A Personal Scandal

by David Hagerty

I’d recorded history at the Daily Herald for barely a year—long enough to know the actors in the drama but not long enough to understand their backstory. I’d landed there right after college, my first real job, the first requiring thought. I’d been doing my job, nothing more, I told myself, just a reporter looking for a story, when I came across that burning ember on the local police log.

I checked that printout every morning—a quest for something worth printing in a small town with little real news. It listed all the calls and arrests from the previous 24 hours, including those when I’d been too distracted or sleepy to monitor the scanner. Typically, I left disappointed. At most, I’d find a DUI or an inconsequential fight at the high school.

That day, though, I saw a familiar code, 152, listed by a familiar name: Sylvie Braxton. The statute meant petty theft. Her name I recognized from the town’s school board, where Sylvie sat as one of five elected members.

She was a bleached blonde who wore house dresses and sensible shoes and confined her comments to safe stands. She had supported the high school’s plan to limit sex education to abstinence and the superintendent’s plan for a modest COLA for teachers, but otherwise she failed to qualify as newsworthy.

This, though, merited headlines: Trustee Busted.

In a town as quiet as Rhineburgh, any criminality could make the local paper, but the arrest of a local celebrity, no matter how minor, would capture the top of the front page. Although an hour’s train ride from New York, the Hudson Valley defined bucolic, with farmhouses several centuries old, thoroughbred horse farms, wineries boasting of Old Vine Chardonnay, and a local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It had preserved as much of that era as it could, including an insularity to progress.

I asked a dispatcher to summon a lieutenant and waited impatiently in the lobby of the police department as other citizens filed past to pay for their pet licenses or complain about their neighbors. From inside I heard clanging typewriters and ringing phones. Probably 20 minutes elapsed before the clerk ushered me inside.

Despite his grey hair, Lt. Jim Glanville looked like a cop, with the stereotypical full mustache and stocky build, and the weariness too, from keeping the peace amid generational grudges. His office always smelled of breath mints and Old Spice, as though he were masking some inner decay. He scanned the file quickly then stared at me for an uncomfortable time. “What’s the news value in this?”

“You know who she is?”

He shook his head.

As I explained, he maintained that neutral stare, but exhaled softly as though practicing at patience. We both knew I had the right to ask about any case, no matter how petty—the power of the press, even a local rag—so rather than resist, he scanned again. I tried to read the copy upside down, which I could often do faster than the cops could right side up, but Glanville saw my tactic and tilted the page toward him. Then he sketched the facts:

Sylvie Braxton, 39, WF, arrested at 1:14 p.m. Tuesday outside Dresser’s Dry Goods for petty larceny, a misdemeanor.

“What’d she take?”

He studied the one-page report, then glared. “Six dollars of makeup.”

I scribbled the details, then asked if there was anything else newsworthy.

“You mean anything at all,” he said. “I still don’t see the story in this.”

“She’s a politician.”

“School board is political?”

“In this town.”

#

That gave me a good first paragraph but little more. I needed details, so I walked to the crime scene on the creaky wood plank sidewalks of main street, past brick storefronts made soft and round by time. Nearby, I heard steam boats whistle by on the Hudson and smelled the effluent of the local paper mill. A place out of the past. I half expected Natty Bumppo to traipse past with his long rifle. My college campus twenty miles away felt distant, my English diploma irrelevant. For this job, instead of wasting my parents’ money on tuition, I should have studied with the town’s archivist.

The five and dime store looked typical for the genre: open counters and shelves offering everything from clothes to car parts, with Muzak from the 50s and a stench of Borax cleanser. I spotted the cosmetics about ten steps from the checkout aisles and asked to speak to the manager.

Although small, she possessed the wiry toughness of the working class. Her Asian heritage and accent marked her as an outsider, which built my trust. Most people in Rhineburgh traced their ancestors to the founding fathers, whereas we could chart the day we arrived. After I explained my interest, she proved less suspicious than the police, sharing that the accused had placed two lipsticks and a blush into her purse, then attempted to leave the store without paying.

“You think she meant to take them?” I said.

“She claimed she forgot, but she had to dig to the bottom of her handbag to find them.”

“You know who she is?”

Her blank expression said not and did not change when I explained.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

She pointed to a sign by the register reading, “We prosecute all shoplifters.”

#

Walking back to work, I debated: what did it say about me that I cared if a local yokel boosted a couple of cosmetics? Hardly the stuff of Pulitzers. More like small-town gossip. Every day I ignored others accused of more. Why publicly shame one housewife just because she held a minor office?

True to the rest of the hamlet, the Herald’s office was eroding with age. It dated before building codes, with loose stone walls slowly detaching from each other, a dearth of windows, and a balky floor that still emanated the funk of hay and horses from its historic use as a stables. As I passed the galleys of the next day’s edition, where we literally pasted the words together with scissors and glue, I decided to leave the choice to my editor.

Richard scowled as I hovered outside his office. Even though we provided more PR than investigative reporting, Richard played the part of cantankerous journalist, cowed by no one. The top of his mullet stood on end, and he exuded a nicotine addict’s twitchy energy. Since he did the work of four men at most papers, he bore little patience with my dawdling.

“I think I have something good,” I said.

“You think?” he said, laying on the sarcasm.

Once I’d presented the case, he drummed his fingers on the desktop next to the ashtray.

“I could just ignore it,” I said.

“She’s an elected official.”

“Who cares about the school board?”

“Parents.”

“She’s not teaching. Mostly, she makes meaningless speeches.”

“On public issues. It’s why we’re called the third estate, to balance the power of the state.” He pushed up the sleeves to his blazer as though preparing for a fight. “Call the accused,” he said. “Get a comment.”

I dialed slowly, attentive to every digit, then listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times, half hoping she wouldn’t answer, but she greeted me in the mumsy voice she used on the rostrum. Unlike the others I’d approached, she expressed no suspicion at the call, didn’t connect it to the crime until I made the link for her.

In my brief experience as an interviewer, I’d learned to use silence as a submission hold, so I kept quiet, letting the tension hover. Would she play angry, defensive, defiant?

“Oh, please don’t print anything about that,” she pleaded.

“It’s not up to me,” I said. “My editor will decide, but he’d like to know your version.”

“It was an accident. A misunderstanding. I never meant to steal anything. I just put them in my bag and forgot to pay. I was rushing home before school let out and got distracted.”

She talked a few minutes more, about her reputation in the community and the damage that an article would do, until I assured her that I’d convey her side to my boss.

Only after we hung up did I realize that she had the timing wrong. Two hours remained in the school day when she got popped. As with Watergate, the coverup had betrayed her.

#

The article ran on the top of the front page next to a campaign photo of Sylvie kneeling beside a child. Richard never appreciated subtlety, but I understood his motives. Locals didn’t much regard the Herald. The elementaries used it for Papier-mâché, and the fish and chip store to wrap their takeout. I liked to think people read the articles before they recycled them, but typically my work drew no response from anyone but the subjects.

This people read. The next morning, my phone started ringing before 8:00.

The first caller, Stephanie Platz, chided me in a grandmotherly tone for my “filthy mind.” I explained my job was to report the news, not censor it, but she called me a “guttersnipe” and hung up.

The next caller, who only revealed himself as Jack, labelled it “the moral decrepitude of the town,” and demanded that I investigate the “corruption of the children by idolators.” I promised to follow up and only wished I could capture his televangelist tone in print.

The third caller I recognized although we’d never met: a squeaky tween who defended Sylvie as a “good mom and a good person.” I assured her daughter that I did not doubt her skills as a parent, only her actions in the moment. At least the girl did not blame me for her mother’s downfall.

The hectoring continued throughout the day, with attacks on my character running equal to those on hers, so I wrote a man-on-the-street reaction piece that offered no new information, but Richard seemed satisfied, smoothing his mullet as he read.

By quitting time, I wanted an alcoholic analgesic and headed toward “The Captain’s Arms,” the only decent bar in town, with soft rock on the jukebox and landscape prints from the Hudson River school. I hadn’t made it half a block before a man’s deep voice called “carpetbagger.” I ignored it and kept going, but the heckler raised his tone, about “foreigners and invaders” until I turned to face him. In the flickering light from the gas street lamps, I couldn’t see clearly, but he measured no taller than me, nor any fitter. However, he made up for his lack of size with a drunk’s bleary courage.

“Don’t hang the town crier,” I said.

The heckler staggered toward me. “More like the town tattler.”

“Let’s leave it to the law.”

“Law of the people.” He put up his fists.

Fortunately, an irresistible urge to vomit distracted him long enough to let me walk away, but I skipped the bar in case he returned for a refill.

#

The next day, Richard deflected my regrets with an open palm. “You roused people,” he said. “Good. That means they’re reading, that they care.”

“About a petty scandal.”

But the journalist in him thought in terms of circulation.

Still, by afternoon the hubbub had faded, with only a few complaints to our receptionist. I focused on other factoids, about a charity auction and a new sandwich shop, yet on my desk calendar, a date in red burned like a warning light: the next school board meeting—that night. Would anyone comment on the case, and would a hanging mob show?

When the hour arrived, I waited ten minutes, till after the pledge of allegiance, then snuck in the back. I scanned the audience but saw only the usual array of desultory bureaucrats ready to update on budget totals and attendance figures. I felt relieved until I saw the agenda, with three hours of tedium planned, plus more time possible if anyone caught the spirit to pontificate. I sank into a chair and lay aside my tablet, prepared for a long night.

Only within the minute, Nancy Ambrose, the board president, said she wanted to correct the “yellow journalism of the local paper.” She sat erect as a schoolmarm and stared straight at me as I scribbled her comments, careful to get the wording exact as I knew she’d be checking the next day. Typically, her orations focused on bake sales and car washes, but this one compared me to Walter Winchell and Liz Smith—minus the circulation.

Had she read a tabloid lately? My piece hardly measured up to their stories about alien abduction and three-headed babies. Not had I goaded the town into the Spanish-American War, yet to hear her, you’d think I were William Randolph Hearst, a whirlwind of excess and arrogance. The board passed the mic so each member could add a defense of their colleague while Sylvie sat by, naked without makeup, acting saintly and martyred.

Once they returned to business, I checked my pages and saw more than enough to fill my required column inches, but Richard would erupt if he caught me leaving a meeting early, no matter how dreary, so I started composing in my head. I couldn’t find an angle that removed me from the headline, but I rewrote half a dozen versions of a humble lead such as “board defends colleague.” After an hour, I’d confined myself to the byline.

On a break, I moved to the back hallway, out of sight of the tribunal, where dusty photos of every graduating high school class for decades lined the walls. I found Sylvie’s image, with heavy mascara hiding bad acne, then noticed three other board members within a couple years of her. More study showed the police chief, mayor, and various local business people. I knew that the town protected its own, but I hadn’t counted on such nepotism.

“You found the inbred loyalties,” a man’s voice said.

I turned to see Angelo, the facilities manager, standing a few feet away. Among the town’s WASPs, he stood out, with dark eyes, hair, and skin—a Greek, I’d guess, but I’d never asked. He glanced around to ensure no one was listening before continuing. “There’s four families that run this town. They’re all related by marriage. Sylvie wed Nancy’s cousin, whose brother went with Rhonda in high school.”

I nodded and thought of ways to verify the alliance through official records.

“Sylvie’s side are the country cousins. She’s a ditz, too scattered to remember where she put her car keys. Barely graduated high school. Everyone in the family knows. They only ran her for school board because she’d vote as they said. Except she’s family. She may have married the least-promising brother, but by local standards she’s a Kennedy.”

“So they don’t think she meant to steal the stuff?”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “No one knows what she’s thinking,” he said, “if she is at all.”

A banging gavel summoned us back inside, but I left to escape further censure.

#

Over the ensuing days, the board conspired to blacklist me, refusing my calls while writing salacious quotes in their own newsletter about the “media conspiracy” against them. According to Richard, they were merely playing at journalism, “pretending” to balance our coverage, as though I represented some competing power.

Outside of Richard, no one sided with me. The mayor and the council members gave me the silent treatment. The police offered only-the-facts answers. Even the Chamber of Commerce president, a shameless publicity hound, didn’t want to be interviewed.

That Sunday, I happened to pass the local Lutheran sanctuary as services let out. I saw Sylvie, Nancy and Rhonda exiting together, looking penitent—until they noticed me and their thoughts turned toward damnation. I knew that truth usually comes to light, even for the self-righteous. Except I’d already been excommunicated.

In absence of anyone to interview, I resorted to rewriting press releases and filling in obituaries. Richard threw me a few easy stories from beyond the city limits, where my name hadn’t been sullied: meetings by the county’s mosquito control board and the region’s farm bureau, even if nothing interesting appeared on the agenda. Then he accepted my scant copy with a skeptical frown.

Meanwhile, I eyed another red circle on my calendar—Sylvie’s court date—as though it were me who faced a trial.

#

When the day arrived, I dressed in my best blazer and arrived early at a silent courtroom, which reeked of furniture polish and incense, like an aging church. The rest of the congregation looked equally oppressed—disconsolate figures who I pegged as suspects or homeless—but Sylvie proved tardy.

The bailiff called forth a dozen defendants, some clanking on chains. I imagined Sylvie, cuffed at the arms and ankles, shuffling forward like a condemned convict headed toward the gallows. I pictured her kneeling before the judge, begging for mercy. I fantasized about him chiding her publicly for her callousness. I chided myself for leaving my camera at home, even though none were allowed in the courtroom.

Religiously, I checked to see if Sylvie had snuck in, but the audience contained no hangdog housewives in kerchief and sunglasses. Instead, when her turn came, two attorneys stepped to the bench and whispered confidentially. I leaned forward to overhear but would have needed lip reading to glean the gist. After several minutes, the lawyers returned to the tables and announced they’d reached a settlement. Then the judge dismissed the case with only a word, “resolved,” leaving me hanging.

I chased the prosecutor from the courtroom. She appeared little older than me, but with a better suit coat and haircut. She clutched a dozen thick files to her chest like some schoolgirl hiding her budding breasts.

“What just happened?” I said, unable to hide my exasperation.

“The defendant has accepted a diversion program.”

“So she pleaded guilty?”

“No plea. All charges will be dropped if she completes the requirements in six months.”

I must have sagged visibly, because the attorney looked at me empathetically—the first person to do so in weeks. “It’s standard for first offenders.”

“Can I... is it accurate to write that she confessed?”

The files threatened to escape her grasp, so she walked backwards toward some other engagement. “I wouldn’t.”

Later, I called Sylvie and her cronies for comment, but my messages went unanswered. I did reach her attorney, who high handed me with rhetoric. “My client hopes that this resolution will put to a stop her persecution by the local media.” Him I quoted verbatim in hopes that people could sense the coverup.

#

The next day an anonymous flier, mimeographed in educational purple, landed on my doorstep, trumpeting Sylvie’s “vindication” and urging “vengeance” against her persecutors. It included a cartoon version of me shackled in a stockade. Then someone scratched the word “banished” into my car door. I couldn’t prove it related to Sylvie, and Lt. Glanville gave me no hope he’d find the vandal. “Without witnesses...,” he said, and shrugged. Now I understood why he’d tried to sway me from the story.

From Angelo, my Deep Throat, I heard about a rally for Sylvie at the park downtown. “The pioneers are defending their fort,” he said. I knew I shouldn’t attend, but by quitting time curiosity got the better of me. As I approached, I smelled something burning. People were standing around a bonfire consuming copies of the Herald and a stuffed doll of me. When they noticed my approach, they chased me on foot halfway home. Which made my decision easy. I stopped only long enough to pack a bag and leave instructions for my landlord to send the rest to my parents.

As I drove through the dark streets of town one last time, I wondered if Woodward and Bernstein had suffered such backlash, and if not, why I had been so singled out? Plenty of muckrakers before me had prospered. How else to explain the careers of Geraldo Rivera and Kitty Kelley.

Then again, I’d never aspired to become a gossip columnist. The false quietude of Rhineburgh had necessitated such scandalmongering. I took the job thinking it would be the start of a great career, ending at a plush job with a monthly magazine. Instead, it turned me into a tattletale.

The only way to write a better ending was by starting over.

END

I Spam, Therefore I Am

David Hagerty

Not long ago, I thought of myself as an anonymous hero.

I was the most famous person you could not name. My messages reached millions a day, but no one knew me. I helped thousands, yet few gave me credit. I reconnected people to each other and themselves without ever meeting them. I was a secret shaman for all that ailed society.

You’ve probably read my ads: “Feel disconnected, isolated, alone? I have a lifeline. For only $19.95 per month, I’ll end your banishment, your imprisonment.”

How, you ask? I marketed an herbal remedy based on ancestral wisdom, passed down through the generations, yet never recorded, one unavailable from doctors, unacknowledged by pharmacists or the FDA, but more effective than any of their potions.

Why did I believe this? Because I was a patient of my own cure. I discovered it on an overseas adventure and quickly realized its power from its effects on me. Before taking it, I felt alone and insignificant. I had no family, no friends, no connections. I wandered. Then I found the formula in an ancient, aboriginal text.

I wanted to share my discovery, so I started a business. My messages reached people through their emails, their text messages, their social media. Any means not regulated and controlled by the authorities who want to keep us all segregated, isolated, powerless. When one of these outcasts reached out to me, I replied.

As happened with Mykel. I don’t know his full name, otherwise I would report it. That is the one he gave me. I know him only as a cypher.

Mykel responded to one of my queries that indeed he did feel misunderstood, unfulfilled, alone. He saw people but could not interact with them. Instead, he dreamed, vividly, of people chained and tormented. Of people jailed and forgotten. Of people broken in body and soul. He longed to connect with someone, anyone. I assured him I would help. Although I was not qualified to diagnose his condition, he had diagnosed himself. Besides, my treatments are natural, organic, elemental, and therefore safe for all. After the anonymous transfer of funds online, I sent him a month’s supply of my supplement and told him to take one dose per day.

Within a week, he reported that he felt remade, reborn, reconnected. He had identified someone with whom he longed to bond. “She alone can fulfill me,” he wrote.

Thus, I too felt redeemed. Every time I heard from a satisfied client, I knew that my efforts were not in vain. If I kept a wall of gold stars, each representing some new connection, it would exceed a galaxy. For him, I would have added a bright one.

Usually, my encounters with clients are short, succinct, mutually fulfilling. They unburden themselves once, twice at most, and thereafter only ask for refills. However, occasionally one of these lost ones craves more than a singular contact. I become a surrogate, a sage to lead them back from their banishment.

So it was with Mykel, who wrote to me daily about his progress. He’d met the target of his affections. He’d spoken to her. He’d invited her out. He’d invited her home. She’d spent the night. They’d become inseparable.

Wonderful, I thought, except why keep writing to me if he’d found fulfillment with her?

Nonetheless, he wanted to share everything with me. She was his prisoner, his love slave, his subject. I assumed he was speaking metaphorically, as we often do when we first connect with another being. Except his comparisons became ever more vivid, tormented, violent. He had mastered her, had branded her as his own, had ravished her until she begged him to relent. Phrases from an S&M story.

I stopped replying. Our relationship had reached its outer limit, a boundary I would not exceed even with clients. Although happy to resupply them, I kept a professional distance. I did not want them to rely on me, only on my medicines. Don’t all healers need some remove from their patients?

Yet Mykel persisted. He had bound and gagged her, he wrote, pierced her with fishhooks, starved and beaten her till she fainted.

This was not connection. It was not love. It was criminal.

Or so it sounded. I could not know whether these confessions were true or some dark fantasy.

I checked the news for stories of people vanished, abducted, lost. But in such a large, disconnected society, the disappearance of any one being is rarely noticed or reported.

Then I called the police, asked if they had any recent cases of missing persons.

“Every day,” said the patrolman who answered.

“Of a woman,” I asked, “who may have fallen victim to her boyfriend.”

“You’ve gotta be more specific,” said the cop. “We’ve got dozens like that.”

What did I know of Mykel? Only his first name, his email. Or an email, which I assumed was his. When I shared it with the cop, he said he’d try to trace it.

So I waited—days, then weeks.

I never heard back from the police, but I heard from Mykel. That his relationship had reached its “unnatural end.” That he’d “terminated the connection.” That he’d “killed it off.”

I questioned: was he leading me on, yanking my chain, tormenting me for amusement? Was I that anonymous being he was torturing, not in the flesh but in the mind?

So I replied again. Asked the name of his friend. “Desolation,” he replied. Where was she now? “Buried forever.” What did he plan to do next? “Replace her.”

I challenged him, demanded something identifying, something I could share with her family.

He claimed to have chosen a victim no one would miss.

I needed to investigate, but how? Since Mykel’s first name was spelled unconventionally, I searched birth records, where I found hundreds of such men. I cross referenced those to an online address directory and narrowed it to a couple dozen. Yet none shared the same email as my Mykel. From my business, I knew that these identifiers could be disguised, rerouted. He could have been any of these men, or some other who’d taken a pen name. I’d reached a dead end.

That’s when he told me he’d identified a new partner, one even more susceptible to his advances than the first.

I had to help her. I composed a new pitch, targeted to every solitary soul on my contact list.

“Looking for someone who’s lost? Trying to reconnect with a loved one who’s absent from your life? I can help. I trace the missing . . .”

Dozens of people replied. They’d lost a brother, husband, son. A wife, sister, daughter.

Mykel always referred to his victim as a woman, so I eliminated the men. Then I asked my supplicants when their relative disappeared and winnowed the list to those who’d vanished in the last year. Still, that left almost fifty.

I probed deeper. Who were they, what did they do, how did they vanish? I read tales of runaway children, estranged siblings, lost loves. What type of person might Mykel covet?

He gave me more clues with his next “partner.”

“She cries for her father even as I apply the strap of discipline.”

From his description, I surmised that this woman was young, perhaps a child? I narrowed my search by age, eliminated the grandmothers and parents. Still, that left too many to pinpoint just one.

I told their relatives what little I knew. I urged them to contact the police, to cite an anonymous source, not some psychic or crackpot but a witness who wished to remain anonymous. I hoped they could urge investigators on to action in ways I couldn’t. Only the police didn’t believe them. They called Mykel an urban legend, a bogeyman of the missing, a hobgoblin of the disturbed.

I knew different. His fantasies were too particular, too detailed, too vivid to be fictive. He’s as real as I am—and even more hidden. Despite all of my online connections, I could not pin him.

For the first time since I started taking my own medication, my sense of loss and isolation returned. Despite my best intentions, I had failed. Like Mykel, I had slipped into megalomania.

Who knew there were so many lost souls? I should have, given my trade, but in my focus on selling supplements I’d never thought of the people those people had lost. Companionship takes two, but my myopia only saw one, a transactional view of relationships. Maybe that’s the problem, we all see other people as a fulfillment of our own needs.

When I was younger, I read the classified ads in our local newspaper, particularly those for missed connections. “Our eyes met on the train, you carried a grocery sack, I hefted a bag of plant food.” I longed for a person who longed for me. Yet I never found that ad.

Which is why I started my business. I knew I couldn’t connect to people personally, no matter how many ancient potions I consumed, so I lived vicariously through the reunions of others. And it worked. Many people cured themselves through my ministration.

Only the more people I contacted, the more isolated I became. I suppressed my own needs through my business. Why did my medicines work for others but leave me so alone?

The one lasting connection I made was to Mykel—who still writes me of his exploits. He’s captured dozens now, he claims, each more satisfying than the last. He has not only connected with them but subsumed them.

He reminds me of why I retreated from society. That threat of being misunderstood, exploited, targeted. He is the monster who drove me into hiding.

Each day I check the news for reports of a serial killer who stalks people online. I live in fear of being found out, of being revealed as the matchmaker for a sociopath. It so weighs upon me, I have suspended my business, stopped all sales and marketing. Even though my supplements helped thousands, I cannot abide thinking they contributed to Mykel’s emergence.

Now I rarely leave my apartment. I exist as a shut-in. I prefer to venture out online, where I remain protected, disguised, anonymous. I have found a community with others equally antisocial, whom I console without cures.

Yet I imagine what would happen if Mykel made me his next victim. Who would notice? Would anyone care that my postings stopped, my messages discontinued, my counsel desisted? Or would they go on as I have all these years?

When I die, the only proof of my existence will be my mass of mailings.

I spam, therefore I am.