Sam Spade Registered Social Media Agent, that’s me if you believe the faded gold lettering on my office door. Not that anyone cares much anymore. Social media consultants are like pencils: everyone has a couple laying around somewhere – most of them not as sharp as you’d like them to be.
I poured a bourbon and studied the fly which was making its way 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 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 a long shadow from the ceiling fan played across her magazine-cover face.
“I… we… the people I represent have a small problem, Mr Spade.”
And now we both do sister I thought to myself.
“Our Facebook organic reach keeps plummeting and we don’t know what to do.”
I glanced at the fly on my keyboard which was now not walking. Probably dead. This city sucks the life out of everything given enough time.
“Awkward.” I said.
“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 net101, they’re one of the better ones.”
“Very well Mr. Spade I’ll write you a cheque. And thanks for the training advice.”
“Take a seat Mrs. Huntington, and tell it to me from the beginning…”
There are many social media stories in the big city, this has been one of them.