'I am never allowed to forget that this moment existed for long,' writes EmilyGould
Danielle Orchard. Red Sketchbook, 2019. Oil on canvas. 40 x 30 inches. Photo: Courtesy the artist and V1 Gallery, Copenhagen This article was featured in One Great Story, New York’s reading recommendation newsletter. Sign up here to get it nightly.
What the job did have, and what made me blind to everything it didn’t, was exposure. Every person who read the site knew my name, and in 2007, that was a lot of people. They emailed me and chatted with me and commented at me. Overnight, I had thousands of new friends and enemies, and at first that felt exhilarating, like being at a party all the time.
Occasionally we’d get a request for someone from the site to go on TV to talk about one of our stories. At 25, I still had an outsize optimism about my own capabilities. Who knew what I might be capable of? Maybe in a pinch I’d be able to fly a plane, or sing an aria, or field pointed questions on live television — that’s the kind of sitcom logic I still believed in back then. I should have, at the bare minimum, asked to receive media training.
Then I went back to Greenpoint, to my apartment across the street from a chicken slaughterhouse. I stood in front of my closet, trying to figure out what to wear on TV. Something I’d never worn before caught my eye: a vintage blazer that I’d bought on a recent trip to Florida, where the thrift stores are full of designer castoffs from downsizing or deceased retirees. It was a lipstick-pink color that I’d never have chosen, but it was Chanel and it was $5 — a great find.
“You look like a very pleasant woman,” he began, and I immediately interrupted him — “I am a very pleasant woman!” And then, at his prompting, I haltingly tried to explain how the “Stalker Map” worked. Kimmel tried to cut me off. After Kimmel posed a hypothetical about a “psychopath” using the map to go after Gwyneth Paltrow, I was unable to conceal my contempt. “It’s not actually stalking,” I said, rolling my eyes like a teenager.
The following week in the office was weird. I was worried at first that I was in trouble. I posted a transcript of the clip myself — I wanted the feeling of control I could get if I wrote the caption under it, and I thought it would be good to “own” any traffic it generated. I titled the post “How the Gawker Stalker Map Works: A Guide for Dummies, Outraged Famous People and Old Folk,” and it continued in that condescending tone.
One day, I saw a post on Gawker of myself drunkenly fellating a plastic tube. The video had been taken by the staff videographer while I still worked for Gawker; we were on the sidewalk after a party in Soho for a rival site. I think the tube might have been a sex toy sent to Gawker’s porn site, Fleshbot, for review, and we were all passing it around and goofing off.
In 2016, when I still thought of Trump as a reality-show personality, my husband and one of his friends and I watched the presidential debate. We watched Trump roving around the debate stage, making Clinton’s attempts to seriously debate seem inherently ridiculous by interrupting her and making faces. Secure in the approval of his audience, he seemed to be making clear he could do whatever he wanted.
The next day, I woke up feeling a full-body dread that made it hard to get out of bed. I was also in pain. The pain was everywhere and nowhere, but also it was sometimes very specifically in my lower abdomen, as though the events of the night before, which had nothing to do with me, had taken up residence in my pelvis, right where I kept my uterus and ovaries and vagina and entrails, the place where my firstborn child had lived for the better part of the previous year.
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