“Adam, who is ReelRager2000?” I ask him one afternoon. I’ve done my research already, but I want his take on what’s going on.
“Ugh, Kyle Ritter,” he says with a slight shake of his head. “He’s this kid I went to high school with. He was on the baseball team too. He plays for the minor leagues now.”
“Is he one of the Pirates’ starting lineup?” I ask, which is what we call the kids he blew, conveyer-belt style, on that fateful night in Gatlinburg.
“Yeah, but he was really nasty about it. Called me a faggot and told everyone they were going to get AIDS. I actually think he was worried about it for a while because he kept posting all these religious memes online.”
“Adam, he’s bullying you,” I tell him, angry on his behalf. I can degrade Adam all I want but for someone else to do it? Mmmm, I think not.
“Yeah, I know but I’m used to it now.”
“You should block him.”
“I thought about it, but even bad publicity is good publicity, right? Like Adam Rippon said, haters are just fans in denial.”
It doesn’t seem to be affecting him all that much, so I let it go, but I bring it up again a few days later after a few particularly nasty comments.
“Today, he called you a retard. Yesterday he told you to go kill yourself.” His comments aren’t even clever or unique. Just boilerplate assholery.
“I know, he’s the worst.”
“So, why do you subject yourself to that abuse?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Well, when I’m in the last mile of my run or, like, sitting in a really uncomfortable position for a shot, I think about Kyle’s comments and how, if I don’t push myself to make my time or get this perfect picture, then what he says is true.”
“What he says isnottrue. What Isay to you is true.”
“You’re so sweet to worry about me,” he says with a disarming smile, then continues his business of cutting his four ounces of grilled chicken breast into a million tiny cubes to make it seem like he’s eating more than he actually is.
I hole up in my home office, where I must occasionally do things like make sure my money is still making money and pay the people who take care of my property for me. I do a deep dive on this ReelRager2000 character and find that he is just as toxic and common as I thought. And how dare he tear down my boyfriend for the sheer pleasure of it? How can I possibly allow Adam to give even an ounce of precious attention to this homophobic, unimaginative troll?
I call up Sam Silvestri, my PI who helped me find my birth father. “Sam, I’ve got a job for you.”
* * *
A few dayslater Adam comes to me in a panic. “Kyle Ritter has been in a terrible accident,” he says. “He was driving home after a party and lost control of his truck, plowed right into a tree.”
“What?” I ask, feigning shock at this rare stroke of karma.
“He shattered his hip and might not be able to play ball again,” Adam says, truly distraught. “His family started a GoFundMe. Can we contribute, Cassius? Please?”
I have some inner turmoil about paying the medical bills for such a douchey piece of shit, but I do like playing the role of hero for my overly sentimental boyfriend. “Sure, Adam, send me the link.”
But just when I think the problem of the high school bully is solved, I find Adam back in bed—my bed now, since we’ve started sharing a room—and a depressed Adam is not an eager-to-please Adam.
“Dove, what’s the matter?” I sit beside him and pet his frizzy mop of curls.
“Kyle isn’t commenting on my posts anymore,” he says forlornly.
Yes, Kyle finally has better things to do, like relearning how to walk and eat solid foods.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“No, not at all,” he says passionately. “I need him, Cassius. I need to hate him in order to be my very best. He used to comment on all my posts, every single one. It’s like there’s a complete void now, and I don’t know what to do.”
I give Adam a Xanax to help him rest, and climb the walls for a while, thinking on how to solve this new complication. Finally, I go back to my office to create a throwaway Instagram account. I have Teddy validate my identity and buy me a bunch of followers who will like everything I post. Otherwise, Adam will never see me in his comments.
The next day I find Adam in front of my mother’s mirror, sucking in his cheeks and turning his head from side-to-side.
