Nothing.
I feed my cats—cats were made for moments of tension like this—and they want to sleep but I get some yarn and fuck with them and they’re just like me. They want that yarn so bad. And then they get it. And then they run because it’s more fun to chase the yarn than it is to have the yarn.
I go back to my computer. Refresh. Nothing. Fuck you, Internet!
I walk to Blackbird and I order the toast my fecal-eyed neighbor likes so much. I wait for the toast—come on #IBelieveMegan—and I go on Instagram and the women in my life are a wreck. Love is trying to teach Forty to play golf—he’s a child—and you are next-level insane, allowing Ivan to preach to a small group of women at the library.
“Joe!”
That’s my toast and I get my toast and I eat my toast and I wipe my hands. Calmly. Thoroughly. I pick up my phone. Refresh. Something.
But it’s not something good. A brainwashed user named ClaireSays has come on here to attack Megan. Claire calls Megan a liar—the fucking nerve—and Megan is not a liar. When someone says something you don’t like you can’t just declare their voice illegitimate and Claire is racking up approval because people love to hate. She accuses Megan of being paid off—fucking conspiracy theorist, Claire—and she says Megan needs help. And then she contradicts herself and says that Megan should be in prison for slander and WHICH THE FUCK IS IT, CLAIRE? I want to jump into the screen and throttle Claire and put her in a basement to teach her the danger of fake news but I can’t do that. And I don’t even need to do that because what’s this?
It’s a user named Sandra2001 and Sandra says what I needed to hear: He did it to #MeToo. I didn’t even know who Ivan was. A friend （witness） dragged me to his “seminar” at a Marriott and there were so few of us that Ivan said drinks were on him. He paid for the drinks. My friend had to go. He told me he had “literature” in his hotel room. I said he could bring it to the lobby. He said that I was being unfair, treating him like a predator. So we got in the elevator and he took his pants off and I kicked him and got out on the 44th floor. That was ninety-one days ago today. I blamed myself. I got in the elevator. But Ivan should go down. Thank you, Megan. #IBelieveMegan #DethroneIvanKing Also, he sent me dick pics the day after. He said it was “fun.”
I stare at the screen and it might be the only time in my life that a hashtag made me smile. Sandra wants justice and Sandra adds another comment.
Dear ClaireSays and all other women throwing shade. You’re not as bad as the men. You’re worse.
Sandra wants a revolution. She wants to save other women from Ivan the Predator and she wants it all to start right now.
#MeToo, Sandra, #MeFuckingToo.
37
The world moves fast on a story like Ivan King. There have been nineteen more accusations and Ivan is now trending on Twitter. Seven hours and eight minutes after #MeganIsSoBrave spoke her truth on Reddit, my phone rings. It’s you.
I follow the news, so I answer with empathy. “Mary Kay, are you all right?”
Ivan is screaming in the background—way to cave in to those emotions, Ivan—and you are quivering. “Joe,” you say. “I had no idea.”
“Do you want me to come—”
“Yes,” you say, cutting me off. “Joe, please come over. Now.”
I grab my coat—Here I come to save your day—and I’m on your street and I spot a For Sale sign planted in your front yard—not anymore!—and I don’t fight the big fat smile that comes from deep inside.
I saved you from making a terrible mistake and if the noise in your house is any indication—it is—you won’t be abandoning our home to join Ivan’s fucking cult. Even on the edge of your property, I can hear him screaming. He’s on the phone with what sounds like a lawyer—this is no job for a publicist—and I knock once—polite and heroic—and you wave me in. Ivan is out of sight, in the kitchen, and what a relief it is to be here, to see you, Mary Kay. You’re you again, in black tights and a black skirt and a purple V-neck sweater. You touch my arm and lean in. “He’s… going… crazy.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m here.”
The Meerkat is stretched out on the sofa with her security blanket—what’s up, Columbine?—so I sit in RIP Phil’s chair while you join the Meerkat on the sofa.
Ivan kicks your wall. “But that bitch is lying, Jerry! Do something to shut these cunts up! They are gonna kill my brand!”
Ivan wanted to be in GQ and now he’s in GQ—the headline of the hot take think piece made me happy: THE POWER IS OUT… BUT WAS IT EVER ON? Yep, Ivan is a dark star now and his Wikipedia page is blistering: Ivan King—Middling “life coach” and half brother of Sacriphil front man Phil DiMarco. King rose to infamy when dozens of women came forward and outed the “coach” for destroying their lives. Ivan still isn’t famous but he sure is infamous, and the next time he’s in a Marriott lobby bar packed with women, they won’t be trying to get into bed with him.
They’ll be trying to kill him.
There’s more good news, Mary Kay. Ivan’s wife, Alisa, started a Twitter account last night and her first tweet was a good one: #MeToo.
Ivan throws his phone at your wall and just misses a framed photo of you, RIP Phil, and the Meerkat and you snap. “Ivan. That’s enough.”
“Right,” he snorts. “Because that’s you, Emmy, always looking out for your family. Just calm the fuck down and let me think.”
Megan was right, Mary Kay. Ivan is a fucking pig.
I must be patient. You’re a lot like Love Quinn, drawn to these bad men, prone to enabling them even when they’re abusing you. You should have kicked him out but instead you’re providing safe harbor, as he mouths off in front of your daughter—that Megan came on to me—and he picks up an empty can and tosses it on your carpet.
“Where’s the fucking beer in this house?”
You jump off the sofa and run out to the garage and Ivan continues defending himself by attempting to discredit all nineteen women who have joined #MegansArmy. It’s a classic excuse, the code of dishonor that keeps men like Ivan in control. He grabs his phone off the floor （finally） and shows us a picture of a woman named Wendy Gabriel. “See this one?” he snarls. “I didn’t lay a hand on her. She grabbed my hand and put it on her leg. But they don’t tell you that part of the story.” He spits at the article in his phone. “Fuck you, fake news!”
You return from the garage with two beers and he groans—This is a Michelob Light—but he pops one can and shoves the other in the freezer and goes back to screaming at his lawyer about how he never harassed anyone. Ever!
I’m worried about Nomi. She’s been staring at the same Klebold poem in her book for several minutes now and I’m a protective stepfather. I pick up the remote and turn on the TV. She looks at the TV. “Can you put on a movie?”
“Sure. What do you feel like?”
She stares at the ad for an antidepressant. “Something soft.”
I go to the guide and see Cheaper by the Dozen 2 and I click on it and she grunts. “Well not that soft. Do they have that Hannah movie you told me to watch?”