The Smash-Up Page 16

  It spreads because it’s clever, or because it’s subversive, or because it’s an in-joke. Because people get that joke, or because they don’t. Ethan’s not even sure people know who the philosopher is, let alone what he said, but that hardly matters. Having the image is the point—it’s insider code, available only to the few, the rad, the nonconforming. It all feels so unlike marketing, it’s anti-marketing, really: a declaration of independence from consumer forces, except, of course, it’s not: the whole thing can be traced back to two guys with corporate dreams.

  Will the real Jean Baudrillard please stand up?

  The campaign is turned inside out when the real Jean Baudrillard does stand up, in France, to claim that the campaign has “out-Baudrillarded Baudrillard.” Ethan’s so stunned by the philosopher’s unexpected appearance (he and Randy had assumed the man died years ago) that he barely notices or cares that Baudrillard’s declaration wasn’t exactly a compliment. The New Yorker features the twist in a “Talk of the Town” story; this is followed by pieces in Newsweek, the Times Magazine, Rolling Stone, WYNC, 1010 WINS. Ethan hears a rumor, never confirmed, that over a six-month period, sales for Baudrillard’s books increased by 8,000 percent.

  But most important, Bränd gets calls: a sneaker company, a sports agency, a hotel chain, a movie studio, a craft distillery…even, hilariously, some of the biggest advertising firms in the world. Everyone wants the same thing: marketing that doesn’t feel like marketing, campaigns that help them reach Generation X, all those skeptical cynics, oh, and by the way, is it possible to get the name of the woman who starred in the “Heaven Is a Gal Named Audrey” campaign?

  Bränd borrows more of that hedge-fund capital, hires some staff: a receptionist, an office manager, more. Randy begins planning a massive bash, a coming-out party—at the Ritz-Carlton of all places! Right there on Central Park South!

  It will be years before Ethan fully understands: it’s Baudrillard and everything he represented—the death of context, the collapse of meaning, the rise of the manipulated symbol—that’s ultimately responsible for Bränd’s good fortune.

  Zo has become a symbol. This is what Ethan understands by the time he finishes reading the tweets about his wife’s arrest. She represents something now.

  An activist arrested for her activism. Well…sort of. But that story resembles the truth about as much as Dr. Ash represents an actual physician, or a reality-TV presidency resembles functional government. Something important, some essential thing, is missing.

  Ethan mulls the situation over as he drives to Corbury to pick up Alex from school.

  What happened?

  When Ethan was a kid, “the news” meant a hometown newspaper. Maybe a national source too. Television? Sure, but there were only a handful of channels, and the news was on for, what, an hour or so each evening? A daily check-in, that’s all you needed. Newscasters told you what was happening out there, and they’d get it over with quickly. Just the facts, ma’am.

  Now the news is nonstop, with so many different outlets that it barely even matters what the stories actually say; everyone just cherry-picks the parts they want anyway. And all that’s before social media, all those hashtag battles and back-and-forth tweets, reactions not equal and opposite, but rather opposite and amplified.

  And all those social media accounts doing that amplifying: Are they actual humans? Are they bots? Are they paid propagandists sitting in a concrete office building across the ocean? Does it even matter? It’s like we’re all propagandists now.

  Point is, two hours after a story breaks, Google returns so many different entry points, each one branching out into so many permutations of hyperlinks that within a few clicks, three or four taps of a finger, a person’s adrift in a sea of disconnected fragments. It’s up to you to choose what to do with them. You decide, Google says over and over.

  It’s like the world’s given up on objective truth. The post-truth society, Randy would have called it. It all feels like those choose-your-own-adventure books Ethan used to love. Choose-your-own-reality.

  We’re plotting and scheming, Zo told him on the phone, check out our Twitter feed. There was delight in her voice, which means she likes what she sees online, she’s happy to take on this role of Symbol of the Resistance.

  But Ethan was there. He saw Zo’s arrest with his own eyes, knows exactly how it went down. It wasn’t the way those tweets suggest.

  The atomization of truth, that’s what this is. Truth so pulverized it’s barely more than whizzing specks, like those particles hurtling underground in that supercollider, the one in Geneva, seventeen miles around. Slam the individual bits together, and you’re basically re-creating the Big Bang.

  He remembers telling Maddy about that supercollider recently. He’d talked with excitement about all that the experiment would reveal: why anything exists, how particles gain mass, what physics might exist beyond the standard model.

  Maddy had asked, “Isn’t that the experiment that everyone says is gonna end the world?”

  Ethan assured her no, that was never a concern, and even if it had been, scientists have been running experiments for years now, slamming together protons at nearly the speed of light, and look: everything is fine.

  But Maddy had grinned. “Or maybe this is what the end of the world looks like.”

  He’d laughed at the time, but honestly: he’s starting to wonder if she might be right.

  * * *

  —

  To Ethan’s relief, when Alex climbs into his car, she doesn’t ask about her mother. Instead, she launches into a mile-a-minute monologue about today’s active-shooter drill, and how she got in trouble for talking when the shooter was there, which made the other kids say that it’s her fault that they’re all dead, so she decided not to talk to them for the rest of the day, but then she forgot, and then they didn’t want to talk to her, and anyway, can they please listen to Wicked now? She sings at the top of her lungs about unadulterated loathing popular defying gravity dancing through life, turning the music down only long enough to announce that no witches have ever been burned to death in America. “All of the witches that were found guilty in the Salem Witch Trials were hanged, except for one guy who refused to plead either guilty or not guilty. They crushed him to death with heavy stones for not taking a side.”

  “Gee, I’m glad you’re learning so much in science,” Ethan says dryly, but if Alex catches the sarcasm, she doesn’t show it.

  Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if Alex can’t stay at Rainbow Seed. The public school must have academic standards, right? Don’t they have to report that stuff to the Department of Education? Prove their value on standardized tests? Besides, Alex would get bus service again. Which means Ethan won’t ever have to make this horrible drive, not ever again.

  But if Alex is going to school anywhere but Rainbow Seed, she’s going to need to get up to speed academically, and fast.

  HOW TO HELP YOUR CHILD WITH MATH HOMEWORK

  Sit with her. Walk her through the equations, step by step. Speak patiently, in a calm voice. Don’t let it be like last time, don’t lose your temper, don’t get so irate when she refuses to pay attention, or complains, or forgets where she is in the assignment.

  Remind yourself how funny she is, how spirited and clever. She just needs to harness her energy, channel it toward the equations on the page. She can do this. With your help, you’re sure she can.

  * * *

  —

  “Okay, Alex. Let’s try this. Eyes on the page. The page is right here, honey. Look.”

  “Can I get a calculator?”

  “No, you can do this yourself. How many times does seventeen go into thirty-seven? This is why it’s so important to know your times table. No. No, don’t erase it that hard. Alex, come on, you’re going to tear the paper again, Jesus Christ, okay, go get a clean sheet.”

  * * *


  —

  “This problem’s easy, how do you reduce that fraction? Wait, why are you writing like that? Is that your normal way of holding a pencil? You’re holding your pencil with just two fingers. Why would you do that? You need three fingers to hold a pencil, no one will ever be able to read that. Alex, what are you even doing?”

  * * *

  —

  Take a deep breath as your child sings in an operatic voice, “I haaaaate this! I haaaaaate this! Daddy is the woooo-oooo-ooooorst!”

  * * *

  —

  “Alex, stop. First you have to do the multiplication.”

  “I did! It’s right there: Nine times one hundred and seven!”

  “Wait. No. When you set up problems like this, put the smaller number on the bottom. This’ll make it easier to keep track of your work.”

  “As long as I got the right answer, what does it matter?”

  “You didn’t get the right answer.”

  “What? Impossible! Impossible, I say!” That last part with a British accent.

  “Try it again.”

  But now she’s standing, doing a Mr. Magoo walk across the room, pretending to hold a monocle. “I dare say, old chap! Shall we take the lift to the lorry, or do you fancy a visit to the loo?”

  * * *

  —

  “Alex, please.” By now, you’re begging. “Please. We’ve been sitting here over an hour, and it’s almost time to go to Parents’ Ni—”

  But she’s singing, now, “The Star Spangled Banner,” in a raspy, jagged Janis Joplin voice. On the page in front of you, there are exactly two completed math problems, and you basically did this work yourself.

  Her medicine’s wearing off, you realize this, which reminds you that you still haven’t picked up her Adderall prescription. You glance at the clock. There’s still time to pick up that prescription. You can do it before driving—for the third time today—to the Rainbow Seed School.

  This time for Parents’ Night.

  The pharmacy is closed. Never mind that the store website claims that pharmacy hours run until 7 p.m.: the gate at the pickup counter is down. A sign lists new pharmacy hours, which end at 5:30 p.m. Luckily there’s still one pill left for the morning.

  For much of the drive, he follows a pickup truck: GMC, brown and battered, with two massive flags affixed to the cab with wooden dowels. One of those flags is the stars and stripes. The other bears the president’s name: five huge block letters on a blue background. Each flag is enormous, as big as the entire truck bed. They ripple violently as the vehicle barrels along the road. Beneath the flags are a series of bumper stickers: Proud Deplorable, and Are You Triggered Yet?, and Don’t Tread On Me, and a decal of a cartoon Calvin pissing on a snowflake. And also, mysteriously, a single small red oval.

  The driver, whoever he is, has apparently decided to turn himself into a rolling billboard for resentment, the spirit that elected this president.

  In the passenger seat, Alex gapes at the truck. “Whoa,” she says. “It’s a good thing Mommy’s not here, because she would hate that truck.”

  Ethan nods. Zo would hate the truck, but even so, he’s not quite as quick to classify Zo’s absence as “a good thing.” It seems like an even worse thing that Alex still hasn’t wondered where her mother has been all afternoon. Like it’s Alex’s new normal to never see her mom.

  What exactly should Ethan do, he wonders, about the Zo-sized hole in their lives?

  * * *

  —

  Persimmon’s house, where the sixth-grade girls are meeting, is titanic, new construction in midcentury-meets-renovated-barn style. Probably designed by some Manhattan architect who never spent more than forty-eight hours at a stretch in the Berkshires. Looks like every light in the house is on, too; yellow beams spill from floor-to-ceiling windows onto the rolling fields beyond. If Ethan squints, he can almost convince himself that the house is some sort of spaceship, like the one that lands in the woods at the start of E.T.

  It occurs to him that Alex has probably never seen E.T. He should organize a family movie night. A double-feature, perhaps: E.T. and Jaws, or maybe E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark. Spielberg, though. Definitely. Everybody loves Spielberg.

  Ethan escorts Alex to the front door, where she’s greeted by a freckled, pony-tailed nanny—just out of college, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. “Mr. and Mrs. Prendergrast left about five minutes ago,” says the nanny. “Come on in, Alex, we’re making pizzas.”

  Ethan peers into the house: there’s a gaggle of eleven-year-old girls seated around a gargantuan live-edge table set with bowls of pizza toppings. One of the girls glances up, sees Alex, doesn’t say hello. Ethan watches the kid take a slice of pepperoni from a bowl and lay it carefully on top of her personal pizza as if she’s Botticelli adding the finishing brushstroke to The Birth of Venus.

  Back in the car, Ethan turns to the place where his wife would be, should be, and isn’t. “We should do a movie night,” he says to Imaginary Zo. “Spielberg.”

  He imagines Zo’s response: “Spielberg. Hmm.”

  “What’s wrong with Spielberg?” he asks.

  “Nothing’s wrong with Spielberg,” his wife-who-is-not-there answers. “If you like sanitized, sentimental tripe.”

  Ethan decides it’s not worth it to argue with a wife who isn’t even present. He gives himself the last word—Spielberg is a genius, and everyone knows it. Then he backs down the crushed-stone driveway and heads, yet again, toward the Rainbow Seed School.

  * * *

  —

  Zo arrives late to Parents’ Night. She bursts into the classroom, flushed, several minutes after the homeroom teacher has already begun talking. Ethan can’t help but notice the way Shreya glances up, then presses her lips together.

  Oh, but she’s got a good explanation for her lateness, Shreya. She’s a criminal now! He actually snorts with laughter at the thought. A couple of parents shoot looks at him.

  For an hour, parents traipse back and forth across the Rainbow Seed campus, schedules in hand. They follow the pattern of their kids’ day, listen to one teacher after another say some variation of the same thing. Hands-on projects…joyful discovery…nurture the whole child…kindness…respect.

  Sometimes parents raise their hands and ask questions. They’ve been instructed that because this isn’t a parent-teacher conference, questions shouldn’t focus on any specific child, but rather on topics that apply generally, to all children. So every parent question is framed to appear as if it’s not about their individual child, even though it clearly is. “Let’s say a child is a reluctant reader…” asks Jett’s dad (last name Mars, of candy fame).

  “And how might you support a child who’s anxious?” asks Muse’s mom (divorced from a leveraged-buyout financier, rumored to be worth ten figures). “I mean theoretically, of course.”

  In English class, Willoughby’s mom (did Ethan once hear that this woman is the stepdaughter of the artist Julian Schnabel? Or maybe it’s Jeff Koons? Someone like that, Ethan’s pretty sure) raises her hand to ask whether the children are reading diverse perspectives in English class. The teacher nods, responds with a straight face, that yes, they value all perspectives in this class. Currently they’re reading Our Town. Before anyone has a chance to respond, Mr. McCuttle’s voice comes over the intercom. “Wonderful Rainbow Seed families,” he says gently, like he’s Stuart Smalley from the old SNL sketch, “it’s time to proceed to your next class.”

  The families rise, ready to move dutifully to their next location.

  Zo and Shreya reach the classroom door at the same moment. “After you,” Zo says.

  “Oh, no,” says Shreya tightly. “Please. I insist.”

  A pause. “Fine,” says Zo. She lifts her chin and exits. “Thank you.”

  In gym class, t
he parents have to participate in something called “The Harmony Dash,” which works like a relay race, except there’s no winner, and instead of passing a baton, players must give each other compliments. Somehow Zo and Shreya get placed next to one another in line.

  When it’s Zo’s turn, she says, “Shreya’s extremely devoted to her son.”

  Shreya flutters her eyes and offers a practiced smile. “And Zenobia has so many interests other than home and family!”

  Toward the end of science class, Ethan asks Mr. Boorstin a question of his own. “What if a child wants to do a science project on a non-scientific topic? Will you steer them toward a subject that involves actual science?”

  Mr. Boorstin, who has introduced himself as a “recovering alpaca farmer,” explains that any subject can be used as the basis for scientific exploration. “Well,” Ethan pushes back. “I’d venture that some topics, like, say, witches and ghosts, don’t lend themselves easily to the scientific method.”

  “Can you not apply the scientific method even to investigations of the occult?” Mr. Boorstin asks, smiling.

  “Actually, no,” Ethan says. “Because you can’t prove a negative.”

  But there’s McCuttle’s voice again: “I hope you’ve enjoyed this class period, Rainbow Seeders! It’s time to move to your next location. And if you’ve volunteered to help serve our delicious lasagna dinner, thank you. It’s time to report to the kitchen.”