Forks #3
For the briefest moment, I get the utterly bizarre feeling that Eddie is about to reach out and place his hand over mine. This doesn’t happen, though. Instead, he extracts two car keys from his pocket and sets them on the table between us.
“The dichotomy,” he announces. “One of these is for the 2003 Yaris that belongs to our friend with the forks in his frontal lobe. It’s gray, go figure. The other is for a brand-new Porsche convertible that belongs to that nice woman floating in the hot tub over there.”
I stare at the keys for a moment. “Are you asking me to choose?”
“I’m asking if you want to entertain tonight,” he says.
“There’s no wrong answer. I’ve had it both ways, and honestly, keeping a low profile is the smart choice.
When people talk about this in a hundred years, they’ll already have a hell of an unsolved mystery.
Bare minimum, we’ve given them a three-season true-crime podcast with absolutely no filler. ”
I believe Eddie when he tells me there’s no right or wrong answer, but I also know the one he hopes I pick. I know this because, deep down, it’s the one I also want. It might not be the smart choice, but it’s the honest one.
“Let’s take the Porsche,” I finally reply.
He nods. “Atta girl.”
Eddie stands, and it’s only now that I notice a distinct rip in the belly of his suit, a hole through the fabric that continues into his flesh below. It appears to be a bullet wound, likely from the security guard when she took her shots and then promptly got her head smashed in.
It’s not just a hole, though. Something within the tunnel draws my attention, a strange hidden shape finally revealed. Inside the wound, this foreign object appears to move.
Eddie pauses, taking a moment to smooth out his sparkling, blood-splattered suit, then he continues across the pool deck as I follow along.
When we pass the table with the two unfurled napkins and the clutter of utensils, I seize the moment. I reach out as inconspicuously as I can, snatching one of the steak knives and stuffing it into my pocket.
Eddie doesn’t notice. His mind has already checked off this box and moved down the list, ready for more important things.
* * *
People think it takes no skill to be an influencer, that all these followers just tumble into our laps through sheer happenstance. They think we’re lazy and clueless and self-centered.
I am one of those things, but I’m sure as hell not lazy or clueless.
To be honest, this critique is much less universal than you might think. Young people—people my age—understand that social media is just another way of connecting. Old people—people Eddie’s age—are the ones who really let it rip in the complaints department.
But the truth of the matter is, crafting my own digital brand takes a lot of skill and discipline.
As we cruise toward the edge of town, I find myself drawing on one of these overlooked influencer skills, a talent not discussed very often because the more my audience knows about it, the more the magic is ruined.
The truth is, I don’t always feel like recording something or commenting on this week’s online drama with a warm, relatable smile and a hot take.
I get it done anyway.
Regardless of my mood, I’ve developed the uncanny ability to put on a smile and crank out upbeat content, which is genuinely difficult work.
Unless you’re incredibly skilled at controlling your emotions and painting on a grin, bad vibes tend to creep out in subtle, subconscious ways.
I can just feel it, and the comments, shares, and likes will all confirm this important parasocial truth.
You must smile. You must act natural. You must fully commit. Tonight, I’m fighting for my life, not generating scheduled content, but the skillset remains the same.
“Cheer up,” Eddie commands as we pull out onto the road.
Time for video mode. Time for good-vibes mode. Time to like, share, and subscribe.
I reach out and turn up the music, nodding along as the steady, groovy rhythm of Steely Dan’s “Reelin’ In The Years” comes rollicking over the stereo. The convertible top is down, at Eddie’s request, and our music cascades out through the darkness.
“I love this song,” I shout, glancing up and catching sight of my face in the rearview mirror. A tear is rolling down my cheek, and I immediately reach up to wipe it away. Maybe I’m not as good at this as I thought.
The skater was crying before he jumped, I remind myself. Maybe tears are okay.
Either way, Eddie doesn’t notice, his eyes focused on the road ahead. His arm rests atop the car door, hand tapping along to the rhythm with precise enthusiasm.
As the chorus ends, Eddie tilts his head back and starts belting along with the next verse. “You been tellin’ me you’re a genius since you were seventeen,” he sings. “In all the time I’ve known you I still don’t know what you mean!”
Eddie raises both arms into the air, wiggling his fingers in the night breeze.
“That’s us, right?” Eddie shouts. “That line.”
“Uh … yeah!” I reply. I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, but my inner creep meter lets out a confident chirp. It’s the same feeling I get when inquiries about a potential sponsored post turn weirdly intimate, or when the guy who’s on his third drink starts leaning in too close.
Eddie drops his arms, lowering the music a bit. “I’m sorry things got so heated back there,” he says. “It’s not usually this hectic.”
I nod. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“It’s almost two in the morning,” he continues, scrunching up his face a bit. “Usually it’s over and done with by now.”
“So you’ve worked for the devil before?” I ask.
Eddie furrows his brow. “What?”
“Your deal with the devil,” I press.
Eddie pauses, then relaxes his face. “Oh, yeah,” he replies.
He extracts his folded piece of paper. From the corner of my eye I can see him staring at a list of around ten names with information boxes next to them, noting that the top two feature check marks in dark pen. The third name has a line through it now.
Eddie remains like this for a good while, perfectly still in a way that makes me deeply uneasy.
“Everything alright over there?” I finally ask. “Still headed to the farm?”
Eddie doesn’t move.
“It’s too far,” he says. “This wasn’t the plan. We should’ve just stayed by the motel. We’re already behind …”
“That’s a crime scene now,” I remind him.
Eddie just shakes his head, then gazes out into the night. Suddenly, he erupts with a single, powerful shriek. It’s so loud that I flinch, nearly tugging the steering wheel and veering off into a ditch. “Fuck!” he screams at the top of his rattling lungs.
Eddie jerks forward. His back moves up and down as he hunches in the passenger seat, breathing heavily. “I can feel it coming,” he grunts. “We’re late.”
“We’re almost there,” I say, trying my best to remain peppy and unfazed.
“We’re not almost there,” Eddie murmurs, barely audible. He points a few yards ahead. “Turn.”
“Here?”
“Turn,” he repeats, and it suddenly dawns on me that I might’ve just disobeyed a direct instruction, blowing my cover.
My veins run ice cold at this realization, but Eddie seems too distracted to notice the discrepancy. At least, he hasn’t acknowledged it.