Poles Apart (36 page)

Shelley seemed to be getting into it now. She was leaning forward, moving her hands about as she spoke, a plan formulating.

“Everett, this is a tremendous communications opportunity. There’s still plenty of media speculation about who is behind your blog. We have the chance here to control the message and turn this into a big win-win.”

“That’s just what Beverley told me you’d say,” I admitted. “But how?”

“Look, if we take Mason Bennington at his word, one way or another, in the next few days, you are going to be outed as the author of the
Eve of Equality
blog. Your cover will be blown, right?”

“Right. I guess.”

“Then let’s take the initiative away from him. Let’s not put him in charge of how that happens.”

Shelley Hunter’s strategy was still in its formative stages as she laid it out for me. It evolved as we kicked it around. We refined it. With my blessing, she called in her communications director, Leslie Bandler, and some of her team to help with the logistics. A phone call was made to the
NOW
research team. Fifteen minutes later, a young woman stuck her head in the door and handed Leslie a couple of pages. She scanned them before speaking.

“Okay, the media speculation about the identity of the blogger behind
Eve of Equality
has been gathering strength for the last three weeks, and it’s not going away. It’s not front page, but it’s
still quite prominent. This analysis suggests that Candace Sharpe has been the most significant driver, not just on her program, but through all her social media channels, as well. Stories speculating about who the anonymous blogger might be have appeared in seven major print dailies, on twenty-six radio stations, on twenty-one regional
TV
stations, and on four national
TV
network news or talk shows, including
Good Morning America
and
The Today Show
. Finally, there’s considerable speculation on Facebook and Twitter as to the identity of the EofE blogger. There’s even a hashtag, #WhoisEofE?”

Wow. I’d seen a few stories when grazing on the Internet, but I was not aware that so many mainstream media outlets were interested in this, interested in me. It seemed that the mystery behind who writes the blog might be a more important factor in the media’s fascination with the blog than the posts themselves. That was fine with me, as long as it pushed people to the site.

After the others had left to put the wheels in motion, I turned to Shelley.

“Can I just ask, why are you doing this? You could have just sent me on my way. What’s in it for you?”

“Well, it’s not unadulterated altruism, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “Beyond the fact that I do happen to think this is good for
NOW
, and it’s definitely good for the cause, I also have a longer-term agenda and there’s an idea crystallizing in my frazzled brain. Besides, linking
NOW
with a hugely popular feminist blog will help our numbers, too. Oh yeah, and you’re Bev Tanner’s friend.”

I nodded. She didn’t offer any more by way of explanation and I didn’t push it.

By 4 p.m., the plan was in place. We all had our marching orders. We all knew what we were doing. As a group, we agreed that it was already too late to do anything that day. Better to keep our powder dry until tomorrow morning. We’d execute the strategy then. The
NOW
communications team would need to burn at least a little midnight oil, but it would all get done. They’d been there before and knew what they were doing. Finally, Shelley and I discussed what I planned to say the next day, and we both took advice from
NOW
’
S
in-house attorney to make sure our words wouldn’t get us into any legal hot water. Mason Bennington was born to be litigious. I also asked the lawyer to review the blog post I’d already written and was poised to post the next day.

I realized that the plan we’d developed was pretty close to the one Beverley had forecast. And she was right. Shelley was an unstoppable force.

I managed to find a room at the Renaissance on 9th Street
NW
, not too far away from
NOW
. After an early steak in the restaurant, I sprawled on the bed, reached for the phone, and called my dad.

“Dad, it’s Ev.”

“Son! Hang on. Your mother’s here, too. I’m going to put you on the speaker if I can figure out how to do th—”

I called back.

“Hi, Dad. I’m back.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I got it this ti—”

I called back.

I heard the audio change as he somehow managed to switch to speaker-phone mode.

“Sorry about that,” Dad said. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Hi, honey. I’m here, too.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“How was Washington?”

“Well, no need for the past tense, I’m still here and will be until tomorrow.”

“Is that good news?” Mom asked.

“We’re going to find out tomorrow,” I said. “How’s everything in Orlando?”

“Everything is just peachy,” Dad said. “In fact, we got some news of our own, today. Look’s like they’re springing me on Saturday. I’m getting out of this joint. I’m going home.”

“Hey! Congratulations, Dad. That’s great news!”

“Yeah, well, try telling that to Kenny Chevy,” Mom piped up. “He’s been moping around since the news broke this morning.”

“That’s no different from how Kenny acts every day, Mom,” I said.

“Yeah, well, he’s dialed it down another notch, now,” Mom explained. “He’s going to miss your father. No one else knows
enough about cars to go anywhere near him. It’s going to be ugly when your father moves out.”

“What about Beverley? Is she around?”

“She turned in early,” Dad replied. “She hasn’t been feeling too shit hot today. I think she might be coming down with something.”

“She still has her sense of humour, though,” Mom noted. “She had your father on the ropes earlier tonight. It was hilarious. I like that old bird.”

“That’s what she does. As her books says, she’s the funny one,” I said. “Is everything okay at the company, Mom? You haven’t seemed quite as frenetic these days. And I haven’t seen the ever-efficient Nathan around much either. Is everything cool?”

“The company is just fine. We’re on track. The digging has started. That’s what’s been so consuming. Now that the shovels are in the ground, we just have to build the damn thing,” Mom said. “Oh, and I turned Nathan in for a newer model. Barclay, I think it is, starts next week.”

We chatted for a few more minutes. I told Mom and Dad what we had planned for the next day. Then Dad ended the call as the dinner gong sounded in the background. He hates to miss dinner.

I was just lying there thinking about what was about to go down in the morning when my cellphone rang.

“Hello?”

“Young Everett, it’s Beverley.”

“Hi, Beverley. I was going to call you, but Dad said you’d gone to bed early, not feeling well. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a little tired, and just a touch out of sorts. But I wanted an update. Did you see Shelley?”

“Sure did. And she’s everything you said she was.”

“And did she propose what I thought she’d propose?”

“Yep. Pretty close. We’re on tomorrow morning at ten.”

“Perfect. Early enough to get the noon newscasts, right?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Strangely serene. It’s like the grown-ups have taken over and if I do my part without passing out, all will be well.”

“Good,” she replied. “And don’t give a thought to Mason Bennington. I think what you’re doing tomorrow will put you out of his reach. The world will be watching.”

“I hope you’re right. But I think I’m going to have to move out of my apartment anyway, on principle, much as I like it.”

“Oh, by the way, I should be finished my little guest post for the blog later tonight or in the morning. I’ll send it to you then.”

“Hey, that’s great! You decided to write it. I’m thrilled. Readers will be thrilled, too, I know.”

“You might wait till you read it before elevating expectations to an unreasonably high level.”

“No need. I already know.”

Media started showing up at 9:30, a full half-hour before show time. That was a good sign. The
NOW
media relations team had been burning up the phone lines since 8 a.m., driving attendance. It seemed to be working. The big sprawling
NOW
boardroom had been turned into a media briefing room. The board table had been moved out, and rows of chairs moved in. Risers were placed at both ends of the room. At the front, a skirted table was positioned on the risers with two chairs and two microphones. Behind the table, mounted on the wall was a very large high-definition
TV
monitor bearing the
NOW
logo, the date, and the start time of the media briefing. In the best of all worlds, the risers at the rear of the room would soon be occupied by videographers from various news organizations. I wandered around with not much to do. I had already rehearsed what I was going to say in front of my hotel bathroom mirror. None of the reporters filing in, as 10 a.m. approached, paid me any attention. No one knew who I was.

I leaned against the wall off to the side but toward the front of the room. I was dressed in what I guess is called business casual. I wore black pants, black shoes, a dark blue button-down-collared dress shirt, and a dark blue blazer/sports jacket. I thought I wouldn’t look out of place in a Madison Avenue advertising agency. By 9:55, there were twelve reporters in their seats, and five cameras were stationed on the riser along the back of the room. I noticed that one of the cameras was from the
Candace
show. The reporters were chatting with one another, wondering
why they were there. The media advisory had not been explicit about the story, but counted on a sense of mystery to enhance the draw. It seemed to have worked.

Shelley walked into the room, nodded once at me, and made her way to the table at the front. Her name and title appeared on the
TV
monitor. As she sat down with no notes or paperwork of any kind, the room fell silent.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming in response to an invitation that I know was not just short on notice, but short on details, too. For those of you who might not know, I’m Shelley Hunter, president of the National Organization for Women.

“As you might imagine, we are very interested in any new developments that bear on the fight for gender equality in this country. We’re interested when issues arise that set the movement back, like the growing popularity of Mason Bennington’s chain of
XY
clubs that simply exploit women in a more exclusive and expensive setting. And of course, we’re excited when something new breaks on the scene that helps advance the cause of women’s equality. For instance, in the last several weeks, an anonymous blog,
Eve of Equality
, has captured the attention and the minds of hundreds of thousands of readers around the world. Candace Sharpe promoted the blog on her show, and the media and the Internet took care of the rest.”

The screen behind Shelley now featured the home page of the EofE blog.

“This morning, after long and careful consideration, the anonymous writer behind
Eve of Equality
, for reasons that will be shared shortly, has decided to come forward.”

Now that Shelley was too far down the road to turn back, I used my cellphone to publish the rather incendiary blog post I’d finalized the day before. There was no way back now.

“I’m pleased now to introduce the gifted writer, thoughtful advocate, and committed feminist who created and writes the
Eve of Equality
blog, Mr. Everett Kane.”

Because it was a media briefing, there was no applause that you might expect to hear after such an introduction. Reporters generally don’t clap. With the room so quiet, it was much easier to hear the sudden intake of breath from the reporters, when she said my rather gender-specific name. It wasn’t Kelly, or Kerry, or Alex, or Avery, you know, where it could go either way. No. It was Everett. I pushed myself off the wall where I’d been leaning, made my way to the front table, shook hands with Shelley, and sat down next to her. I didn’t fall, trip, burp, or toss my cookies on the way up. My hair looked okay. Nothing was hanging out of my nose – at least not that anyone mentioned. So I managed to plant my ass in the chair at the front of the room without embarrassing myself, though there was still plenty of time left for that. I was nervous – very nervous – yet, at the same time, I also felt a certain calm fall upon me like a blanket. I took a deep breath as I looked out at the assembled journalists. I had no notes but had rehearsed what I wanted to say about thirty-six times that
morning until it sounded spontaneous, conversational, even casual.