Sad Desk Salad
Page 9
To: darleen@darleen4senate.org
From: alex@chickhabit.net
Subject: Looking for Comment: Video of your daughter Rebecca
Dear Darleen:
I’m a writer for a website for women called Chick Habit. We’ve received a video that we believe is of your daughter Rebecca. It shows her snorting cocaine and taking her shirt off. You can watch the video here: https://www.chickhabit.net/rebeccawestvideo.
We have not yet released this link, but we plan to this afternoon.
Given your status as a celebrity parenting expert and political hopeful, how do you respond to the existence of this video? I am on deadline so I need your reply as soon as possible.
Best,
Alex Lyons
Associate Editor, Chick Habit
I can reach Rebecca through Facebook. I waste no time crafting a similar, but shorter, missive to her:
* * *
Dear Rebecca,
I work at a website called Chick Habit. We received a video that we believe is of you:
https://www.chickhabit.net/rebeccawestvideo
What would your mom think of this behavior?
This link is still private but will be made public this afternoon. I need your response ASAP.
—Alex Lyons, associate editor
* * *
Hitting send on that Facebook message causes adrenaline to surge into my fingertips. I start writing the post with shaking hands:
Omaha über-mom Darleen West has made millions of dollars from her image as the ideal parent, and now she’s trying to parlay that image into tangible power: She’s running for state senate in Nebraska. In her bestseller How to Raise a Genius, Times Four, the mom of fraternal quadruplets Raina, Rachel, Renata, and Rebecca told the world that her take-no-prisoners parenting method is the key to her children’s success. And successful they are: All four girls attend top-tier universities and Rebecca, the apple of her mother’s eye, even invented a new kind of robot while she was still in high school. “Rebecca’s drive is what I admire most about her,” Darleen writes on her website The Genius Method.
Here’s something Darleen—and her potential constituents—probably doesn’t find so admirable: This video of a young woman who appears to be Rebecca West blowing rails in her underwear (NSFW):
I click off the post to embed the video in the page. I’ve been sure to include enough wiggle language so that we can’t be sued if the girl in the video turns out not to be Becky. I check my e-mail and I see that Darleen West has already responded to me.
To: alex@chickhabit.net
From: darleen@darleen4senate.org
Subject: Re: Looking for Comment: Video of your daughter Rebecca
I will not dignify this trash with a response. You will be hearing from my lawyers. If you publish this, so help me God, I will ruin you.
I forward this to Moira and cc the lawyer—I’m sure they were already expecting this sort of thing.
MoiraPoira (11:35:29): Don’t let that bag of Botox intimidate you.
Alex182 (11:36:32): I won’t.
I want to give Rebecca some time to respond before I write the second half of the post, so I decide to go outside for a minute or two. I chuck off Peter’s boxers and my now-limp T-shirt and pick the eyelet muumuu back off the floor. I give it a good shake and the last grains of sand fly off, landing directly on our already-icky area rug. Good thing it’s made of sisal, so the sand is imperceptible. I give the muumuu a sniff, and the wet-dog scent seems to have faded enough for me to throw it back on again. I grab some flip-flops from my closet and thrust my aviator sunglasses onto my face so I can head out into the bright sunlight.
I walk to the bodega to get my customary sad desk salad, where I ask Manuel for extra beets—it is a special occasion and I deserve a treat. My general reaction to Internet-based confrontation is to cower in a darkened corner. But today I am standing proud, almost morally superior.
In February I posted about a clip of Darleen’s. She hosts a recurring segment on Headline News in which she gives advice to parents who are struggling with the misbehavior of their children. This particular segment was with a sweet-faced woman named Pam and her burly husband, Bill. Their son Dylan was hitting the bong instead of the books, and Darleen turned to Pam with an insincere smirk and said, “Maybe if Dylan hadn’t been a latchkey kid in those formative tween years, you wouldn’t be sitting here today.” Pam’s eyes began to well up right before they cut to commercial.
When I was writing the post I pictured my own mom up there, under the hot studio lights, being questioned about the fact that I was often home all by myself as a kid. She and my dad both stayed after school hours to pitch in with extracurriculars when I was in high school (Dad helmed the science club; Mom ran the yearbook). If I had rebelled by doing whippets in the woods rather than reading in my room, would it have been because my mom wasn’t home to open the front door for me every day of her damn life?
Who is Darleen West anyway, to tell people that they’re bad parents? Now that she’s running for office, she has the potential to have even more influence on American women than she already does. Exposing her for the two-faced clown she’s always been is basically a public service. Sure, Rebecca West is getting the short end of the deal here, with her private drug habits about to be blared out into the universe. But the collateral damage is worth it for the larger social point. Isn’t it?
I almost consider calling my mom to ask her what she thinks. She’s cool-headed and wise and I’m feeling pretty emotional right now. But I don’t want her to worry about me, either.
Manuel tells me that my salad is ready.
“Thank you so much,” I say, looking at him for some kind of sign that I’m doing the right thing. He just smiles and hands over the greens.
By the time I settle back in at home, it’s twelve fifteen. Still no word from Rebecca. I keep refreshing Facebook to make sure I’m not missing any response from her. I try to find a phone number for her, but nothing comes up in a public records search. I have to write the second half of the post now so I can send it to Moira and the lawyer for approval before the one P.M. deadline.
We are fairly certain it’s Rebecca West in that video for several reasons. One, an anonymous tipster sent us the above video, identifying her. Two, we cross-checked Rebecca’s Facebook photos with the video, and the likeness is striking. Check out this side-by-side screen shot of the video’s heroine and this photo of Rebecca:
I load up the screen shot from the video that’s a close-up of Becky’s face and put it right next to a tight shot I cropped out of her Facebook photo with the robot.
Three, the floral bedspread that appears in the video is identical to the one in this photo, also from Rebecca West’s Facebook profile:
Here’s where I put the screen shot of the Laura Ashley bedspread next to Becky’s dorm room photo.
Finally, we reached out to Darleen and Rebecca West for comment. Darleen would not go on the record about this video, but she did not deny that it was her daughter up in there, snorting a ton of the white stuff. As of press time, Rebecca has not responded to our queries. We will update you if she does.
You might wonder why this is newsworthy, why we are publishing this video of someone who is essentially a private citizen. It’s because Darleen uses her platform as a parenting expert to shame other women. She’s trying to use this message to get into state government, where she can wield even greater influence. She puts herself out there as the perfect mom with the perfect children. We believe in truth in advertising. Darleen West isn’t perfect, and you don’t have to be, either.
I file this to Moira at 12:46, and my heart’s still racing. The entire back of my muumuu is soaked from nervous sweat and my fingers tremble over the keyboard. My salad sits next to me on the old brown couch, untouched and wilting. While I’m waiting for Moira’s response, I keep refreshing Facebook. I continue to toggle back to Rebecca West’s page; I look at that innocent little nose and try to keep my
resolve. You’re doing the right thing, I keep repeating to myself. You can’t afford to lose this job. Rebecca is still not writing back, and we’re running out of time.
Moira IMs me at 12:59.
MoiraPoira (12:59:17): This is brilliant. I looked it over, but as usual your copy is quite clean. The lawyer has seen it and he approves. It’s good to go. Are you ready?
Alex182 (12:59:44): I was born ready.
I stare at the clock on my computer until it turns to one.
Chapter Seven
I refresh the site until the post goes live. I ended up going with a headline that was nearly identical to the original e-mail that the tipster had sent me: “Rebecca West, Daughter of ‘Genius Mom’ Darleen West: Snorting Coke in Her Skivvies?” The question mark was inserted at legal’s request, just in case the comely cokehead in the video turned out to be a Becky West doppelgänger. I also send the following Facebook message to Becky, letting her know the post is live, so she has a chance to respond after the fact:
* * *
http://chickhabit.net/rebecca-west-daughter-of-genius-mom-darleen-west-snorting-coke-in-her-skivvies
* * *
Though I had been shaky and sweat-stained before the post went live, now that I can see it sitting there atop the Chick Habit homepage, I am still and dry. In the minute or two after publication, before any page views or comments have registered in the lavender-hued boxes to the right of the post, it’s like the world—or at least the Internet—is suspended. It’s so quiet in the apartment I can hear the soft sigh of my laptop’s hard drive.
And then I refresh the page once more. The commenters are, as usual, out of control:
CrazyBananas42 (1:01:45): Holy shit, this is awesome! This is the best fuck-you to a mom I have ever seen. I always knew that lady’s genius mom routine was crap. Her perfect girl is sure going to town on that pile of yay!
Fuckerpunch (1:02:56): Are you kidding? It is so not awesome. I love how Alex ties herself in knots to justify posting this. It’s a violation of Rebecca West’s privacy, pure and simple.
Weathergrrrl (1:04:29): I fully agree with @Fuckerpunch. Also, like the chickies didn’t do their fare share of blow in college? I bet they wouldn’t be so syched if someone else posted a video of their drug use online without their consent and she’s naked in part of it! This is basically digital rape.
TiptoeTulip (1:06:15): I had a mother just like Darleen West and I acted out like this in college, too. I spent 8 years in therapy trying to undo the damage she inflicted on me in my teen years. My heart weeps for Rebecca West and I hope she gets the help she so clearly needs.
Libertard (1:07:22): @Fuckerpunch @Weathergrrrl @TiptoeTulip Pull the sticks out of your asses.
My bitchface training from this morning seems to have paid off. Just a few days ago that “digital rape” comment would have inspired several sniveling IMs to Moira and/or Jane about whether or not I had gone too far. If I had really been having a rough day that comment might have spooked me far into the evening, until Peter came home, when I would be near tears by the time he walked through our midget door. But I can’t ask for Peter’s attention right now; when I think about what he might be keeping from me, it feels like a small, sharp object poking me in the gut.
I refresh the page again. It’s been ten minutes since the post went up and already there are thirty thousand page views.
Prettyinpink86 (1:14:20): :) That Becky West video is so crazy!!
Alex182 (1:15:02): Yeah, I know.
Prettyinpink86 (1:15:44): The traffic is already really high.
Alex182 (1:16:08): Thanks.
I can’t tell if Molly is genuinely being supportive with that emoticon or if she’s jealous of my stats, and I don’t feel like conversing with her long enough to figure it out. But the enthusiasm of her IMs reminds me to link to all my earlier posts about Darleen West so that I can get additional traffic back to them. There was that clip of her on Headline News condescending to poor Dylan’s mom with her weed-brained son (headline: “Darleen West Takes Mother Superior Act to Basic Cable”). Then there was the time she wrote a guest op-ed for the National Review about how dangerous day care really is, and how the liberal media has covered up its risks. (“‘Genius Mom’ to Working Moms: Piss Off.”) And finally, when Rebecca’s sister Rachel won a prize at Harvard for a paper she had written on themes of motherhood in Virginia Woolf’s books, I wrote a post called “Darleen West’s Daughter Longs for a Womb of One’s Own.”
MoiraPoira (1:26:35): My darling girl! Your post got linked to from the homepage of Yahoo 10 minutes ago—you know that guarantees a traffic tsunami.
Alex182 (1:28:11): Amazing!
MoiraPoira (1:28:44): I’ve never seen a post get this popular this fast. It’s brilliant! And for the first time in Chick Habit history, I got a call from Tyson Collins.
Alex182 (1:29:42): The big boss took time from his busy duck-hunting schedule to phone li’l ol’ you?
MoiraPoira (1:30:12): He sure did. One of his 14 assistants told him that our servers were working on overdrive because of the massive surge. He took a look at the site and saw the post, and he told me, “I never did like that Darleen West. Met her at the Aspen Ideas Festival and she looked like someone who needed a good screw and a good steak.”
Alex182 (1:31:44): He did NOT say that!
MoiraPoira (1:32:12): Screw and steak, in that order.
That makes me laugh even though I know Tyson Collins’s desire to restructure his conglomerate might make me a casualty in just a few short weeks. I decide to take advantage of one of Moira’s rare good moods.
Alex182 (1:33:14): If it’s okay with you I’m gonna take a shower now.
MoiraPoira (1:34:45): Do it!
I go into our bathroom and toss the musty muumuu onto the tile floor. I turn the water on and stick a hand under the weak stream. That’s the trade-off you make when you live in a brownstone instead of a new apartment—quaint prewar details, but no hot, strong showers. As a result I rarely feel truly clean even after a shower.
Adding to that feeling of grossness is the disgusting but true fact that Peter and I have been playing an elaborate game of bathroom chicken for a few months. Nothing—not the shower, not the mirror, not the toilet—has been thoroughly scrubbed since St. Patrick’s Day. For all his togetherness, Peter has an astoundingly high tolerance for dirt, and I’m just as sloppy as he is. Most of the time we live in barely postcollegiate squalor.
Jane has this grand theory of relationships that certainly holds true for Peter and me. In every union there is one better half. When fights occur, it’s usually because the worse half has done something cheeky and/or selfish (like going out to Coney Island on a Monday night without calling her boyfriend to check in). The better half gets to be sanctimonious and disapproving, but is also held to a higher standard of behavior. In turn, the worse half gets to be resentful of the better half’s prissiness, but he or she also gets to be the fuckup.
However, these dynamics are relationship specific, which is to say, just because you’re the better half in one relationship doesn’t mean you can’t be the worse half in another. When I was with Caleb, I was definitely the better half.
Caleb and I met during our last week of college, at a huge lawn party after all the art majors showed their thesis projects. I skipped the thesis showing (I really didn’t need to see another sculpture made from somebody’s earwax) but made it in time for the first sarcastic keg stand.
I was a regular at the art department parties because I had a thing for guys who thought of themselves as artists. I read a lot of biographies of Sylvia Plath at a tender age, and in college I was overly moved by her relationship with her poet-husband, Ted Hughes: On their first meeting they were so animally attracted to each other that he pulled off her headband and she bit him on the face. After that their bond was not only physical but also creative. They informed and inspired each other’s work.
I wanted that for myself (sans the whole putting-your-head-i
n-the-oven part at the end, which I always conveniently ignored) and so I gravitated to fine artists. Jane suggested a few times I try dating a writer, but I’m so competitive I thought I would fight with a fellow scribe. Also the art boys tended to be much, much better looking.
So when I got to that fateful art department party, Jane was talking to a circle of guys. I noticed Caleb straightaway because, well, he fit my stereotype: He was hot. He had shaggy blond hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. He was also muscular without being bulky and had a perfectly proportioned tall frame. I was a little drunk already by the time I got there—pre-graduation week was basically a seven-day bacchanal—and so instead of hanging back and waiting for him to talk to me, like I normally would have, I marched right up to him.
“I’m Alex,” I said, sticking my hand out firmly toward him.
“Caleb,” he replied in that slow Southern drawl of his.
After that, things get a little fuzzy. I have a fractured memory of bantering about Twin Peaks, of which I had only seen one episode but fronted as if I had seen the entire series. I have a fairly distinct memory of going back to his dorm room that night—which was strewn with a deconstructed bed and filled with packing boxes—and boffing his brains out.