Page 96 of Nathan
New York Times
Nathan
River’s townhouse was in Mayfair not far from Hyde Park. It was overpriced and far too big for one person, but it had been a gift from an infatuated billionaire boyfriend for her twenty-first birthday three years ago.
I sat in River’s upstairs fashion room as she called it. It was the entire third floor, which had been turned into one large room where she recorded most of her YouTube videos on fashion and style. The room was like a high-end shop with one wall displaying shoes from floor to ceiling and another showing off designer bags. The last two walls were full of clothes arranged according to color.
One of my favorite details in this room was the way all the white shelves were lit with a soft golden light, which made the wall of shoes and bags look like an art exhibition. A few mannequins stood dressed up in some of River’s favorite outfits with outrageous hats that she’d worn to the Derby. And then there was a beauty station with a lit mirror hanging from the ceiling and a glass table like you’d typically see in a jewelry shop. In River’s case, all those drawers were filled with neatly arranged make-up products visible through the glass tabletop.
The room oozed femininity and elegance with its color scheme of white, gold, and dark gray.
My hand brushed over the velvet love seat I was sitting on. “Why don’t you come up from the floor?”
River didn’t react. She was curled up on the thick soft carpet, staring blankly out the window with bloodshot eyes from all the crying she had done these past days.
“No one is going to laugh at you. I don’t know why you keep saying it. You’re not the first woman to have loved a gay man.”
“I don’t want to talk any more about it.” With a deep sigh, River propped herself up on her elbow and turned her face to me. “Read the article for me one more time, will you?”
“I’ve already read it to you twice.”
“Then give me the iPad.” She held her hand out.
“Here.”
River was quiet as she read theNew York Timesarticle one more time.
“I love the headline.How Humans Evolved from Medieval Public Floggings Until the Internet Brought It Back Ten-Fold.” Without my asking her to, River began reading a snippet from halfway down the first page of the article.
“One of the prominent voices to join the choir of public shaming was a man named Joe Gomez who had previously won a lawsuit against Nathan Robertson for assault. With Mr. Gomez’ testimony out on every TV channel, the public’s verdict was secured; Nathan Robertson was a villain and a dangerous criminal who was unworthy of Serena Star, one of Hollywood’s darlings. Just like in the old days, no one in the crowd stopped to ask for more information. Instead, they picked up their virtual eggs and rotten tomatoes and fired away.”
“More like Sharpies and spray cans,” I muttered. “Someone drew hate speech all over the front door to my apartment building and there’s been graffiti at my shop.”
River read on.
“Every generation would like to think of themselves as more evolved than the last one. But modern-day technology has created a new platform for our village mob mentality to reach new heights. Today, the person unlucky enough to be placed in the virtual pillory, faces not just an angry village mob, but a global attack team of potentially millions who threaten and humiliate the poor person. The fact that we’re spewing our hatred from behind a screen and don’t have to risk the bloodstain of the victim’s skin splitting open from the things thrown at them, only makes us less sensitive to the fact that somewhere there’s a real person on the receiving end, suffering.”
“That’s right.” I snorted. “People have called for a ban on my shop, and I’ve been spit on in the street.”
River already knew about it and read on,
“In this latest case of mass bullying, some would argue that Nathan Robertson got what he deserved. We all saw the evidence of his kissing an engaged woman, and he was convicted of assault two years ago. That alone made it easy for the public to take sides, but…”
I stopped River. “You don’t have to read the whole article.”
She looked up. “But I love the part about how the journalist discovered that Joe Gomez was a fraud.”
“All right, then read that part if it makes you happy.”
River’s finger scrolled further down the long article:
“According to Mr. Gomez, he came to the US from Mexico when he was in his early twenties to study fight techniques. In researching this article, we were unable to verify that claim. Instead, our research team tracked Mr. Gomez’s roots to Peru, where he lived for the first twenty-three years of his life under the name Arturo Chavez. This morning Mr. Gomez, 39, was taken into custody by the St. Louis police for questioning about his fake identity. If deported to Peru, he stands to face charges of two counts of rape and aggravated assault in connection with gang-related activity that dates back to his early twenties.”
River looked up again. “Doesn’t it make you happy to know your instincts were right about him?”
“Anyone could see he was a creep.”
“That’s not true. The world swallowed his sob story about you being a monster. One can only hope that with the testimony from your two colleagues, this article will change people’s minds.”
