“That. Is. AWESOME.”
“I know . . . The awful thing is, I almost walked right by it. I just thought, ‘Well, there’s another fucking cool New York City thing,’ and kept on walking. But it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard or seen anything about it, and since, y’know, you’re always in search of your big viral hit, you might want to get the scoop. So I’ve been guarding it for you.”
“So you saw this big, beautiful, muscular piece of art and who sprung into your mind but ANDY Skampt!” His thumbs were digging into his bony chest.
“LOL,” I said sarcastically. “In fact, I figured I’d do you a favor, and here it is, so maybe just appreciate it?”
A little dejected, he handed me a tripod. “Well, let’s start getting this shit set up then. Gotta work before Channel 6 drunkenly stumbles by and steals our scoop.”
In five minutes the camera was set up, a battery-powered light was glaring, and Andy was clamping the mic to his lapel. He didn’t look as dopey as he had in school. He’d stopped wearing stupid ball caps, and he’d given up on his unruly (or just uncommon) haircuts in favor of a short-wavy thing that complemented his face shape. But despite the fact that he was eight inches taller than me and almost exactly my age, he still looked about five years my junior.
“April,” he said.
“Yah.”
“I think maybe it should be you.”
I probably replied with some kind of confused grunt.
“In front of the camera, I mean.”
“Dude, this is your dream, not mine. I don’t know shit about YouTube.”
“It’s just . . . I mean, well . . .” Looking back, I think it’s possible, though I’ve never asked him, that he had some idea that this would actually be a big deal. Not as big a deal as it would turn out to be, of course, but big.
“Hey, don’t think you’re going to win my favor by giving me internet fame. I don’t even want that.”
“Right, but you have no idea how to use this camera.” I could tell he was making an excuse, but I couldn’t figure out why.
“I don’t know how to do behind-the-camera stuff, but I also don’t know how to do in-front-of-the-camera stuff. You and Jason talk to the internet all day long, I barely have a Facebook.”
“You have an Instagram.”
“That’s different.” I smirked.
“Not really. I can tell you care about what you post on there. You’re not fooling anyone. You’re a digital girl, April, in a digital world. We all know how to perform.” God bless Andy for being blunt. He was right, of course. I tried not to care about social media, and I really did prefer hanging out in art galleries to hanging out on Twitter. But I wasn’t as disconnected as I made myself out to be. Being annoyed by carefully crafted internet personas was part of my carefully crafted internet persona. Even so, I think we could both feel Andy stretching for a point that wasn’t 100 percent there.
“Andy, what is this actually about?”
“It’s just”—he took a deep breath—“I think it would be better for the artist if it were you. I’m a fucking goof, I know what I look like. People aren’t going to take me seriously. You look like an artist with your outfit and your cheekbones. You look like you know what you’re talking about. You do know what you’re talking about, and you talk it good, girl. If I do this, I’m going to make it a joke. Plus, you’re the one who found it, I think it just makes more sense for you to be in front of the camera.”
Unlike most of my classmates who graduated with design degrees, I thought a lot about fine art. If you’re wondering what the difference is, well, fine art is like art that exists for its own sake. The thing that fine art does is itself. Design is art that does something else. It’s more like visual engineering. I started school focusing on fine art, but I decided by the end of the first semester that maybe I wanted to someday have a job. So I switched to advertising, which I hated, so I switched a bunch more times until I caved and went into design. But I still spent way more time and energy paying attention to the fine art scene in Manhattan than any of my design-track friends did. It was part of why I desperately wanted to stay in the city. This may sound dumb, but just being a twenty-something in New York City made me feel important. Even if I wasn’t doing real art, at least I was making it work in this city, a long ways away from my parents’ literal dairy-supply business.
Ultimately, Andy wasn’t showing any signs of giving up and I determined that this wasn’t actually that big of a deal. So I ran the mic up the inside of my shirt . . . The cord was warm from Andy’s body. The light shined in my eyes and I could barely see the lens. It was cold, there was a little breeze, we were alone on the sidewalk.
“Are you ready?” he said.
“Give me that mic,” I said, pointing at an open bag on the ground.
“Your lav is speeding, you don’t need it.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I got the gist. “No, just as a prop . . . so I can . . . interview it?”
“Ah . . . cool . . .” He handed me the mic.
“OK,” I said.
“’K, I’m rolling.”
CHAPTER TWO
’K, I’m rolling.”
You’ve heard Andy say those words . . . if you’re a human who’s ever been near enough to an internet connection to hear them. Whether or not you speak English. Whether or not you’ve ever owned an electronic device in your life. If you’re a Chinese billionaire or a Kiwi sheep farmer, you’ve heard it. Militant rebels in Nepal have heard it. It’s the most-viewed piece of media of all time. It’s been viewed more times than there are humans on earth. Google estimates that “New York Carl” has been watched by 94 percent of living humans. And by this point, I suppose, a fair number of dead ones.
After Andy edited the video . . . this is roughly what we had:
I’m a mess. I’ve been awake for twenty-two hours. I’m barely wearing makeup and the dress code at work was basically “whatever looks like you care the least,” so I’m wearing a denim jacket over a white hoodie and my jeans have holes in the knees, which isn’t helping me keep warm. My black hair is loose around my shoulders, the light is glaring in my eyes, and I’m fighting to keep from squinting, but considering all that, I don’t look so bad. Maybe I’ve just watched the video enough times that I’m over the embarrassment. My eyes are dark enough that they look all pupil even when the sun is out. My teeth are shining in Jason’s LED light. Somehow, I seem chipper. The giddiness of lack of sleep has taken over. My voice is croaky.
“Hello! I’m April May, and I’m here at 23rd and Lexington with an unannounced and peculiar visitor. He arrived sometime before 3 A.M. today, guarding the Chipotle Mexican Grill next door to the Gramercy Theatre like an ancient warrior of an unknown civilization. His icy stare is somehow comforting, it’s like, look, none of us has our lives figured out . . . not even this ten-foot-tall metal warrior. The weight of life getting you down? Don’t worry . . . you’re insignificant! Do I feel safer with him watching over me? I do not! But maybe safety isn’t what it’s all about!”
A couple, headed home after a long night, walk by while I say this, looking over their shoulders more at the camera than at the giant freaking ROBOT.
The camera angle changes abruptly. (This was after a few seconds of me mumbling around for something to say and sounding like an idiot and Andy assuring me that he’d edit out the parts where I sounded like an idiot.)
“His name is Carl! Hello, Carl.” Here I hold the dummy mic to Carl . . . standing on my tiptoes. I’m a small person, five foot two—this makes Carl look even bigger than he is. Carl says nothing.
“A robot of few words, but your appearance speaks volumes.”
Another cut, now I’m staring back at the camera. “Carl, immovable, solid, and somehow warm to the touch, a ten-foot-tall robot that New Yorkers appear to think is not particularly interesting.”