16 MINUTES
16 MINUTES
BLOODSTON MEDIA
12354 Centre Park Drive
Suite #21
Palm Bay, Florida 32906
800-555-1212
____________________________________________________________________
Subject: New Hire Memo
To: John McDougal
In our celebrity obsessed culture fame is rarely ever earned and almost always fleeting. Here at Bloodstone media we represent the instant celebrities that have become so important to our society. It is with a complete understanding of the importance of our duty to our clients and to our fellow citizens that we issue our mission statement: Stretch the fifteen minutes, increase exposure, and maximize revenue, for the sake of all.
We are glad to welcome you to our team and wish to assist you in anyway we can. To expedite you transition, as is protocol, we have arranged for your predecessor to supply you with a list of current clients and to update you on all pertinent information regarding his or her current case files, as well as to help you understand the intricacies of the position you will be filling here in our family.
So, first things first. Congratulations on the promotion, I hope you enjoy my office. My secretary Andrea, (I'm sorry, I guess she's your secretary now), has compiled all of the updated client listings and the necessary notes concerning your case load. She should've already forwarded you the information and will be able to answer any other technical questions you may have.
So other than that, the only instruction I was given concerning my duties in this 'transition,' was to tell you what you need to know to be a successful handler. So here it goes:
Here at Bloodstone Media we represent instant celebrities. We take the cat with grumpy face, the tone deaf Asian crooner, or the angry transexual YouTube video critic, and manage their fifteen minutes of fame. Which in reality, without proper representation, is usually no more than a few weeks. And it'll come and go, with or without you, taking advantage of the opportunity that fame, how ever brief, has to offer.
To stretch and exploit the fame of our clients: The Bloodstone way.
Your job as a handler is to find, sign, and manage new clients. You'll make a hefty commission from each profitable case you manage, which will build your reputation, lead to a larger client base, and equal larger commissions. Not a bad gig.
This is the shit they want me to tell you, I know it is, but, I assume, these are all things you already know, not to mention they're not what you really need to know to be successful here at Bloodstone.
I didn't just fall into this cushy position with a corner office you know. I spent years working my way up the corporate ladder. From the sewers of data entry on the second floor, to the trailer park of the scouting department on six. Eventually, with a little luck, a little more ass kissing, and the well timed death of my predecessor, I made it to the fifteenth floor for handlers.
I'd be lying if I said shit hasn't changed John.
When I started at Bloodstone we still managed respectable clients. Like the two Americans who stopped the Siberian train attack before beating the terrorist to a pulp and restraining him with neckties. And William Hung. You know, the Asian singer with loads of self confidence, no self awareness, and even less ability? The guy from American Idol.
What am I saying, of course you know.
This company was basically built on the back of clients like William Hung. Some of the older handlers still affectionately refer to those times as the Hung Dynasty.
But nowadays, after years of faster, smaller, newer, our cultural taste buds have become desensitized and our attention spans diminished.
These days you'll be lucky to sign the woman who farted while singing the National Anthem before game seven of the World Series. But I guess you shouldn't complain, our employee lounge is light years ahead of that cave they call a break room in accounting.
Through all the ups and downs of this market, the secret to my success as a handler comes down to two things: Structure and control. Both my career and life is guided by a few hard and fast rules I've developed over the years.
I'm not the smoothest or most charismatic handler on the fifteenth floor but I am the most disciplined. Plus, I have an eye for the ridiculous and fickle interests of the lowbrow majority of our market.
Which brings me to rule number one: Never underestimate the stupidity and predictability of the American public.
My first client was Nate Adams. Ring any bells? Nate was the bike messenger who pelted a soccer mom with his water bottle, right through the driver side window of her Dodge minivan. Apparently, she honked at him while blowing through an intersection. The whole incident was captured in high definition on her daughters iPhone 16 from the backseat.
Rule number two: Americans love a good redemption story.
The video of the road rage incident hit 200,000 views on YouTube in under twenty-four hours. I immediately booked a flight to New Orleans to negotiate Nate's release (bail him out). He was charged with simple assault and disorderly conduct. Both misdemeanors.
I signed him on as a client before we left the precinct.
Rule number three: Never underestimate the lure of fame. (Or in this case: Fame and freedom.)
We flew back to New York on a red eye that same night. As soon as we touched down I started Nate on our media relations program.
Us handlers would be nothing without the media techs: The stylists, wardrobe, speech coaches, and the writers.
In a redemption case, like Nate's, the writers are invaluable to successfully managing the client. Their job is to come up with a plausible and relatable story explaining whatever indiscretion the client committed. You think it's easy to come up with a believable reason for rocketing a water bottle at a soccer mom, punching the pastor at your sister's wedding, or tasering the old lady in front of you with eleven items, in the ten items or less line? And maybe that last one seems like it writes itself, but it doesn't. The writers give us something that will play to the public.
While the media techs worked their magic, I lined up appearances on two of the Net's most popular web shows. Which, fingers crossed, would lead to a primetime network appearance.
Next I enrolled Nate in New York's most prestigious anger management classes. The ones specifically designed for pro athletes, movie stars, and police officers.
Nate then, magnanimously volunteered to re-sod the local soccer field and re-net the goals. All paid for by Bloodstone media. (Andrea will file the financial paperwork for approval. All you have to do is sign off on the expenditure requests.)
Finally I locked in the sponsorship deals.
Rule number three, and this is an important one, without it no one eats: Generate revenue!
Our primary endorsement was with the pharmaceutical giant Pfizer. Who had just secured FDA approval for their new anger management drug Relaxapro. The timing was perfect, Pfizer's newest wonder drug was set to hit the market in just a few weeks. A complete media blitz was arranged to accompany the big rollout, and Nate would be the face of the little yellow mood modifier.
The pharmaceutical giant bought wall to wall commercials, radio spots, and print and internet ads. In addition, they also secured product placement for all of Nate's future appearances and speaking engagements.
I rounded out the portfolio with a few secondary sponsors: A water company introducing a line of eco friendly, 100% recycled, water bottles with ergonomic bike straps, and a clothing line of reflective bike wear.
All together we brought in $7.2 million.
Bloodstone made a large percentage, I got a huge commission, and Nate Adams was now a rich man. Everybody wins, right? Well, almost.
No one ever mentioned Rule No.4: The only thing Americans love more than a redemption story is a devastating fall from grace. It's important you understand how this can play out.
Six months after signing with Bloodstone Nate was arrested yet again. This time for malicious mayhem, aggravated battery, public indecency, and lewd and lascivious acts. (All felonies)
It turns out that Relaxapro has some serious side effects. Apparently, when mixed with alcohol, the little yellow pill, in rare cases, can cause the opposite of its intended effect. In technical terms: Temporary, acute fits of unprovoked rage. (For the record, no where in his contract did it state that he was obligated to actually take the drug.)
Nate was making one of the last appearances on his contract with Bloodstone, at the grand opening of a health and wellness center, called Spa DeLeon, in midtown Manhattan.
According to police reports, eyewitness accounts, and several top of the line, audio/video surveillance cameras, Nate and some of the caterers were on a vape break in the alley behind the spa. It was later stated by a witness that Nate smelled of vodka and burnable tobacco.
In the surveillance footage Nate can be seen taking swigs from a metal flask tucked inside his tuxedo jacket. A few minutes into the footage, the back door to the spa swings open. A woman, in a sparkling red evening gown is standing in the doorway. (Identified in the police reports as Susan James, the owner of the health and wellness center) A delicately small water bottle is in her jewel encrusted hand.
"What the fuck are you assholes doing?!" you can hear her say from the top of the small set of stairs leading down into the alley. "Smoking?! This is a fucking HEALTH spa! Let's go. Everybody inside!"
The wait staff quickly slides past her, back into the building. She barks for everyone to go to her office bathroom to wash up. She can be seen pointing her tiny water bottle at Nate and asking if he's drunk. Nate says nothing. He just tilts his head back and laps at the remaining drops of whatever is that was in his flask.
Susan James, the owner and eventual plaintiff, shouts, "I paid good money! For this?!...Do you hear me ASSHOLE?"
In the video, Nate calmly screws the top on the flask but says nothing. Susan, later testified that standing there fuming, in her glitzy evening gown, she threw her tiny water bottle in Nate's direction, where it rolled to a stop at his feet.
Police would eventually find out that it was the same brand of water used in the initial minivan incident.
Nate sits motionless for a moment staring at the bottle of water.
Susan says, "Hello?!..Hey psycho, anyone home?"
With a calm that would have made the creators of Relaxapro proud, in 1080HD surveillance footage, Nate can be seen standing up and stripping completely naked. With the rented tux crumpled around his bare feet he glares up at Mrs evening gown. Apparently frozen in fear she stares back for an instant before grabbing at the heavy metal door, struggling to pull it closed. Before she can manage, Nate makes it up the steps, grabs her by the wrist and flings her down into the alley, dislocating her elbow and shoulder in the process. She lands, like a dish rag, onto a pile of trash bags filled with empty water bottles, used colonic tubes, and soiled rubber gloves.
An unnamed witness stated that Nate entered the reception area at full speed and dove headfirst into a six foot tall pyramid of complimentary water bottles. After which, he pulled himself onto the makeshift stage, punched a violinist, before climbing the chandelier with the MC's microphone clenched between his teeth. Once he reached the desired height he swung on the gold and crystal ornament, gaining momentum. They say he was screaming obscenities about soccer moms, drug companies, and minivans. The verbal onslaught echoed through the PA system and was picked up by the audio/video cameras positioned outside of the building.
According to the police reports, at the height of the mayhem the chandelier broke loose from the rafters and came crashing down, pulling a large part of the ceiling with it. The affidavits show that three guests were partially crushed by the falling debris.
In addition to the criminal charges, several victims, as well as the owners of Spa DeLeon, filed lawsuits against Mr Adams.
After all was said and done, Nate Adams, the soccer mom assailant, was sentenced to ten to fifteen years in the New York department of corrections. His bank account was emptied, and his carefully rehabilitated name destroyed. That was the last anyone ever heard of Nate Adams.
That first case taught me a lot about being a handler. About distance and the need for the separation between work and emotions. I learned that there's no room to have a heart if you want to be successful, or get a good nights sleep, in this business. Remember that.
This first case wasn't the exception, it's been the rule. Nearly every case since, has followed an eerily similar arc: Instant, undeserved fame, a redemption/glorification, and the inevitable fall.
As a society we seem to have some perverse desire to destroy our creations. Its like we identify with our instant celebrities because they could be us. And we're so quick to celebrate their demise because they're not.
The quicker you realize this flaw in human nature, and its role in the progression of our clients trajectory, the better off you'll be.
No matter how much you care, or what you think you can do to prevent it, they all fall down, it's just part of the deal. So don't beat yourself up about it. It's just the way it is.
The guy who stopped the Siberian train attack, got busted sending dick picks to a ninth grader.
The lady who farted while singing the national anthem, was caught not recycling, and beating her son with a cable cord.
And if there's not a good enough reason to trigger a fall, then someone will create one.
When a snooping paparazzi found an empty prescription pill bottle of muscle relaxers in the grumpy cat's trash, all hell broke loose. The idea that his disgruntled look could've come from handfuls of muscle relaxers ground into his gourmet tuna, was enough to send most of America into a rage.
Grumpy cat and his family received death threats of every kind. The kids were mercilessly bullied at school. Mr Martin, the original bread winner of the house, was fired when his boss learned of the shameful deceit. It was only after the family Subaru was fire bombed that they finally went into hiding.
Several months later it came to light that the pill bottle was actually planted there by the paparazzi who claimed to find it. Poor cat.
As a handler, it's your job to pitch the beginning of the story, the good part. The client will find the rest out on their own, even if it is from the smoldering ashes of their lives. But that's the job.
I don't want you to think I started out like this. I wasn't always such a heartless asshole. It's an occupational hazard. This business takes its toll.
The life expectancy of a handler is almost twenty years below the national average. It's a mixture of the stress, and the habits we develop to cope with the stress, that does most of us in. My favorite crutch to lean on is, Johnny Walker black label. You'll find what works for you. Every night I drink myself to a stupor before passing out, completely alone. I'm also putting my tobacco dealers kids through college with my affinity for the old fashioned burnable leaf. Nothing wrong with a crutch and a cane.
If there's anything to learn at BloodStone, it's to get out before the fall. Personally, I should've done it awhile ago. But for years, a mixture of momentum, and fear, has kept me from doing what needs to be done. I kept thinking that I've made it this far, if I can just make it to my ten year bonus I'd be able to walk away with some real security.
I've spent the last eight years of my life making money, exploiting people for personal gain, and most importantly, doing everything in my power to avoid any type of fame. That's eight uninterrupted years of running.
As handlers, we're probably the only people left in the country actively avoiding our fifteen minutes of fame. We've seen behind the veil. We know the consequences.
However, finding a full proof way to stay out of the limelight, is harder than you might think.
All the rules I gave you about the business, mean nothing without these three rules to guide your personal life by.
Sacrifices have to be made if you want to survive.
First: Never get involved.
This one sounds simple in theory but can be difficult in practice. You know that most decent of human urges, to help someone in need?
Bury it!
Whether it's donating a kidney or helping someone pick up a stack of papers they've dropped.
Keep moving.
Sound ridiculous? You'd be surprised at the seemingly innocent chain of events that can send you headfirst into your fifteen minutes, and if that happens you can kiss your corner office and your cushy job goodbye.
Does the name Andrew Wyatt ring any bells? You might remember him as the guy who set fire to his old elementary school on Christmas eve. But that was just his fall (that's all anyone remembers anymore). He got to that point, innocently enough, by helping an elderly woman who'd fell down in the middle of a busy intersection.
Big mistake!
While he was performing his act of selflessness, a late model Tesla came screeching around the corner towards them. Just before impact Andrew managed to shove the little old lady into the safety of a row of shrubs lining the street. Andrew wasn't so lucky. He tumbled over the fiberglass hood and through the windshield, suffering three fractured ribs, a torn groin, and a severe concussion. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst part, was that the whole ordeal was caught by the traffic enforcement cameras and uploaded to the internet.
The rest is history.
Do you have any idea how many old ladies, in need of help, that I've stepped over or ignored in the last eight years? Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
Avoiding your fifteen minutes, rule number 2: No extracurricular activities.
Unless its part of your daily routine or an ambulance ride to the E.R, then don't do it. No bowling leagues, No company softball games, no deep sea fishing trips, or church bake sales.
You can't be too careful.
Nowadays cameras are everywhere. 1020HD, Dolby Digital, sound equipped, pinhole cameras. Any unnecessary exposure and you're just asking for trouble. We're all just one drunken brawl, on the pitchers mound of the local softball field away from being the next YouTube megastar.
It's just not worth it.
The last rule is the toughest, yet undoubtedly, the most important: No relationships. You must avoid any and all nonessential personal connections of any kind if you expect to avoid your fifteen minutes. This is where most people slip up.
Now I'm not a complete sociopath. I still have needs. And that's what sites like BackPage and Plenty-of-Fish are for. When times get tough, think: escorts over girlfriends. It might just save your life.
Remember, nothing more than superficial acquaintances. Even personal friendships are out of the question. Sure there will be people you're drawn to, people that you actually enjoy spending time with. The trick is not to be a slave to those feelings. Because every relationship, even the essential ones, are just another string in the web of notoriety, just waiting to reach out and ruin your life when you least expect it.
I've learned to live with the small superficial exchanges that can't be avoided: The teller at my bank, the doorman at my building, my secretary. These are relationships that just can't be avoided, but they must be kept in check.
All of the disciplines, all of the sacrifices, have kept me safe and anonymous for these past eight years. These rules have provided me a framework to scale the corporate ladder here at BloodStone media, to establish some financial security, to give some predictability to my life. What more could you ask for? Considering the alternative, it's all worth it. At least I think it is. It's been so long, who knows anymore.
Just remember, it's all or nothing. Even the smallest slip up can result in disaster.
The only thing even close to an exception, that I've made concerning the rules, was with the girl who works the register at Manhattan Wine & Spirits, where I buy my whiskey.
I know what you’re thinking, only essential interactions, but picking up my whiskey is probably the most essential of all my interactions.
Printed in black block letters, on her white plastic name tag was, Olivia.
Every time I went in there she was behind the register. I think she lived above the shop.
There were all these little things about her that should have made me run in the opposite direction, or change liquor stores, but I didn't.
She spoke with a bluntness that seems rude to most people nowadays. She held onto the confidence of youth into her early thirties, long after life had wrestled it away from the rest of us.
She was always in the middle of some obscure paperback novel. No one reads actual books anymore.
She would ask every customer to donate their change into a jar for abused orphans with cancer, or something along those lines. No one ever did. I could tell 7because my change from the day before was always on top. Who even uses hard money these days? Her jar became my own personal piggy bank, that I never got to use. I didn't care about any orphans, or cancer kids, but for some reason, I found it difficult to say no to Olivia.
For close to a year, our only exchanges were liquor and money. When she finally did speak, she said, "You're unhappy David." She must have gotten my name from my credit card.
She wasn't wrong, but who the fuck is happy these days.
Our mini conversations slowly grew over the years. She once told me that being a cynical asshole and being a coward are often the same thing.
I kept a jar full of coins just for Olivia's orphans.
There was a careless freedom about her that I both envied and feared. Naive girl. With her personality and interests, it was just a matter of time before fame found her.
I could've warned her. I could've pulled her aside and gave her some professional advice. I could have done something, but I knew better. Even if I could have gotten through to her, I have my rules for reason.
The maddening thing, is that you can plot and plan your whole life, only to have something as innocuous as a Post-it note turn everything upside down.
I came in to work one day, and there it was, stuck to my laptop. In Andrea's handwriting, a yellow post-it note, "Olivia called. 555-227-7566." My secretary, your secretary, is the last person on the planet still using Post-its.
A rush of anxiety ran through me. Immediately followed by a chain of paranoid questions and possibilities. I quickly came up with an ever increasing list of reasons to explain away the little yellow omen. None of which did anything to alleviate my fear.
I folded the note and put it in my shirt pocket where it smoldered. I did my best to go over my client files, but it proved useless. How could I get any work done with a live grenade in my pocket?
I spent the rest of the day, locked in my office, pacing from one end of the room to the other. I finished the last of the Johnny Walker and started in on the scotch that I keep in my desk to toast my new clients.
I fondled the little yellow explosive device, wondering if it could be a dud. By now it was soggy from hand sweat.
Was it Olivia from the liquor store? It had to be. Right?
How does she know where I work? What does she want? What bullshit was she about to unleash upon my life? Whatever the reason, I decided I wouldn't engage. Hopefully it would just go away on its own.
Eventually I passed out on the couch in my office. I woke to the sound of a distant vacuum somewhere on the fifteenth floor. It was the middle of the night and the cleaning crew was stalking the darkened halls and stairwells of the building. I grabbed my coat and drove home.
I decided that I had to change my name and go into hiding, or at the very least, I had to find a new liquor store. The next few weeks were torture. I had to drive halfway across town to get my whiskey. The guy at the counter, a middle eastern man in his fifties, with none of Olivia's magnetism but a similar number of bracelets, manned the register.
I did my best to ignore this potential catastrophe and return to my normal routine, but proved to be nothing more than a husk of my former self (Which is saying a lot considering I was a shell of a man before all of this). I blamed the looming anxiety for my deteriorating condition, but as ridiculous as it sounds, a small part of me worried that Olivia's absence from my daily routine could be cause for some of the stress.
I did my best to push the thought from my mind.
Eventually, it proved too much. I stopped going to work altogether. I pushed off my few remaining clients to other handlers and cashed in on my stock of vacation and sick days.
Unable to work and unwilling to call Olivia, I descended into a drunken madness, only leaving my apartment to stockpile liquor.
Every night ended the same. With me ranting at the withered post-it, stuck to my refrigerator, trying and failing to work up the courage to dial the faded number before the Johnny Walker overtook me and I'd pass out.
I knew it couldn't last, that I couldn't go on like this, but I didn't know what else to do. I had protected myself into a corner. I knew it had to end, I just didn't know how.
Then one morning I awoke on the kitchen floor with my phone vibrating next to me. Pay attention John, this is what happens when you get complacent.
"2 missed messages." I tapped the screen. Both messages were from Olivia. The fact her name was on the message means that at some point I saved her number in my phone. Not a reassuring sign.
You ever seen a snowball turn into an avalanche on the screen of a phone? Well, this is what it looks like:
Olivia: U still there?!
Olivia: I guess I'll figure it out on my own.."
My heart seized up. What the fuck did I do?! I scrolled down and almost threw up when I saw the amount of texts we exchanged. I searched for the first message so I could piece together what the hell had happened. How all this started.
All the way down at the bottom of the text log, this is what I found:
Me: It's David did you call my work?
Panic washed over me. I initiated! Years and years of strict discipline ruined with a single drunken text.
Olivia: OMG! Yeah it's me Olivia from the liquor store. Where have u been?
Me: Busy with work..what did you want?
Olivia: I need ur help.
The fact that this wasn't the last message, and didn't end with my phone in a thousand pieces on my kitchen floor, made the hairs on my neck same on end.
Olivia: I need u professional advice. I saw ur company ID in ur wallet....BloodStone right? I know what they do there.
Olivia: Anyway, I got an idea N need ur help!
Me: No!
Now I'm taking a stand? Seems a little late for damage control.
Olivia: I want my 15 min of fame.
Me: It doesn't work like that!
Me: I never pegged you for a fame junkie"
Olivia: I'm not a FUCKIN FAME JUNKIE!!!
Olivia: R U drunk?
Me: Maybe
Olivia: I need the $ they're shutting down the house.
Me: What house?
Olivia: Hello! The safe house for the orphans.
Me: Oh
Olivia: UR the only 1 who cares & since you fell off the face of the earth there's been nothin comin in.
Me: Look, it doesn't just happen like that. Everyone wants to be famous! There's a lot more to it, some of it you wouldn't understanding, all of it you'd hate.
Olivia: Oh Fuck U David, I'm not so naive. Look I need ur help.
Olivia: Meet me for dinner so we can talk.
Me: NO FUCKIN WAY!
Me: You don't know what you're asking me to do! You don't know what happens to my clients. Fame destroys them...
Me: ALL of them..
Olivia: So? What do I really have to lose? I'd rather be a martyr than a fuckin cashier for the rest of my life
Olivia: Just tell me how to do it, how to stage somthin that will get me my 15mins.
Olivia: What do I need to do?
Olivia: Rape a clown?
Olivia: Fist fight a mime?
Olivia: Have a miscarriage on a ferris wheel?
Olivia: H3LLO?
Olivia: H3LLO?
Olivia: Look man, u can't live the rest of ur life like this! Life isn't some collectible piece of memorabilia that you leave in the box n sum ridiculous attempt to increase its value.
Olivia: Life is a tool. A tool that needs some grease and dirt B4 it even starts to work properly. It's a tool that takes 2 hands 2 use N a lot of leverage. It's not nice and pretty, cause that's not tha point!
Olivia: And if ur fear of scrappin ur knuckles keels you from ever takin it outta tha box, then u might as well already be DEAD!
Olivia: U still there?!
Olivia: Whatever..I guess I'll figure it out on my own.
I have no idea how long I sat there staring at my phone, but eventually I put it down and lit a cigarette.
I wish I could tell you that I talked her back to her senses so that I could go back to work and carry on as if nothing had ever happened, but I didn't. Or that I finally put my fears aside and called her back to formulate a plan to save the orphans. I didn't do that either. The truth is I don't know how this will end. And even if I did, I wouldn't have the time to explain. I just thought I'd let you know what you need to be successful. I gotta get going now.
I have to finish getting ready. I'm meeting Olivia for dinner tonight.
For the first time in my life I'm going in blind. I told you, I have trouble saying no to her.
No rules, no plans..Just dinner.
Oh, and Good luck. Remember the rules and you'll do just fine.