Mark

They made him stand on a box. They made the other people stand in a hole. He had to look tall in pictures. Before he said anything he had to practice it with lawyers. I don’t want to be president — I just want people to fucking like me for once. Sheryl. Sheryl’s idea, Sheryl’s hustling and planning and the phone ringing with her Facebook® Messenger® video calls nine times a day with some big new idea meant to peel him off his job so she could take it. Rehabilitate your image.

Lean in to this, you bitch: they hate me. They fucking hate me. CNBC was a disaster. Even with the reporter the team liked. Even though the team made calls to Comcast about the NBC family of networks’ place in the algorithm. The team gave him his answers and he’d worked until it was natural and then Sheryl had called in the car to the studio. She changed one word. I really think this is an important nuance, Mark. Somehow her new adverb dismantled the logic of the paragraphs in his head. He half forgot it all. On TV with a chasm of not words underneath screaming for a split second and he knew he looked like an alien pulling levers to drive a weird wax robot dwarf. Suckup reporter leering back, eyes like a waterhead Weimaraner. She looked not entirely relieved to no longer have to fuck Matt Lauer. He blew it. The PR team was here now. In the conference room. View of the open workspace he sat in for pictures and the news was a disaster. This was with them sugarcoating it. Jesus Christ, I built something that lets you talk to everyone you love. Anywhere, anytime, for free and they fucking hate me. People give you the data, and you use it for something they might like. They hate me for it.

She sent him to every state in the country. Sheryl. Big bristly truck drivers with stubble that rasped you when you hugged them for the camera. Women’s fat baby arms straining at old bra straps the color of cigarette smoke on a ceiling. The people were prepped by the team. Told to not talk to the press by the team. Signed papers. When he walked in smiling saying folks he could see they were shocked by his smallness. Looking into the top of his scalp for bald spots to tell their friends about. A year shaking church potluck hands swollen up like they’d been stuck in a beehive. Junkies and ex convicts and churches. He loved it. Hadn’t expected to. He could never get away from the team. Except once. One twilight on the Wisconsin dairy farm…

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