That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I say. “Lights up, Evergreen’s gone, and then? Nothing.”
Beamer and I go quiet for a while, watching New York pass us by. I’ve been standing in this same spot, I think, every day for the past two weeks.
Even the homeless guy on the bench across from us has more important shit to do, feeding the pigeons from an old loaf of bread. At first they swarmed him, but now the ranks come clear, Alpha Pidge taking the lead while the others circle the edges and loathe him.
Annalise is getting ready to go back to school and M.C. won’t answer texts. And as for Todd Evergreen?
“No one has heard from him since.”
“Can’t blame the guy myself,” says Beamer. “With all that press? I’d have hightailed my ass right outta town, too.”
I have to agree, having read the articles myself.
Every last one.
The Daily News, the Post. Every morning first thing, I’d buy them at the bodega, stuffing them in my backpack before someone could see.
Well, I’d think, at least it gets me out of the apartment.
Back at Trump World, I’d spread them across the wood floor, then walk around for a half hour, feeling guilty. The ritual always ended the same: belly to the wood, reading each word twice.
Following the Times’s piece, the headlines hadn’t been so bad, just a series of unanswered questions: Golden Boy Tarnished?; Possible Rock Exchange Lawsuit; and Rock Exchange Music Investment Stock: Could Go Either Way, Say Experts.
Then came the Hoff Media fallout rumors:
Master of Media and Boy Genius on the Outs.
Hoff Claims Got Cyber-Punked: Evergreen Is a Fraud, Say Sources.
But immediately following The Set launch, it went to a whole new level. Word of his mom’s walk-on spread quickly, followed by character attacks:
Evergreen Tied to Eco-Cult: “Children Eat Bark for Dinner,” Says Source.
Rock Exchange Founder’s Secret Commune Past: Goat Blood Rituals to Appease “Goddess Nature.”
Drugs, Sex, and Granola: Ex-Member Describes Life in the Evergreen Cult, Adding “Yum Caax (Todd) Was Weird Even as a Kid.”
Then came those leaked Rock Exchange contracts—no rights, no intellectual property, Todd gets everything, the artist left to rot—which led to a flurry of industry attacks:
Evergreen Stole Our Music and Got Rich: Band Faces Eviction, Rock Exchanger Living High on the Hog.
Jay Z Boycotts Rock Exchange and Kanye’s Coming for You, Evergreen: “Don’t F—with the Artists,” He Threatens, “or They’ll F—You Right Back.”
By the time the documents were deemed fake, the damage had already been done, retractions mere two-liners printed after notices of subway delays and obits.
As of last Thursday, Assange still hadn’t taken his copy down.
In the end, even Evergreen’s own had turned, the Anonymous crew posting one of their creepy YouTube videos and influential tech sites calling his “innovation less than innovative” (“like a second-tier Spotify,” said one). The bloggers had been even worse (“Suck my dick, Evergreen! Fight the Man? You are him”), and with the release of that picture, the gossips put in their two cents as well (“Nice hoodie, Evergreen,” said Ogler. “What are you, fourteen?”).
And, yes, I knew all that for fact. Soon as the papers were done, I’d move right on to the Web check.
If anything was clear, besides my guilt-ridden soul, it was this: give me a few more weeks and I’d be that Beautiful Mind guy.
Two weeks after The Set launch and not much had changed, except for the new couch, and that was Annalise’s doing. I still stuck to the floor, unless she came over, at which time I’d make a big show of reclining like some middle-aged suburbanite after a long day in the office.
I knew you would like it, she’d say with authority. Already feeling like home, isn’t it, Phillip!
I didn’t tell her the truth: that my life felt like purgatory. And the calls from my mother hadn’t helped the cause, either.
Not that I ever picked up.
The messages made demands, then pleaded. Bribed with the offer of my own place in the Hills, and resorted to putting my brother on. Mom wants me to tell you, went the monotone-voiced message, that she thinks we need you. If you want to know what I think . . .
Before he could finish, Mom would be yelling. Click, dial tone, and moving on.
This is what had become of my life in Trump Tower: a wood floor, a black Swedish sofa, a bong, my guilt, and headlines.
Oh, and Beamer.
“It’s pretty jacked-up,” I tell him, still watching the pigeons. “After the magazine release, everything kind of exploded. Evergreen might have disappeared, but he’s still on every fucking tabloid.”
“But that was the plan, right? What Hoff wanted?”
“I guess. And Annalise sure did.” I look at the homeless man, the loaf nearly gone. “And you know me, man. I just follow the orders. Don’t want to get bitch-slapped by my half sister.”
“She ain’t so bad,” Beamer says.
“I know. Actually, she’s pretty great.”
“Besides, I get what she wanted. To protect your dads. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
My dads. It sounds so completely wrong.
I feel Beamer waiting for me to give something, but I have nothing. To Gerald Hoff, I still don’t exist. You will have to tell him someday, says Annalise. He will be glad to know you, Phillip. I swear it.
Someday, I’ll repeat. Then change the subject as quickly as possible.
“Did you see that shit on Good Morning America?” asks Beamer. “They was interviewing Evergreen’s mom.” Like forty-five times, maybe. I found the clip on Hulu. “Now that’s one crazy white lady. I mean, I heard of tree huggers, but shit. That lady literally hugged a tree.”
And called it her best friend.
“Nice woman, though,” says Beamer. “Can’t blame a bitch for being nuts. That’s chemical imbalance right there. I got a cousin who takes Prozac for that shit.”
I sigh and watch Alpha Pidge chow down on his mountain of carbs. Once in a while, he’ll let another dude in, but just for a taste. Soon as he does, he’s chased off almost as quickly.
“Lady was pretty tore up on the way back,” says Beamer. “Good thing you got her off that stage so quick.”
I don’t remember the details, just knowing I had no choice. The lights came up, roar of voices, and everyone looking around.
Evergreen was gone. I just knew it.
Toddy? His mother kept saying into the mike. Toddy, are you here?
Somehow, in the chaos, I’d beckoned her off the stage, grabbed her hand, and gotten us the hell out of there.
“She cried the whole ride to LaGuardia,” says Beamer. “But what can you do? If those fat cats had a chance to sink their claws in, she wouldn’t have been so love-my-fellow-man, you can bet your ass on that.”
“Yeah, well, she didn’t seem so great during the interview either.”
“That Matt Lauer can throw down, that’s for sure. Did you see how he ripped Chris Brown a new asshole?”
“Yeah, but he deserved it. The question is . . . did she?” Or even more, I think, did Evergreen?
“Feelin’ guilty, cracker?”
“Maybe a little.”
“What about everyone else? They all tore up, too? How ’bout that little whacked-out singer?”
“No one knows.”
“M.C.?”
“That chick who ran over her sorority sister?”
“Haven’t heard a thing.”
“For taking her vice president spot,” Beamer says, giving a low whistle. “That’s some ghetto shit if I ever heard it.”
I’d read the first issue of The Set, though, back-to-back. For what it was, I was kind of impressed. And that homeless jewelry thing was sick.
“And what about Sissy?”
“She’s okay, I guess. Not around much. Got some school shit—”
“School ain’t even started.”
“I know, but she’s like that. SAT course today. Or student council pre-term meeting. Or field hockey. Future Women Leaders of Whatever the Fuck . . . who gives a damn, y’know?”
“Well then, white boy,” he says, reaching into his pocket for the vaporizer, “I guess it’s just you and me.”
I smile to myself.
That’s when I get the text.
Hope to see you there.—T.E.
I click the attached image, read it through, and look up at Beamer.
“What the fuck?” I say.