The Antisocial Network

The next morning Wes went to work at the regular time, only to be accosted in the lobby by Edith Norton. "Well, I see you've decided to grace us with your presence this morning, Mr. Hardaway. Between loafing at the conference in San Diego and wasting time on your sordid personal life, you've got a lot of work piled up on your desk. I hope you'll be a little more diligent about reducing it."

God, I hate that woman! he thought, but he only nodded and hurried to his cubicle.

By skipping lunch and working assiduously, Wes actually managed to make a respectable dent in the work that had built up. But all the concentration he'd exercised dissipated in a moment when Trevor Samuels called late that afternoon.

"We caught a break, Wes. Our researcher was able to find some information I think will prove very interesting to you. Can you come in tomorrow to review it?"

"Can't you tell me now?"

"I don't mean to be mysterious, Wes, but our policy is always to present our findings in person."

"Alright," Wes said reluctantly, "I'll try to get some more time off. Unless you hear from me, I'll be there first thing in the morning."

Ms. Norton was every bit as unreceptive as he'd feared. "Mr. Hardaway, I don't care what is going on in your home life, you can't just take off from work whenever you like. I've been generous with you so far, but if you insist on being out tomorrow, it will have to count against your vacation time, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied sullenly, not at all concerned about losing a vacation day. What do I care? The vacation I'd planned with Marlene is out the window anyway.

Trevor Samuels was in an upbeat mood when Wes walked in the office the next morning. "We got lucky," he told his client. "Come on in and let me show you what I'm talking about."

He led Wes to his desk and turned the computer screen around so Wes could see it. The detective clicked on a file and the screen filled with an oddly distorted image of Wes' house from across the street. "Don't worry about the picture," Trevor reassured him. "That's a fish-eye lens that makes the picture look odd. But you can still see all the detail you need."

A moment later, a silver BMW i8 came into view from the left of the screen. The car made a quick turn into Wes' driveway, the garage door opened, and the car pulled inside. A moment later the garage door closed and, after thirty seconds, the picture went dark.

Wes looked at the detective with a puzzled expression. "What was I looking at?"

Trevor clicked the mouse and the scene reappeared. Then he stopped it. "Look at the date and time," he said, pointing at the screen.

"That's yesterday, at 11:35," Wes said, still not certain.

"That's not your wife's car, is it?" Trevor asked.

"No, she drives a Honda." Then it hit him. "Oh, it looks like she had a visitor."

"Exactly, one who has a remote with the new code for your garage."

He clicked the mouse again, and Wes watched the garage door open, then the sleek silver car backed out and drove away. The time was 1:32 p.m. on the same day.

Acid began to build up in Wes' stomach. "Well, I guess it didn't take her long to find a new friend."

Trevor wasn't finished. He fiddled with the mouse and selected a different file. As it began to play, Wes wondered if he was looking at the earlier video. The same sports car came from the same direction, and again pulled into the Hardaway garage. When Wes glanced over at Winston, the detective pointed at the time/date stamp. Wes did a double-take.

"That's three weeks ago!" he gasped.

Trevor nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so."

"How often?" Wes asked almost fearfully.

"We've got files for the last six months, Wes. We haven't had time to go through all of them, but it looks like your wife has had the same visitor for lunch two to three times every week over that period."

Now the stomach acid was bubbling. "How could I have been so blind?" He turned to stare at the detective. "Where did you get all this?" he demanded.

Trevor sat back in his chair. "Your area has a Neighborhood Watch. Some of your neighbors, like the couple across the street from you, have those fancy doorbells with motion-activated cameras. Anything they 'see' gets fed into a cloud database. Most of it is harmless stuff - deliveries, people taking a walk, that sort of thing. But every now and then one of them catches a porch pirate - or a cheating housewife."

Wes ground his teeth. "It's too bad we never got to see the bastard."

Trevor didn't reply; instead he clicked the mouse again, bringing up another file. This time, as the sportscar pulled into Wes' driveway, there was a delay before the door opened. Trevor clicked and the picture froze. Then he hit another key and the image on screen was magnified. The detective pointed. "There's the license plate."

"I don't recognize it."

"I've got a contact in the DMV," Trevor said, and clicked again. A California driver's license filled the screen, complete with a photo of a handsome man staring blandly at the camera. "Does the name John Mackenzie mean anything to you?" he asked.

"Son of a bitch!" Wes burst out. "Marlene does a lot of work for his advertising agency. I'll bet that's how he and she met." He jumped to his feet. "I'm going to go have it out with him right now!"

"Hold it, hold it," Trevor yelled, reaching over to grab Wes' wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. "This is exactly why I insist on presenting information in person. Sit down and let's talk this out before you do something stupid."

Wes stared at the man angrily, then took a deep breath and reluctantly sat back down.

"That's better," the detective said soothingly. "Now listen to me, Wes. For all I know, you're an ex-Navy Seal who could kick Mackenzie's ass without breaking a sweat. Or maybe he's the trained killer and he sends you to the hospital. But either way, you'll be proving that your wife was right to ask for a restraining order. Your reputation is already on shaky ground, don't trash it completely."

Wes stared at him, then slowly bowed his head in resignation. "I'm not a fighter. If I went over to Mackenzie's office, I'd likely come out the worse for it." He rolled his eyes. "Besides, Marlene would probably love the idea of two men fighting over her."

He looked at Samuels again. "But I've got to do something. If I don't, I'm letting Marlene win. Besides, you're telling me my reputation is shot anyway. I can't let the two of them get away with this."

"Listen, Wes, I understand how you feel, but there are other ways to accomplish what you want without landing you in jail."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I've been talking about your case with Dash Daniels, my IT expert. She knows all about social networks and the new media. She's got some ideas. I think you should listen to her and see what you think."

Wes looked at him skeptically. "I don't know . . ."

"Come on, she's right down the hall. Just give her a chance to tell you what she's got in mind. Then, if you don't like it, you've lost nothing."

Trevor led a reluctant Wes down the hall to a door hung with a square of wood on which was painted "The Anti-Social Network."

"Don't pay any attention to that," the detective said hastily. "It's just her weird sense of humor." He shot a glance at his client. "I know she's a little unusual, but don't let that put you off."

With that he knocked on the door and then went in, with Wes following on his heels.

Wes' first impression was that he'd entered a college dorm. In the center of the room was a beat-up wooden desk with several flat-screen monitors, one of which was larger than any Wes had ever seen. Against one wall was a futon strewn with books and magazines. The dark gray walls were covered with posters of personalities, most of whom Wes didn't recognize.

But the most unusual thing about the room was its occupant: a tall, slim young woman of indeterminant age wearing tight black, high-waisted jeans topped by a sleeveless black t-shirt that left her midriff exposed. Exotic-looking tattoos formed a sleeve on her left arm. She wore dark Goth make-up that contrasted with her hair, which had been dyed pure white and gelled to make it stand up in a thatch, except over her right ear, where it was cut short. To Wes she looked like a Japanese anime character.

While he was trying hard not to gawk at her, she stuck out her hand to shake his. "I'm Dash Daniels," she said in a soft voice that seemed at odds with her appearance. "You must be the cheatee."

Wes was instinctively returning the handshake when her words penetrated. "The what?" he asked.

"If your soon-to-be ex-wife is the cheat-er, that makes you the cheat-ee," she explained casually.

"Now Dash," Trevor interjected, "be nice." He started for the door, but before he left, he looked at Wes with almost pleading eyes. "Just hear her out, okay?" Then he left.

Wes turned around apprehensively, but Dash was motioning him over to the futon. "Okay, have a seat and tell me all about it." Then she proceeded to sit cross-legged on the other end of the futon, and Wes noticed she was barefoot.

Once he was seated, she started in. "I don't usually do this kind of work, but I have a thing about cheaters, so I'm willing to help you out. I already know the basic facts from my father, but . . ."

"Wait a minute - Trevor is your father?"

"Yep," she grinned at him wryly, "and Winston is my uncle. I guess you didn't know this is a family business. Anyway, I hear your ex has got you between a rock and a hard place. If we're going to turn that around on her, I need to know all the details about what she did, what you did, and how you feel about it all - the heart and soul, you know what I mean?"

"Not really," Wes admitted. "And you'll have to forgive me, but I don't know what you do or how a computer jock can help me - no offense."

She grinned. "None taken. As you've already heard, I do a lot of online research for my father and my uncle. But what I really get off on is social networking, reputation management and attitude influence. That's what you need if you want to counteract what your ex is trying to do."

"But . . ." he protested uncertainly.

"Look," she said patiently, "do you surf the Net a lot? Do you have a Facebook page, a Twitter account, post videos on TikTok, watch YouTube channels, sell stuff on eBay, follow your friends on Instagram - any of that?"

"No, not really."

"You mean not ever." Despite the dark lipstick, she had an engaging grin, he decided. "Okay, well let's go through a little social networking for dummies, shall we? The fact is that a huge and rapidly growing segment of the population is online almost all the time. That's where they get their news, that's where they meet people, that's where they find their entertainment. To somebody like you, all that's invisible, but to those who are, the reach and impact are enormous."

She saw the doubt in his expression. "Think I'm exaggerating? There are people on YouTube who make six figures a year playing video games. There are thousands of little companies that don't have storefronts or factories but make big money selling through Amazon. There are giant companies whose most influential spokespeople are not movie stars but internet personalities.

"It goes on and on. There are concepts and images and music and catch-phrases that sweep through society - and unless the old media happen to pick up on them, you'd never know about them. Conversely, there are celebrities and public figures out there who are getting praised or roasted entirely online, and their success or failure is dependent on how the 'Twitter-verse,' to name just one medium, reacts to them."

"But how does any of that relate to me?"

"Truthfully, I don't know yet. But my job is to figure out a way to grab that unseen audience's attention and get them on your side. If I can, your ex will be helpless."

"Can you really do that?"

"We'll see. But if you're willing to try, what I need now is for you to tell me your story again, but this time focusing on how you felt, what you thought, how you reacted. Those are the levers that move people: emotions, not the facts."

Wes hesitated a moment and then shrugged. "What have I got to lose?"

For the next hour, he found himself recounting his story from a different and sometimes painful perspective. "Start back when your plane landed," Dash prompted. "Tell me what you were thinking, what you said when you called her." As he recalled the events, he found himself reliving the whole range of emotions he'd gone through - was still going through. It was torture, yet he also found it cathartic to get it all out.

Throughout his description, the young woman made copious notes and asked probing questions. When he'd gotten up to the present, she went back and looked over what she'd written. Then she gazed at him, and all the humor was gone from her expression.

"I think I know the way we have to play this. But there's something I have to ask you first, Wes: how strong are you?"

He shook his head in confusion. "You mean how much weight can I lift?"

"No," she replied, still not smiling, "I mean how strong is your ego? How well can you take criticism, how important are other people's opinion of you - that sort of strength of personality."

"Well, I guess I'm as strong as the next person."

She looked at him somberly. "Well, I guess you're going to find out."

"I don't understand."

She leaned back against the arm of the futon. "Every good story has what they call an arc." She drew a semi-circle in the air with her finger to illustrate. "The main character starts up here. Then something unforeseen happens, and the character's arc starts to fall until it hits the vertex, the low point. Only then can things start to improve. The audience wants to root for the main character to succeed, but the only way to get their support is to show the character's suffering. We need to present your story arc, Wes."

"I still don't really get what you're saying, but if it takes some suffering, I'm there already."

A sad smile creased the corner of her mouth momentarily. "We'll see."

Then she sat up, looking as businesslike as a goth nerd can. "Alright, here's what happens next. You need to be ready to take a field trip with me on short notice. I'll call you when it's time. Can you do that?"

"Well, if it's during work hours, I'll catch hell from my boss, but I'm already on her 'bad guy' list, so I guess a little more won't matter."

"Excellent!" she exclaimed and jumped to her feet. "I'm going to enjoy this," she grinned, shaking his hand. "I hate cheaters."

Wes walked out of the building, struggling to recall everything that had happened from the moment he'd walked in. "What did I do to deserve all this," he moaned, "and what have I gotten myself into now?"

A day later, Wes was eating a late lunch at his desk when his phone rang. It was Dash. "Can you come pick me up?" she wanted to know. "We've got a window of opportunity right now, and I don't know when we'll get the next one."

"My boss is going to hate me," he told her gloomily, "but that's nothing new. I can swing by your office in twenty minutes."

Ms. Norton was indeed peeved at Wes' request, but since he was caught up on his backlog of work, she reluctantly agreed. "But remember: all this personal time is coming out of your vacation!" she shouted at his back as he strode to the door.

When he reached what he'd mentally started calling the "Samuels building," Dash was waiting on the sidewalk, wearing leggings, a white crop top and a pair of flip-flops. "You got a new wardrobe," he joked, but she ignored him.

"We're headed to your house," she directed, and he gave her a sharp look. "You know I can't be there, especially if Marlene is home."

"Don't worry about that," she reassured him. "My father saw her leave right before I called you. He'll keep a lookout while we're there."

"Okay, so what are going to do: break in?"

"Nothing as dramatic as that. What you're going to do is to reenact the crime the best you can."

"'The crime'?"

"What happened when you got home from the airport."

"Okay. And what will you be doing?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, I'll be filming the whole thing," she told him breezily.

"What? Why?"

"It's simple, Wes, we've got to give your fans the backstory before we can sell your story arc."

He shook his head in confusion. "Fans? I don't have any fans."

She gave him that grin. "Not yet. But don't worry about that now. What I want you to do now is to tell me again how you felt every step of the way during the whole encounter. Go ahead: what emotions were you feeling?"

"Well, as I drove up to our house I guess I was excited to see Marlene. Then, when I couldn't get in the door, I got frustrated and a little angry. And when she told me she had locked me out, I was stunned. I guess going from excitement to confusion to depression so quickly put me into a state of shock. I couldn't understand what was happening to me; I was so stunned I couldn't even think what to do. The rest of it - the process server, the restraining order, the police - all that just intensified the confusion and despair I was feeling."

"That's perfect!" she exclaimed. "Now, what I want you to do when we get to your house is to walk through what happened step by step. We need to see all the emotions you just described to me. Do you think you can do that?"

"I don't know," he said doubtfully. "I'm not much of an actor."

"I don't want you to act," she told him, "I want you to repeat the things you did and remember the way you felt, that's all. Don't worry: I'll walk you through it. Now, let me have your cellphone." She did something to it, then reached into her pocket and extracted an unfamiliar gadget. "Take this Bluetooth earpiece. It will let me talk to you while you reenact what happened."

They'd reached his neighborhood, which appeared deserted. When he pulled into his driveway, Dash helped him with the earpiece, being careful to tuck it out of sight. Then she called him on her phone. Speaking softly, she had him get out of the car and walk to his front door. As he did so, he looked back to see Dash on the sidewalk with a second cellphone in her hand, filming him. "Don't look at me," she prompted. "Go try to get into your house, just like you did before."

Wes turned away and stepped onto the porch. As he futilely tried his housekey he could feel himself remembering the day, and his mood darkened. "Ring the doorbell, Wes," he heard, and he stabbed the button, recalling how frustrated and confused he'd felt. "Now knock on the door," he heard, and rapped hard on the door with his knuckles, feeling the rising irritation he remembered at not being able to get into his own house.

"Marlene is yelling at you through the door now. She's telling you she's changed the locks. Then she drops the bomb: she wants a divorce."

Wes staggered backward, remembering how stunned he'd been. It wasn't just what she was saying that he remembered, it was the venom in her voice. He tried to argue with her, but she wasn't having it.

"The process server is coming up behind you," the voice in his ear prompted, and when Wes turned he saw Trevor Samuels wearing a ball cap pulled down low, walk up to him, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He passed a copy to Wes, then proceeded to read from it.

The typing was nonsense, but Wes stared at it as though it contained his death sentence. He turned back to the front door. "Pound on it!" he heard, and began hitting the door with the heel of his hand. "The cop is telling you you have to leave, Wes." He turned, but there was no one there. In his mind, however, the menacing policeman's words came like a judge's ruling. Without prompting, he dropped his hands to his side, hung his head in resignation, heaved a defeated sigh and began to plod back down his front walk. His legs felt so heavy he could hardly lift his feet. His happy little world had just disintegrated, and he could see nothing before him but pain and sadness.