Meme'd

I got meme’d on a Tuesday. I don’t know why, but I previously thought virality was exclusively a weekend phenomenon. So imagine my surprise when I awoke to 208,765 notifications, 150,000 new followers, and 37 missed calls from friends and loved ones and still had to roll out of bed and into work as if nothing had happened. 

The walk from the elevator to my cubicle was reminiscent of navigating a high school cafeteria where you’re the secret being talked about. Covered whispers, random high-fives, and side-eyed glances came in from every angle. I barely had time to breathe before I was called into my supervisor’s office. He was a particular kind of boomer, the type that wore glasses on the brim of their nose and still needed a mouse to effectively navigate an operating system. He told me to take a seat before removing his glasses and casually sitting on the edge of the desk.

“We’ve got a problem,” he sighed. I knew the rest. How while “no one appreciated a good joke” more than him the firm was concerned about any blowback or negative PR. My supervisor placed a hand on my shoulder and told me that my position was terminated, effective immediately. Before I could protest, I was met by a corporate lawyer who had me sign a bunch of documents and handed me a severance package worth nearly 50% of my yearly salary – a gesture to “go quietly” as they say. 

“Cheer up,” my supervisor slapped me on the back. “You’ll probably make more in a week than you would in a year here.” For what it’s worth, he wasn’t wrong. However, now I had to live in this new reality – one where a split-second decision to capture one’s own stupidity would prove more fruitful than a year’s worth of honest work. Perhaps if it could be undermined so easily by something so idiotic, it wasn’t so honest after all. 

I walked down the sidewalk in a daze, carrying my belongings in one of those stereotypical file boxes from the movies that might as well be a giant “JUST FIRED” sign hung from my neck. I walked and walked until I reached an empty bench by the lake and tried to wrap my head around this new life. That’s when the beeping began. Dings. Pings. Rings. Buzzes. It was non-stop. The brick in my pocket sprang to life and wouldn’t shut up. Where cubicles and shitty supervisors once ruled, this relentless brick stepped in to become my master. I gripped the phone and cocked back my arm to send my shackles to a watery grave when a voice from behind stopped me in my tracks.

“Excuse me, sir?” I turned to find a strikingly beautiful woman standing in front of a glowing halo of light. She was the kind of unapproachably attractive person that society had rightfully sequestered from interacting with the likes of me. Directing a line of questioning to me - let alone initiating it - felt outside the realm of possibility. Then again, everything about my day up until that point had too. 

“You look so familiar, where do I know you from?” she asked. 

I garbled up my words like I had a mouth full of hot soup. Before I could even form a sentence, her eyes went wide and she gasped.

“Holy shit! You’re that meme guy!”

She walked over to the glowing halo of light which held her phone in the middle and pulled it out, scrolling for half a second before pulling up my face. 

“This is crazy, you’re really blowing up!”

She took a step closer and placed a hand on top of mine.

“You know, I’m a content creator myself.” she disclosed. “Do you think I could grab a selfie?”

Before I could answer my head was reflexively nodding yes. 

“It’s mainly man-on-the-street interviews with folks about their sex lives and dirty secrets but I occasionally upload to the OF. Gotta keep the lights on you know?” she giggled.

I didn’t know. In fact, I hadn’t understood a single word she had said but again found myself laughing and nodding along. 

“What are you doing right now? Would you be able to shoot some content?” she asked.

To be honest, I wasn’t much of a hunter. I had little familiarity with shooting much of anything - quail, ducks, least of all content. All I knew was that both scenarios involved dangerous instruments and killing something. 

She massaged her thumb into my forearm. “I’d really appreciate it. My followers would love a cute guy like you.”

I imagined the synapses in my brain firing on all cylinders, being controlled by a room full of confused mathematicians trying to solve an impossibly complex problem on a chalkboard. Could it be that the answer to the unsolvable equation of attractiveness was as simple as clout and scraps of fame?

Before I knew It, the glowing halo of light was back on and a tiny microphone was being held in my face. 

“Hey fam, it’s your girl Jessisexo6969. You’ll never guess who I ran into…”

We stood with the lake at our backs as I answered question after question, divulging more details about my non-existent sex life. The livestream had well over 50k viewers and I could see the comments cascading down her screen:

No way - you found the dude from that meme!

Aw he’s so cuuuuute!

LOL he’s the man!

C’mon throw this loser a bone…

WOW he pulled @Jessisexo6969?!? Dude’s lucky AF. 

Something I quickly learned about hunting for content is that you don’t shoot what you think is content, you shoot what they think is content. In fact, it wasn’t until @Jessisexo6969 took a selfie of us from a disheveled hotel bed that I realized where content starts and ends is as ambiguous as the term itself. As soon as she posted, she promptly rose from the bed and clothed herself. 

“Thanks, this was great!” she exclaimed, of course referencing the boost in following rather than the mediocre albeit rapid performance I had delivered. 

“You know, you should really get representation. They got me my first two sponsorship deals and I’d bet you could make a killing if you wanted to.” 

She placed a business card on the nightstand and kissed me on the cheek. 

“Thanks again. Don’t worry, I’ll tag you next week when I make a tearful ‘break-up’ post.”

I glanced at the card after she left and dialed the number for Simon Farber, UTI Management. I coyly explained who I was to an assistant who promptly invited me to meet Mr. Farber at my earliest convenience, explaining how “excited he was to meet me.” They sent a black car to pick me up from the hotel and brought me to one of the fanciest steak houses in the city. 

The maître d greeted me warmly.

“Ah yes, I believe you’re here to see Mr. Farber? He’s sitting in our private room. This way.”

The suit-and-tie aristocrats all turned their heads as I walked in, average shlub in a not-so-average setting. They whispered, and smiled, while some even pulled their phones out to snap pictures of what probably looked like a deer in headlights. 

In a back corner booth sat a man in orange sunglasses and a bad comb-over hairdo. He rose and embraced me like a father would a child or a farmer would a cow. 

“There he is! The big man himself. Mr. Funny. Mr. Hotshot. Been quite a day I imagine. Have a drink. Bourbon guy right?”

He snapped his fingers and a waiter brought out a bottle of $600 bottle of bourbon and poured a glass. Before I could even ask how he knew I was a bourbon guy, Simon raised his glass. 

“To the internet my friend.”

We downed our drinks and were immediately poured another. 

“Now, listen- the first 48 hours are the most important. I want to go wide with this. I’m talking merch deals, a podcast, an animated series at Netflix is not out of the question. Ever heard of Bad Luck Brian or the Girl Who Tries Kombucha meme? Well, he’s got a house in Maui and she just sold her drink brand for $60M.”

My head was spinning. My phone was buzzing. Simon’s words slowly started to fade as my vision narrowed. I awoke to a flash from a camera in a pile of my own vomit and a cracked phone in my hand. 

The group of waiters laughed and looked at the photos they had just taken. 

“This one’s great,” one of them chortled. “Don’t worry man, we’ll totally tag you.”