on since she met me, these constant reminders must be eating her up. No doubt every day makes her loathe me more.
The thought ties my stomach up in knots. I literally toss and turn in bed at night, thinking of it, punching my pillows in an act of sheer helplessness. I’ve never, ever felt so… impotent. So unable to rectify a situation.
Normally, if I’m ever stymied in business or in my personal life, I could at least drown my sorrows and frustration in booze and boobs. There’s no way that’s going to be an effective remedy this time.
It’s also not a recourse I feel any interest in taking.
Guess I’m growing, which is nice to know. It also kinda sucks. Being a childish, shallow playboy was a whole lot easier than this.
When I’m finally able to think rationally about what’s going on, there’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind that soon creeps its way forward, and eventually grows into an obsessive thought.
Because what’s insane to me is the sheeramountof pictures of Natalie and me. It’s like there were cameras everywhere. Sure, I know everyone has a camera in their pocket these days, and we’re all basically one-person news crews. Still, these all feel oddly… specific.
Which is why one day I find myself outside Natalie’s old apartment, waiting for a team of contractors to show up.
The apartment is still unrented. Oh, we’ve had offers. A place like this doesn’t sit empty for long in New York City, but I haven’t let the place go yet. I don’t know why. Maybe sentimentality.
