‘Sam Spade, Registered Social Media Agent’ – at least that’s what the faded gold lettering on my office door says. Not that anyone cares much anymore… social media types are like pencils – everyone has a couple laying around somewhere, and most of them not as sharp as you’d like.
I poured my third bourbon for the morning and studied the fly walking across my keyboard. An overly precise knock at the door broke the hot silence of the room. It always starts this way, and I knew just how it would end.
She was in her mid-thirties, tall, confident and dressed as crisply as a 100 dollar bill – the type that runs the corporate factories downtown. And probably as comfortable with interpreting an analytics report as she is applying lipstick in the dark.
I nodded wearily. As she moved towards my desk the shadows from the ceiling fan played across her face.
“I… we… the people I represent have a small problem, Mr Spade.”
And now we both do sister, I thought to myself.
“There’s been an incident. A marketing co-ordinator we let go won’t give us back the only login details to our Facebook brand page.”
I glanced at the fly on my keyboard which was now still. Probably dead. This city will suck the life out of anything given enough time.
“Awkward.” I said. “And now you’re looking for someone to clean up your little mess?”
“Well, yes. It’s a… delicate situation. We’re a big brand you see. We have profile. We can’t afford to made a public laughing-stock. Will you help?”
“It’s 25 hundred dollars a day plus expenses, Miss…?
“Huntington. Mrs. Huntington. And that’s a lot of money.”
“You should have thought of that before. Book yourself into a social media training course next time – the world could do with fewer delicate situations. Try NET:101, they’re good.”
“Very well Mr. Spade I’ll write you a cheque. And thanks for the advice.”
“Take a seat Mrs. Huntington and tell me from the beginning…”
There are many stories in the big city, this has been one of them.