I got my dream job—social media assistant at DiPaulo’s, the world’s second-largest producer of authentic Italian pasta sauces.
It was a big responsibility. I wrote posts on Facebook and Tumblr and posted pictures of the sauce on Instagram. But most of all, there was Twitter. For Twitter, I created Pauley.
I started with a jar of DiPaulo’s Old World Style Marinara. I glued a pair of googly eyes above the label. Then I went to the crafts store and bought bright-orange construction paper and a packet of pipe cleaners. I cut the paper into happy, rounded shapes—two big ovals for the ears, one big crescent for the smile—and pasted them onto the jar. The final touch was the pipe cleaners. I found a thick black one, cut it in half, and stuck one half above each googly eye—eyebrows, raised in wonder.
The face looked so happy. I took a picture. Pauley was born.
Pauley was the profile picture for the DiPaulo’s account. On Christmas, I put Pauley in a Santa hat. On April Fool’s Day, I gave him a pair of glasses and a fake nose. On September 11, I drew a little tear in his eye.
All my tweets were written as Pauley. If a woman posted a picture of herself in the kitchen, Pauley replied, “Wish I was there!” If someone talked about bread or pasta, Pauley retweeted it and wrote, “That would taste great dipped in me!”
Pauley posted recipes and gave advice. If someone was sad, he sympathized; if someone was happy, he celebrated. He talked about real struggles. He wrote, “When your friends make pasta sauce without you” followed by eight crying emojis. He asked questions. “What’s your favorite way of cooking with me?” People shared their answers, and he liked every reply.
Everyone loved Pauley. He had thousands and thousands of followers. He was the subject of two Buzzfeed lists. In a negative world, Pauley was something positive.
In the bad old days—before social media—advertisements weren’t interested in people. All they wanted to do was sell you something. But things were different now. I cared. I connected. I related. I gave pasta sauce a human face.
* * *
One day, my boss called me into his office. He congratulated me. Pauley now had two hundred thousand followers. I was very happy.
My boss said that he had a reward for me. DiPaulo’s was sending me on a trip.
The company had recently expanded to Eastern Europe. Our sauce was now sold from Paris to Moscow. “The Eastern Bloc is eating it up,” said my boss, “with one exception—Narodistan.”
I opened Google Maps and found Narodistan. It was a little oval at the edge of the map, a pearl in Russia’s ear.
“The economy was weak in the Nineties,” said my boss. “But they’ve had ten years of growth. They should be ready for us, but the sauce isn’t selling.”
He showed me the Narodi branch’s Twitter page. I couldn’t read a word—everything was in Narodi—but I could tell it was bad. They posted once a week. No pictures, no retweets—not even a single emoji.
They needed my help.
* * *
I landed in Narodistan at sunrise. The capital was in a valley, and the sun rose over the mountains. I took pictures through the window of the plane. All my followers agreed: it was very beautiful.
Seryozha met me at the airport. He was my Narodi counterpart—the man who wrote DiPaulo’s Narodi Twitter. His beard had big patches of gray around his jaw, and his eyes were always halfway closed. He wore jeans and a t-shirt and a blazer.
We shook hands. I had made my first Narodi friend. I asked Seryozha for a picture. I leaned in close and held up my phone. I smiled; Seryozha squinted.
“I’ll send it to you,” I said.
Seryozha drove us into the city. Traffic was heavy, but I didn’t mind. I was seeing a new country. I took amazing pictures.
We got to the center of the city, and traffic was even worse. We went fifteen minutes without moving an inch. Seryozha rolled down the window and smoked a cigarette. From far off, I heard the sound of human voices, someone chanting through a megaphone. “What is it?” I asked. “A concert?”
“A protest,” said Seryozha. He started to talk about Narodi politics—something about the opposition and the elections. It was all very complicated. I started to feel uncomfortable. Politics are just like the old advertisements—nasty and negative. Politics are another way of selling you something. If we only listened to each other—if we could only connect—then we wouldn’t need politics at all.
* * *
We made it to Seryozha’s office. A secretary brought us tea and flaky pastries stuffed with onion and mushrooms, and we got to work.
I opened DiPaulo’s Narodi Twitter page, and Seryozha translated some of the tweets.
“DIPAULO’S PASTA SAUCE IS THE MOST DELICIOUS PASTA SAUCE,” said one.
“DIPAULO’S PASTA SAUCE HAS THE MOST FLAVOR,” said another.
The most recent tweet was “BUY DIPAULO’S PASTA SAUCE AT THE SUPERMARKET.”
I was disappointed. Seryozha shrugged. “I told people to buy the product,” he said. He bit into a pastry. Flakes of it stuck in his beard. “It’s advertising.”
I explained how social media was so much more than advertising. Advertising is about authority. But no one wants an authority figure yelling at him, telling him what to do. People don’t want bosses: they want friends. And we can be their friends.
Seryozha took a big bite. Flakes of pastry fell onto his jacket. One of them drifted through the air, across the table—straight toward my phone. I flapped my hands, and the flake floated away.
“There are lots of ways to connect with people,” I said. “One of the best kinds of tweet is the question. For example, you say, ‘What is your favorite way to cook with DiPaulo’s?’ Or ‘What is your best memory of DiPaulo’s?’ You ask a question, people answer, and you start to build relationships. Let’s give it a try. Give me a question you could ask your followers.”
Seryozha scratched his beard. “Maybe, ‘How much pasta sauce will you buy?’”
“Well, okay,” I said. “Not bad. Tell you what—I’ll give you one of my own questions. A classic. When I asked it, I got over three thousand responses. Ready, Seryozha? You can tweet this one yourself. Here it is: ‘Hey America, which do you love more: red or white?’”
Seryozha stared.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Is it hard to translate? Of course, you can replace ‘America’ with ‘Narodistan.’”
“This tweet is not a good idea, I think.”
“Trust me,” I said. “People love to have these little debates. It’s how we engage with them. Besides, it shows brand diversity. Marinara versus alfredo—the classic dilemma.”
Still, Seryozha argued. He raised all kinds of objections. He still had a lot to learn. I told him that I was the expert. I told him to trust me. “Look,” I said. “I’m supposed to train you. But I also have to report back to Corporate. If the report is bad, they’re going to fire you. I didn’t want to tell you that, but there you go. I say this as a friend, Seryozha.”
“Hey Narodistan,” Seryozha wrote, “what do you love more—red or white?”
* * *
I had flown all night, sat in traffic all day, and argued with Seryozha all afternoon. I was tired. Seryozha drove me to my hotel.
We hit traffic again. Protestors filled the streets, chanting in rhythm.
My hotel was in Skrypsyz Square. The famous Hotel Viy. “The finest hotel in Narodistan,” said Seryozha. “Very European.”
On the walls of my room were framed pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Big Ben.
From my balcony, I looked down onto the orange bricks and the round gold churches of the square. It was very beautiful. I took a picture.
The protests were also in Skrypsyz Square. The crowd stood in a little circle at the center of the square, around a statue of a tank.
I lay on the bed and closed my eyes. I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. The protestors had megaphones. Their shouts shook my windows and walls, my pictures and furniture. The Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and Big Ben vibrated to the rhythm of their chants.
I checked Twitter. I made a few posts as Pauley, and then I checked the Narodi Twitter. There was our question. In two hours, it had gotten almost a thousand likes. I loved Narodistan.
I scrolled through the replies. Seryozha had taught me that red was “krasnoy” and white was “beloy.” Almost every Narodi voted for “krasnoy.” Some of them even posted pictures, proudly holding a can of DiPaulo’s Old World Style Marinara.
That was strange. Americans had split down the middle—half white, half red. The results didn’t matter, though. Voting mattered. We were engaging people. We were connecting.
I closed my eyes and slept very well.
* * *
I woke a few hours later. Someone was knocking. I looked through the peephole and saw the bottom of Seryozha’s beard.
I opened the door. There were three men—Seryozha, a very large man, and a man in a blue suit with no tie. The very large man grabbed my arms. He ran his hands up and down my legs, patted my pockets and chest, nodded, and went into the room. He searched the bed, the closet, the drawers, the suitcases.
“Hey,” I said. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”
He kept searching.
When he finished, he nodded again, and the other two entered the room. Seryozha sat on the bed. The third man—the man in the suit—smiled. His teeth were very white, and his hair was very short and neat. He looked young—my age. His cologne smelled like lemons and leather.
He spoke to me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t speak Narodi.”
“It isn’t Narodi,” said Seryozha. “It’s Russian.”
“I don’t speak Russian either.”
“Really?” said the man. “I was sure you did. I was certain you did.” (His English was very good.)
“I told you,” said Seryozha. “He isn’t FSB.”
“No?” said the man. He looked at me. “You’re not FSB?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Then what are you?” said the man. “CIA?”
“Is this a joke, Seryozha?” I said. “Is this a Narodi prank—to accuse your American friends of being in the CIA?”
Seryozha squinted at me. I stared into his droopy eyes, and I saw that he had never pulled a prank in his life.
“If you aren’t CIA,” said the man in the suit, “then what are you? Who do you work for?”
“DiPaulo’s.”
I unlocked my phone and showed him the DiPaulo’s Twitter page. I explained Pauley. I started to show him some of my most classic tweets, but the man in the suit was impatient. He said something to the large man, who crossed the room in two big steps and grabbed me by the shoulders. I squirmed, but it didn’t matter. The man was very large. He sat me on the bed, next to Seryozha.
Our faces were reflected in the glass of the Big Ben picture. My eyes were huge with fear, my forehead damp with sweat. Seryozha squinted.
“Do something,” I whispered.
Seryozha opened his mouth. I waited. He let out a huge yawn. A flake of pastry fell from his beard, fluttered in the air, and landed on the back of my hand. I did not dare move.
The man in the suit spoke louder now. He asked why I was in Narodistan. I showed him what Seryozha and I had posted on Twitter. Our question now had six thousand responses. I nudged Seryozha in the belly. “I hope you’ll trust me next time,” I said.
“Incredible,” said the man in the suit. He turned around, saw his own reflection in the Big Ben picture, and smiled. “You really understand nothing. Incredible.” He shook my hand with both of his. “You’re doing wonderful work. Keep it up. I may need you again soon. I’ll be in touch.”
He turned to go. “Wait,” I said. “Who are you?”
“I’m on Twitter,” he said. “Your friend can show you.” The large man opened the door, and they were gone.
Seryozha was still sitting on the bed. I asked him to explain.
“They came to my house and asked about the tweet. I told them about you, and they wanted to meet you.”
“Yes, but who are they?”
He pointed at the window.
I went to the window and looked down into the square. The crowd had grown.
Someone shouted outside the hotel. I saw the man in the suit leave the lobby and walk into the square. The crowd opened for him and his clean blue suit, and he walked all the way to the center of the square, to the statue of the tank. Someone tried to hand him a megaphone, but he pushed it away. He didn’t need it. Even on the twenty-ninth floor, I could hear him.
* * *
Seryozha explained it all. I tried very hard to listen, but there were so many Narodi names and so much Narodi politics. It all made me uncomfortable.
In the Nineties, Narodistan had a revolution. They kicked out the Russians and won their independence. The leader of this revolution was an army officer named Skrypsyz. He was very popular in Narodistan. After the revolution, he became the president, and he was still the president today. He formed a party called Our Narodistan, and they held almost all the seats in parliament.
The symbol of the party was a white rose.
Narodistan did have an opposition party. Its leader was the man in the suit—the man who had visited my hotel. His name was Aleksiy Litso. Seryozha showed me his Twitter. He had pictures of the protests, videos, retweets. He was very good at Twitter. “You could learn a thing or two from this,” I said to Seryozha.
In the last few years, Aleksiy’s party had grown in popularity. Last month, there was supposed to be an election. The opposition was expected to make big gains in the parliament. But at the last minute, Skrypsyz had cancelled the election. The protestors in the square were calling for a new election.
Their symbol, of course, was the red rose.
“When you say ‘white or red’ in Narodistan,” said Seryozha, “it means something. You asked people to vote, so of course they think you support the Reds.”
“I wish you had told me that before we sent the tweet,” I said.
“I tried,” he said. “I told you all about the political situation.”
“This isn’t about politics, Seryozha! This is important!”
We looked down into the crowd. Some of the protestors were holding cans of DiPaulo’s Old World Style Marinara. “This is bad,” I said. “We don’t want to be involved in politics. That’s not what we stand for.”
“So then we delete it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “The first rule of business: nothing is ever a mistake. Everything is a chance for us to do something great. After all, the Chinese use the same word for ‘crisis’ and ‘opportunity.’”
“In Narodi, we have two different words.”
“Well, yes, in English too. But you’re missing the point. We did what we wanted to do. We connected with people. Now we have to figure out how to turn that connection from politics into something productive.”
I didn’t know how to do that. I needed to sleep. I told Seryozha we would meet again in the morning and plan our strategy.
“Listen,” he said. “If I go home, I will have other visitors. They will not be so nice as Aleksiy was. They will not want to talk.”
I told him to stay. We were friends. He smoked a cigarette in the bathroom, and we shared the bed. We closed our eyes, but neither of us could sleep. The crowd was still growing, and Aleksiy’s voice was very loud.
“Are you a Red or a White?” I said.
Seryozha coughed. “I miss Communism,” he said. “There were no advertisements.”
* * *
We woke to the sound of chanting. The crowd had grown.
Seryozha drove us to his office. We walked through the doors, and the secretary let out a little yell. She spoke very quickly in Narodi. Seryozha’s eyes opened almost all the way.
The secretary led us Seryozha’s desk. The drawers had been removed, their contents dumped on the floor. All the pens had been snapped: the big blue stain on the carpet was still wet. Even the desk calendar had suffered: someone had torn off all the days, one by one, all the way to November.
Seryozha’s computer was missing, and in its place was a note—a few words written in Narodi. “It says, ‘Fix it,’” said Seryozha.
We checked Twitter on our phones. The post had thousands and thousands of likes and retweets. The American media had found it. “DiPaulo’s posts incendiary tweet in Narodistan,” said one headline. “Guess which pasta sauce company is starting a revolution in Eastern Europe?” said another. I was too scared to check my email.
“We have to delete it,” said Seryozha.
“Now we can’t delete it,” I said. “Now it would be even more embarrassing. No, let’s stick to the plan. Trust me, Seryozha. I created Pauley.”
We needed to engage more people. We needed to reach the Whites too. If we connected with them, we could connect everyone, and then all the politics would stop.
I wrote a tweet, and Seryozha translated: “Thanks, Narodistan! We saw all the marinara lovers—now show us how much you love DiPaulo’s Extra Cheesy Alfredo!”
We watched the replies come in.
“Thank you America for supporting our struggle!”
“Red over White! Down with Skrypsyz!”
One man posted a video. He stood in Skrypsyz Square and held up a jar of DiPaulo’s Extra Cheesy Alfredo. “This is how much I love white!” he said, and he smashed the jar against the bricks.
Soon everyone was posting videos. The streets of Narodistan ran white.
“Why are we only getting protestors?” I said. “Why aren’t the president’s supporters replying?”
“The president’s supporters are old people,” said Seryozha. “And working people. Farmers, miners, you know. People outside the capital. They don’t use Twitter.”
I was shocked. My boss had said Narodistan was a developed country.
* * *
We kept watching the replies. Aleksiy posted his own video. He had his jar of white sauce, and he smashed it against the statue of the tank. He jumped back just in time to keep his suit from being splattered with alfredo.
He added a hashtag—#MarinaraRevolution.
We had to respond. It was bad optics, to have people breaking our jars. “We need them to stop,” I said. “But we also have to stay positive. Tell them to be kind. But also to be amazing.”
“It isn’t working,” said Seryozha.
Twitter wouldn’t load for me either. We ran around the office, asking people to open Twitter. It wouldn’t load.
“Must be down for maintenance,” I said. “It’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Facebook too,” said Seryozha. “And Google. They’re blocked.”
“Blocked? Can they do that?”
“Of course. It happens sometimes. During elections, protests, that sort of thing.”
For the first time in my life, I felt political. “Seryozha,” I said, “your government really is evil!”
I had to leave. I tried to change my flight, but even the travel websites were blocked. I called the airline. A customer service representative would be with me in fifteen minutes.
I faced the wall. I thought of Pauley. What would happen to all the connections I’d made? People were tweeting pictures of bread and pasta, and I wasn’t responding. Everyone would be so disappointed. And next week was Thanksgiving. If I was stuck here, without the internet, who would put Pauley in his pilgrim hat? I wanted to cry.
Someone took the phone out of my hand. I turned. We were surrounded by men in blue uniforms and gray caps. Two of them held Seryozha by the arms.
They spoke to us in Narodi. Seryozha did not translate. The meaning was clear.
* * *
The men brought us back to my hotel room. They pushed me and Seryozha inside, and shut the door behind us. I looked through the peephole: they were there, standing guard.
“How long can they keep us here?” I asked.
“Forever, I hope,” said Seryozha. “Maybe the internet will never come back on.”
My heart jumped into my throat. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course not. It always comes back. But we should enjoy our freedom while we can.” He took off his shoes and lay on the bed.
A few hours later, the men opened the door. They gave us room service—chicken cutlets, baked potatoes, chocolate ice cream. I was sick to my stomach, so Seryozha ate both meals.
I opened my laptop for the hundredth time. I tried all the sites again—Twitter, YouTube, Google, Facebook. Nothing. I could load Narodi government websites and ESPN.
I tried Yelp. My heart soared: they forgot to block it! I created a page for Narodistan and gave it a one-star review. “If you are reading this, I am trapped in Narodistan,” I wrote. “Please alert DiPaulo’s Authentic Italian Pasta Sauces, or the U.S. Embassy.”
Days passed. The room service kept coming.
I spent hours on the balcony, looking down into the square. The orange bricks were stained with DiPaulo’s Extra Cheesy Alfredo. The sun cooked the sauce, and the smell of old alfredo drifted up to the room.
Still, the crowds were growing. They chanted and chanted, day and night. The walls and the furniture and the pictures vibrated. On the third night, Big Ben fell off the wall and shattered.
The next morning, a fleet of buses drove into the crowd. The buses were full of police. The doors opened and the officers attacked the crowd, but the protestors fought back. They chased the police away—most of the officers ran into our hotel. The protestors cheered and sang. They turned over the buses and lit them on fire.
Seryozha was sleeping on the bed. “Don’t you want to see this?” I said.
“I have seen it,” he said. “Aleksiy is not our first opposition leader, you know.”
“What happened to the other ones? Did Skrypsyz—” I couldn’t even say the terrible words.
“He made them,” said Seryozha, “members of the government.” He rubbed his fingers together. “He made them very rich.”
Seryozha was cynical. But I was positive. I had faith in Aleksiy. He was good at Twitter. He knew how to connect with people.
* * *
On the fourth day, the men told us to dress nicely. We were going to the presidential palace.
I gave Seryozha one of my dress shirts. It was very tight on him. He inhaled, and I worked the buttons into their holes.
The palace was at the top of a big hill. Long ago, it had been a cathedral. Its thin stone spires went up into the clouds. I asked the men to give me my phone. I wanted to take a picture.
The men led us to a large room with long red curtains. The stained glass window was shaped like a rose. At the center of the room was a wooden table, set for two. One chair was empty. In the other was a tall man. He was looking down at his phone, his face glowing.
We approached the table, and the man looked up. I recognized him—Aleksiy! He was wearing a tie now—red and white stripes. It looked good. He shook our hands, and I smiled and smiled. “But shouldn’t you be at the protests?” I said.
“The protests are over,” said Aleksiy. “We won. I’ve been here, talking to President Skrypsyz, and we’ve reached an agreement. He’s appointed me vice president.”
“And the elections?” said Seryozha.
“One has to make concessions, of course,” said Aleksiy. “Compromise is key.”
“But what about the internet?”
“It will be back on soon. But we had an idea. The protests have hurt some feelings. But President Skrypsyz and I want to get past that. We need to start connecting with people again. And that’s where we need you two.”
He told us the idea. He was a genius, of course.
A few minutes later, the door opened. All the policemen saluted. Aleksiy gave a little bow. It was President Skrypsyz himself.
The president sat at the table, and Aleksiy joined him. A cook entered with a steaming pot of spaghetti. He spooned it first onto the president’s plate, then onto Aleksiy’s. Another cook followed. He held two cans of DiPaulo’s—one red, one white. He poured the white sauce onto Aleksiy’s plate, and the red onto Skrypsyz’s. The cook turned to go, but I stopped him. “Leave the jars,” I said. I placed them on the table, and turned the labels to face the camera.
Aleksiy and the president picked up their forks, and Seryozha took the picture.
I thought hard. I had to write a good caption. This was it—the real thing, the triumph of connection.
Seryozha tweeted the picture, along with my caption: “Red or white? With DiPaulo’s, you don’t have to choose!”
* * *
Skrypsyz Square was quiet. Most of the protestors had gone. A little knot remained around the statue. “Why do they stay?” I asked.
“They still want an election, perhaps,” said Seryozha.
I felt sorry for them. Elections were all well and good. But an amazing moment had just happened. These poor protestors were too concerned with petty politics to enjoy the connection that was happening. There are all kinds of joy and goodness in this world, but some people refuse to see it.
Seryozha and I stood together in the hotel lobby. We watched the police push the last few protestors out of the square. Everything was peaceful. For the first time, I could really see the beauty of the city. I took a few pictures. My followers all agreed: they were beautiful.
Seryozha shook my hand. We took one last picture together. I told him I would return to Narodistan someday. I wanted to see the country right. “Next time,” I said, “we’ll have no protests, no political problems to worry about.”
“I would not bet on that,” he said.
Poor Seryozha. He was cynical. But the cynical are the most naïve people of all.
* * *
My flight left at dawn. The plane sat on the runway, and the sun rose over the mountains. I tried to take a picture, but there was too much light. The picture was white, empty.
The pilot told us to turn off our phones. I checked Twitter one last time. I had a private message from Aleksiy: three smiley faces— 🙂 🙂 🙂 —and a link.
I clicked. The page opened. In that moment, I knew: I was right and Seryozha was wrong. The bad old days were gone. Things had changed in Narodistan.
The link took me to a Twitter page. A new account, opened just a few minutes ago—@skrypsyz. The profile picture showed the president’s smiling face, his eyebrows raised in wonder.
I clicked the button in the corner. I was his first follower.
______
Photo credit: Nikola Bagarov / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND