CHAPTER FOUR
EVAN
I KEEP CHECKING MY PHONE for the time because I’m already late. Sam was going to join me in walking loops around the building. We were going to knock out the fifty or so little issues that managed to trickle their way all the way up the corporate chain and now require my attention. It’s usually easy. Sometimes senior developers (and VPs who aren’t confident enough in their own decisions) manage to bully their way into demanding my opinion rather than let themselves be handled by the gatekeepers beneath me. But the issue in those cases is insecurity or chest-pounding rather than problems. Sam will read them to me, and I’ll tell him how to respond. Then we’ll go through my most important emails, and he’ll give me the gist of a few messages people left with the receptionist.
I figure we can bang it all out in the half-hour between my return from the rock gym and my meeting with Carl Vickers from PlayMaker. It will be tight, with no time to shower before Carl, but I pay him enough to deal with my sweat.
I get back ten minutes early and find myself blessed with a bounty of extra time — a good thing, because now I can investigate before joining Sam to clear my to-do list. What Taylor told me in the car this morning — about this “Rebecca Presley” woman and her LiveLyfe ads — has my brain percolating with ideas. I could barely concentrate during my climb. I blew a 5.10a route that I was sure I’d manage to reach the top of today, but the chance to poke around in Ms. Presley’s business made up for it in the end.
Or so I thought.
Turns out, Ms. Presley takes more than a quick few minutes to understand. I typed her name into Forage before opening her ads console, just to see what comes up. Most of the results are about an internet hustler who went viral with a product called “How to Get Guys to do Exactly What You Want Every Time You Ask for Anything.” It’s clearly a different Rebecca Presley (Taylor told me the one we care about has a joke site about her ex-boyfriend’s tiny penis), but I click out of curiosity, and end up reading her entire sales page. That alone swallows my ten available minutes, but it’s worth it. The copy is brilliant. I almost want to buy her little course, just because her writing is so personable and engaging; even though I don’t care about getting guys to do exactly what I want every time I ask for something.
At some point, I realize I’m not wasting my time. The copy on the “How to Get Guys to do What You Want” sales page starts ringing little bells inside my mind. For one, it’s totally unprofessional — obnoxious, almost, in an adorable sort of way. Second, at some point in the sales letter, she stops talking about the course entirely and diverts into a sideline story about her sister, who got crabs while in Mexico. There is no relevance to this story as far as I can see, except that it keeps me reading — right into the part where the author mentions her boyfriend, Steve.
That’s when I figure it out. This is the same Rebecca Presley. The “How to” course is something she did years ago — on a dare, apparently, because she tells that story in the schizophrenic sales copy, too: how her friend Benji launched some stupid online course and how she accepted his dare to do better. Rebecca’s admission about the dare is right there in the sales copy plain as day, but somehow it fits. As does this line:
“So yeah, I made this thing as a total cash whore. I’m selling it so I can show Benji that he’s a douchebag and that a girl can beat him at his own game. But what do you care? I read all the books about relationships and psychology and even that pick-up-artist manual ‘The Game,’ and all I learned combined with what I already know, which is a lot, I put it in the course you’re about to buy, and you really can get guys to do whatever the hell you want. Seriously, I know my shit. Unlike Benji, I can actually help you learn something.”
Mentions of Steve, Steve, Steve. It’s obviously the same Steve that Taylor told me about, except that when Rebecca wrote the sales page, she seems to have still liked him. I read the page, getting to know Rebecca, her sister, her mom, and Steve.
I look through the other results. I find a blog and an early LiveLyfe profile. Then two websites with tiny businesses still percolating along. All written in the same irreverent, self-deprecating style, all every bit as engaging as the sales page.
It dawns on me that this woman is a genius. I doubt she knows it. She’s bent Forage to her will, showing up on the first page of results when I search for “relationship course” and “how to meet men.” Her little websites must be raking in cash, and yet they sound like they were written by someone with zero personal boundaries. Most online marketers talk like scumbags, but Rebecca’s sites all read like ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary.’
Even before I find the SteveHasATinyDick page, I realize I like Rebecca very much. I wouldn’t want to be part of her schizo life because she’d tell her readers every little thing about me, but I like her just fine. I also like her sister. And her mother. The only one I don’t trust is Steve, who comes off less like a lovable fuckup and more like a sleaze.
And this website. How did Steve finally screw up enough to earn such abuse?
My phone chirps. It’s Sam: I’m ready when you are, Boss.
This is the second text from Sam. I should have joined him already, but I’m fascinated by what I’m reading. This woman has told a story in marketing copy. She apparently holds nothing back; she’s eviscerating herself on the internet, showing every corner of her personal life. I’m transfixed by her transparency. Who is this honest — particularly when trying to run a business?
And she’s running a business like a boss, from what I can tell. Although she does everything wrong, she’s gotten everything right.
Now ten minutes late, I text Sam and tell him to hang tight for a little bit longer. I haven’t even gotten to the reason Taylor brought this to my attention in the first place.
I go back to the dick website. I flip through it quickly, trying to understand. It’s both amazing and pointless. She has merchandise for sale, but I don’t think this site is a moneymaker. She’s just gaining what appear to be rabid fans (along with a few misogynistic-sounding haters) and writing a love letter to her hatred of Steve and his micro-unit.
I open the LiveLyfe console, but by now I don’t care about the ads. I can see she’s done some serious fucking jujitsu over the last six months with the tools we offer. She’s getting our ads to do tricks they shouldn’t be able to do, but it’s just an extension of what I’ve already seen.
Good girl, Taylor. I’ve been looking for someone like this.
Maybe. Except that holy shit does she seem to have a loud mouth.
I go back to the site, now looking for photos. Not of Steve’s tiny dick, but of Rebecca herself. Curiosity compels me. It’s hard to hear someone’s voice for so long and not wonder who you’re listening to. But the site’s photos are all about Steve and the situations Rebecca has Photoshopped him into. A Forage images search comes up just as empty because the results are all her creations. If there are pictures of Rebecca in here, they’re drowned by the most popular images on her site.
I go to her LiveLyfe profile, but it’s private. I have access if I want it, but I don’t have time right now to contact the dev team. She has a LiveLyfe page for Steve Has a Tiny Dick as well. I think there are images of her there, but when I click to enlarge them, they’re all Photoshopped to humiliate Steve. It’s possible some of the scattered body parts I see around Steve are Rebecca, but the images are so obscured (and Steve’s photographic co-stars are so varied) that I can’t be sure.
I’m frustrated; this is taking too long. This woman is not shy, and she doesn’t protect her privacy like I do. So where are the photos? I see from her site that she does a webcam show, but it’s not live now, and she’s too disorganized to have archives.
Goddammit.
But why do I care? Taylor alerted me to the ads stats and how they matched my criteria — exceeded them by far, actually — and here I am, bothered by the lack of images.
My phone chirps again. I’m twenty minutes late and meeting Vickers in ten. I still haven’t showered. Fuck.
Are we on? Sam asks.
I guess not, I reply. Sorry. Back-burner it for tomorrow.
I stare at the photo gallery, then at the still-open tab with the worthless Forage search. I don’t know why I went on a five-minute obsession when I don’t have a single minute to spare. I’ve read her copy and already know how she’s gaming our system. She seems rough around the edges and probably looks like a toothless trucker. But so what?
I stare at her page, hesitant to contact her. Almost like a kid about to go on a date. What’s that about? She must be that good at writing. I’m captivated.
I can send her a chat request through her page. It has Do Not Disturb turned on, but that’s something that even my base access can bust right through. It’s rude but screw it; I own this company.
I look at the time again. I have eight minutes.
I really should take a few to clean up before meeting Carl Vickers, but no. I already know Rebecca Presley is going to get every one of them.