This is a work of fiction. It was given Honorable Mention for the As Seen On [] writing contest for Urban Omnibus in 2016.
I am the meanest mother in Kings. Other Method Man, they call me. But even that’s a short sell, because I don’t just De Niro that shit. I make it real.
Sure, it started with Taxi Driver: mirror on my bedroom door, monologue, massacre. I nailed it, right down to the blood dripping off my forefinger as I pointed it at my temple.
But I didn’t stop there. I did community service, expanded my repertoire. I delivered mail. Bartended at Delmano. Fixed cars. Led walking tours around Dumbo. Played a blind man on Fulton Mall for a few months, got lots of young bucks to shut up about their sex lives and help me across empty streets. Sold fruit to suits on Court Street with record sales. Wore an NYPD badge and arrested a wanted criminal. The Kings Daily put me in their culture pages after my turn as a billionaire running for president. Called me the brilliant Abe Funt. The new face of Facebook.
That’s right. A little company called Facebook. Heard of it? $1,000,000,000,000, $170 a share. The world’s biggest real-media conglomerate. The company that sponsors thousands of real life events every minute of every day around the world. Parties. Protests. Shootings. Sports. Churches. They do it all. And I’m its newest star actor.
You. Yeah, you with your heads down. All you amateurs dreaming other people’s dreams. Lights up, bitches. Look up from your scripts, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two from the master.
I pay my bill at the bar and leave, picturing the bartender doing a double take at the two perfectly unwrinkled Franklins under the glass. Facebook does direct deposit, but nothing’s better than having them send you an envelope of money that still smells like the machine that made it. It’s how I roll.
Williamsburg is aflutter with amateurs out to catch the last hours of sunlight, strutting around like penguins on an ice floe, getting scandalously early drinks with lovers and BFFs. All on their phones. They’re reading the evening’s scripts. I can tell the ones that are “staging” (acting a scene out as directed & sponsored by whichever media giant) apart from those that aren’t. Man, they suck even when they’re being paid. Can’t even memorize lines. Looking up—saying a sentence—looking down again—a minute of silence—looking up—yaaah I know right? —and back down again. Dropping in and out of character like frightened deer. Whoever is staging these should include a bold sentence at the top of each script: Do not leave the house until you 1) research the scene & location, 2) memorize your lines, 3) know your character.
My phone rings, I check the message.
Great work in the bar. Our Tech Team just uploaded the video. 9,000 views in 5 minutes.
Then a second message.
Short notice I know, but can you come in for an audition? Smth new, smth big, fits you. Let me know asap if you can make it. Thanks, VJ Kim, Facebook Staging Team.
Cha-ching.
I stop by Roshan’s on Broadway and buy a pack of cigarettes. A good pro’s tool. Also I have a scene scheduled later this week for American Spirits. They’re sending me to a show at the Music Hall, but not to go inside, just to hang at the entry doors, chat with the bouncers (they’ll be staging too) and offer cigarettes to every impressionable teenager that passes by. They came to me for my coolness. Easy money.
Outside, Muhammad the local hobo approaches me. His better roles are behind him. Used to wrap newspapers and refill the coffeepot at Grab N Go on 164th Street, but now he’s gone indie. I respect that.
“Mister Funt! You are going to a big role today?”
“Yes, my man. Big role. The ultimate role.”
“Ultimate. That means like super cool yes?”
“Like ‘super cool,’ and also like ‘final.’” I drop a quarter in his cup, because quarters are the noisiest money.
Downtown Bushwick. You’d have thought they saw it coming. I guess the jaundiced light pollution wasn’t such a new thing, neither were the metal-clad apartment complexes built on Orthodox Jewish land. That 80-story tower, though… that really snuck up. It rises into blackness without competition (except for the other Freedom Phallus across the East River), smooth, bulbous, like a giant chess piece. A pawn. A blue glow emanates from it like from the inside of a nuclear reactor.
My ears pop in the elevator on the way to the top floor. I step out into a colorful but modest lobby: just four lounge chairs, tablets on a side table, an enormous lower-case “f” scrolling by on an LED screen on the back wall, and one busy receptionist.
“Log in, please.” She says.
I type in my name and password, a pleasant gong turns the screen border green and a voice says:
“Welcome, Abe. Please go to Room E2.”
I look up over the desk but the receptionist is already typing away.
VJ Kim is a hipster on a power trip. His handshake is poorly calibrated.
“Hello Abe! Glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you. You’ve got such a modest office,” I say.
“Well, you know, I’m a man of the people. Plus, since Facebook is spearheading the freelancer economy, and our entire workforce is out there, we hardly even need this office. But it represents some core conservative values we have. Privacy. Hierarchy. It’s unfashionable, but I like having a separate place to do my most important conference calls, write my most important emails, and audition my most valued employees.”
This sleazebag sounds like someone’s uncle. Privacy? A separate workplace? Like, a work-place?
“Everyone thought that increased regulation would mean increased paranoia. Increased scrutiny would lead to stifled action. That the spider’s web of data spun daily by our users would glue us in our places, afraid of doing or saying the slightest offensive thing. They were wrong, they did not know how liberated we would become…”
He’s looking out the window, squinting meaningfully.
“Having limitations is liberating. Frameworks and scripts are liberating. Core conservative values are liberating.”
He points out, toward New York Harbor, where the Samsung Statue of Liberty glows gently.
“You see her? She’s holding a script. When I realized that I realized what America is all about.”
I look out over the harbor too.
“My great great grandfather came through Ellis Island…” I say.
“Oh yeah? What roles did he take? Maybe I’ve heard of some.”
“He was an electrician. Then a professor at Brooklyn College.”
“Aah, yes. Extras are important. Unions. Matinees. Hard work.”
Yeesh, this guy. I decide not to mention my grandfather, and the whole Candid Camera thing.
“Anyway, blah blah,” he snaps back in place, “Why you’re here…. Impressive portfolio. Years of quality work. You’ve become a brand unto yourself as much as unto us. We saw the video of the bar scene from this afternoon. Loved it. Loved your use of ‘amateur.’ So now we want to make you an offer…”
“Sorry, can I interrupt real quick? Who’s we?”
“We the people, Abe. Facebook is the people. We have something for you. It might sound like a step backward, but think of it as a promotion. We need a writer. Someone with social edge, promoting power, and experience, who can write our story. You’ll have a title and a management position. You’ll have to shave off acting time though, which I know will be tough at first. You’ll also have to sever ties with our competitors, dedicate all your work to us. But we want more people like you, giving insight to what we do here, a glimpse into how Facebook has helped make the world what it is…”
Then under his breath he mutters one last sentence.
“How our world is run.”
He leans back. He sees that I’ve gone silent. “Sleep on it, Abe. Write me tomorrow, alright?”
I don’t remember if I said thank you, or if the mood in the room was even amicable anymore when I left. Those five words stuck to my brain like flypaper. How our world is run. Who said it was theirs to run?
My phone buzzes the moment I step out onto Myrtle.
Fwd request—offer for position as Staff Writer at FB. Description: help tell FB’s story, behind-the-scenes sneak peeks, promote the brand with dynamic blog. Room to grow, eventually join Staging Team as screenwriter. Handsome opportunity. Let’s talk tomorrow. VJK.
Kings is changing guard at this hour. The young amateurs that were out earlier have mostly gone, and in their place is the older crowd: overly dignified, dressed in black, single pieces of jewelry, political jokes and restrained laughter, gym memberships, Old Fashioneds and Sazeracs. What Kings has decided is the optimal balance between standing out and blending in. It’s all visible at a glance, and it’s what signals me they’re not staging. Just people out having a good time.
I see this all out of the corner of my eye. My face is buried in my phone. I read and reread and rereread the brief as I make my way home. I don’t look up at all, until I bump right into someone.
“He-hey! It’s the Other Method Man! How’ve you been?”
A vaguely familiar face. Clean cut, mocha skin, funky smile.
“Wait. Muhammad? The hobo on Broadway?”
“Haha! Nailed it. I’ve been looking for you for a couple of hours. How’s it going?”
I’m fully confused but I answer anyhow.
“Good…”
Muhammad looks unconvinced. But he waits for me to speak again.
“A little weird, to be honest.”
My phone is still illuminated in my hand, and he notices. “Something with work?”
“Facebook wants to promote me to a writing position.”
“Writing?? Euugh,” he winces. “What, like, scripts?”
“Not exactly scripts… some kind of promotional blogging.”
“Yeesh.”
“I mean, it’s a huge offer, and I would still get to act… sometimes…”
“You’ll get to act never, bro.”
I give him a long look. “So what happened to you? A suit drop you a Franklin or something? And… you sound different.”
He laughs. “My man! I thought you knew! That was a role I’d been working on for months. Part of a project I’m developing.”
He senses my surprise and goes on.
“You were the inspiration, Method Man. Since I first subscribed to your channel I’ve thought this city needs something real. This series is gonna be that. We finally raised money for a pilot and we’re scheduled to start next week. That homeless dude was promotional, a sneak preview.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about the fringe. The marginalized. People who don’t get the privilege to stage, to act in real life for money like most of us in Kings. Their lives are about risk, about life and death, about overcoming real problems without scripts. We basically want to bring these two experiences together.” He spreads his fingers on both hands, and interlaces them. “Everyone deserves to play a part in reality.”
It felt like he had just ripped the flypaper off my mind and replaced it with that sentence. Everyone deserves to play a part in reality.
“But,” Muhammad says, “we need a second lead. Someone to bridge the initial gap. I’ve been getting into this character for a while, so I have a head start, but we need someone else able to both memorize lines and improvise, willing to commit to a character for a few months, live in a totally new neighborhood, interact with totally different people, go all De Niro. Put their life on the line. Not a lot of money, but a real chance to do something important. The ultimate role…”
He looks at me.
“When I heard you say that I realized you were our man. Ultimate, like ‘super cool,’ and like ‘final’. You interested, Method?”
Lights up, bitches.
