Let Them | Part 12
Spoken like a man reading from a list of pre-approved pleasantries.
The Hamptons began halfway through a podcast about letting go. A woman with the tone of a camp counselor explained that you could reinvent your life by saying two words. Let them. Let your friends hang out without you. Let your job demand everything. Let your husband be mad. Eli liked how low-effort it was. No therapy. No consequences. No annoying moment where you have to admit you might be the problem. Just let them.
Eli sat in the passenger seat of the rented SUV. It smelled like someone else’s body odor and a very specific fast-food fry. McDonald’s, probably. Marie drove with both hands at ten and two, like her DMV driver’s license test was happening right now, and everyone was along for the ride. Behind them, Joel and Gordon watched Manhattan shrink into smaller and smaller skylines. The city lost its grit first. Then it turned into neighborhoods that believed in yard maintenance. Houses with quartz countertops. Backyards that didn’t smell like onions. Pool furniture that got brought inside at the first sign of rain. Why would you have waterproof pool furniture? How could you prove to the neighbors that you have help for that?
On the podcast, the host said, “You don’t need to fix it. You need to embrace it,” which somehow sounded like a threat. Marie tapped the screen, and the voice disappeared. Peace, at last.
She glanced at the GPS. “Eighteen more minutes,” she said. “Assuming we don’t hit any more traffic.”
Gordon checked his watch. Slightly behind. Not late, exactly, but late enough that the vein in his neck started to pulse. His phone lay face up on his knee, a stack of blue and green notifications building like a tiny digital city. He ignored all of them. It was a power move, he’d decided, to be unreachable when it suited him. The only thing more important than being needed was looking too important to answer.
Eli scrolled through the deck on his phone. Shot list. UNLEARNED series outline. Then, a separate note he kept just for himself, the one where he wrote jokes Quentin would never be allowed to say. That secret page was the only part that still felt like writing and not factory work.
“Run of show,” Gordon barked. “One more time.” He spoke into the air between them like the car was a conference room he had booked back in the city.
Marie obliged. “We arrive. Mindy from Quentin’s team checks us in. Quick tech walkthrough. Block shots for Unlearned episode one.” She tapped the beats of their day on the steering wheel with her thumbs. “Break. Wardrobe notes. Then dinner with Quentin, where you,” she nodded at Gordon in the rearview mirror, “nudge conversation toward ‘the big idea’ so we get a signed retainer for Q4.”
“Good,” Gordon said. The word sounded exhausted.
Joel stared out his window. The hedges out here had geometry. Right angles. Flat tops. They looked like they were maintained by someone who hated joy but loved control. They were the “rugged but aspirational” hedges they were looking for in the Ford mock-ups, the kind Georgia had stayed late trying to find on Pinterest. Georgia should have been in this car. Georgia would have said something witty about the hedges. Or about the fact that they were doing brand work for a man. A man who was, ultimately, the product.
“Something wrong?” Eli asked quietly.
Joel didn’t pretend. “Georgia would have been great on this project.”
Gordon cleared his throat. “We’re not talking about people – people – who do not work here.” The stutter in the middle didn’t help Gordon’s authority, but the team took the hint. The car filled with the silence of employees who knew their names had been moved around on a spreadsheet and left, for now, in the column labeled keep.
The GPS spoke again in a refined accent. It sounded like it had never been trapped on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in commuter traffic. They turned off the main road. The hedges rose higher. The air shifted from gas station coffee to someone pays landscapers on retainer.
At the end of the ridiculously long driveway, the house waited. White, glassy, tiered. It looked as if it had been designed by someone who had only ever seen homes in drone footage. Walls of windows. Decks stacked along the front. A pool so blue it looked fake, like it had been rendered.
Two large studio lights sat on tripods in the lawn, pointed at nothing, just waiting. A man in a black polo and a headset stood beside black cases and coils of cable. He pivoted toward them without moving his feet. Full-body swivel. Like a security camera that had learned how to stand.
Marie parked near a row of already-parked black SUVs. Eli unfolded himself out of the passenger seat. His spine adjusted to being upright. Too much desk hunch, too many late nights.
“Remember,” Gordon said as they stepped onto gravel. “This is not just a shoot. We need to walk out of here with a signed scope.” He had been repeating variations of this sentence since the owners’ call. At this point, it was less guidance and more manifestation.
At the front door, a woman in a navy jumpsuit and white sneakers smiled as if they’d arrived at a boutique hotel that also sold influencer ‘How to Have Money and Influence People’ learning courses. She had a clipboard tucked under her arm.
“You must be the North team,” she said. “I’m Mindy.”
She used their first names naturally, like she’d spent a few hours practicing. Heavy eye contact. Warm voice. All controlled.
“Joel. Eli. Marie. And Gordon.” She checked each off her clipboard. “Welcome.”
Inside, it smelled like clean laundry and a candle labeled Montauk Ocean Breeze. Or was it Coastal Clarity? Divorce Settlement? The floors were a pale wood without a single scratch, or at least not a scratch anyone hadn’t buffed out by EOD. The kitchen looked arranged rather than lived in. Fruit stacked by color in a glass bowl. Greens together, yellows together, one lonely dragon fruit for diversity.
“Quentin is finishing hair and makeup,” Mindy said. “I’ll take you to first floor office to wait.”
They moved through a living room. Low white couch. Art books stacked to prove a high IQ. A coffee table holding a perfectly placed bowl of something that might have been shells or small, expensive rocks. Every surface had a point of view.
Eli noticed the cameras first.
Not the obvious production cameras they we were maneuvering through a door onto the first level. The little ones that pretended to be part of the design. A smoked dome in a corner. A black circle near the ceiling that broke the molding line. A tiny lens tucked into a speaker. Little eyes watching their every move.
For one hopeful second, he wondered if they were fake, like restaurants that put up plastic cameras to scare teenagers into not dining and dashing. Then one of the domes made a soft motor sound and pivoted, tracking a production assistant crossing the room. Nope. Real.
The office had once been a guest bedroom. Now it had three seamless backdrops pulled down in soft curves: white, beige, and a terracotta shade that a pre-production deck would have called CLAY or WARM EARTH or SOUL. They were being stored there until Quentin inevitably had to film some last-minute response to one of his enemies.
A clothing rack held linen shirts spaced with military precision. A folding table held rows of bottled water labeled by pH level, plus snacks in bright foreign packaging to suggest Quentin was worldly and well-traveled. It was elevated in the way an airport lounge is elevated. Inoffensive. Mostly empty. Technically nice.
“Unlearned Episode One,” Mindy said, tapping her clipboard. “Quentin Learns How to Change a Tire.”
Joel drifted closer to the lights. Fancy LEDs, the kind that did not get hot. He tapped the glass, and the DoP, who was trying to enjoy his expensive pistachio cream croissant, snapped at him in mouthful grunts.
“Crew is finishing blocking outside by the garage,” Mindy said. “Quentin will start on camera in twenty minutes.”
Quentin entered exactly forty-five minutes later.
He moved fast, the way tall, important men do when their entire life has been walking into rooms where everyone already knows their name. His hair had that stiff shine and volume that screamed product with a name that had a sexual innuendo. Big Sexy Hair or Boss Energy or something that implied sex and voluminous hair were interchangeable.
He wore a white tee that was definitely not from a pack and joggers with a minimalist logo nobody recognized. He smiled like someone had whispered, ‘NOW,’ to only him.
“Mindy,” he said. “Are we nearly ready?” They had been ready for twenty-five minutes, but Mindy did not say that. Mindy was always ready.
Quentin’s eyes swept the room. “Wait. Is this North and Main?”
Mindy nodded and made introductions. “Joel is your creative director. Marie is strategy. Eli is copy. Gordon runs the agency.”
Quentin shook each hand with the same aggressive grip.
“Thank you for coming out,” he said, robotic. His voice had a weird stockbroker cadence. “It feels like we are really building something big here.” Spoken like a man reading from a list of pre-approved pleasantries.
Gordon turned up his own smile to match Quentin’s phony one. “We feel the same.”
Marie jumped in because the vibe was quickly getting awkward. “Unlearned positions you as the student of things most men pretend to already know,” she said, pulling a printout from a beige folder like she was presenting evidence in court.
Slide one showed Quentin in front of a white seamless, holding a tire iron, face reading as humble confusion. “Episode one is car stuff,” Marie continued. “Changing a tire, checking oil. What you’re really modeling is curiosity, not just competence. You learn in public. It makes you approachable.”
“Men love approachable,” Eli added. “As long as it still looks hot and aspirational.”
A thin line appeared at the corner of Quentin’s mouth. Amusement, or a mental note that Eli was on thin ice. It was hard to tell.
Joel took the baton. “Episode two, we move into money. Crypto basics. What real wealth is.”
They were overexplaining it. Eli could feel it. The concept was simple, and they were giving a dissertation about the themes and values of entry-level storytelling that exist only on your phone.
“We’re setting a tone,” Joel said. “Curious. Generous with your platform. Not afraid to help your fellow man.”
Quentin nodded slowly. “People like that.”
“They do,” Gordon said, too eager. “And they share it. Sharing is how we’ll grow your audience.”
“I want to be everywhere,” Quentin snapped back. “Everywhere.”
Mindy touched her earpiece and nodded, listening to instructions from someone more important than her. She clapped once. “We’re ready to go outside when you are, Q.”
Crew shuffled past. A camera operator with a backwards cap. A sound guy adjusting levels. Production assistants carrying silver cases that could contain anything. A hard drive. A weapon. A man’s entire personality.
Mindy motioned Quentin toward the driveway.
“You can set your things in the office for now,” she told the North team. “We’ll show you your rooms after we get scene 7B.” Their rooms. Of course. The email had said overnight for efficiency. Translation: we own you for a full 24-hour cycle.
The space was on the second floor. It overlooked the pool and the ocean beyond, a horizon so perfect it looked like it had been licensed from Adobe stock.
A long pale desk ran the length of the wall. Eli dropped his bag at one end. Joel took the middle. Marie claimed the corner nearest an outlet. Gordon stayed standing, already on another call with someone whose title began with Chief.
The house hummed. The air conditioning whooshed, mingling with the swarming-bee sound of an overhead drone. Somewhere, a ‘Mediterranean Ocean Sounds’ soundtrack played through hidden speakers; it was recorded by Werner Herzog as a passion project, and his scaly old man voice cut in every few tracks to talk about his love of the Mediterranean people. It was jarring.
Eli wandered to the doorway and looked down the hall. There were more doors than felt necessary. Each had a keypad lock instead of a knob. Little red numbers glowed against the clean white walls.
Across from the window, a tall mirror spanned a section of wall. White trim, designed to disappear. Eli stepped closer and saw himself elongate slightly. He touched it with two fingers. It was cool to the touch. Too cool. There was a faint delay in his reflection. Almost like a subtle shimmer.
“Creepy, right?” Marie appeared behind him.
“It’s…giving dentist office,” Eli said.
Marie tilted her head, watching herself watch herself.
Eli scanned the frame and found it. A pinhole at the top, dead center.
“Of course,” he said.
Gordon appeared in the hallway, phone still pressed to his ear. He frowned at them just standing there, loitering. “They’re ready outside,” he said, covering the receiver. “Let’s move. The retainer!”
The retainer. Always the retainer. Gordon spoke about it as if it could save them from death.
--
Outside, the driveway was now their set. A cherry-red convertible Mustang with the top down sat in front of the garage. A perfect prop to signal wealth, mixed with a relatable mid-life crisis energy. Light stands were set up on either side of the car. A long dolly track had been set up, ready to roll into a shot of Quentin doing something impressive. Everyone wore black and moved quickly, acting as if what they were doing was very important.
Quentin had been positioned by the front fender, linen shirt now on, sleeves rolled just so. He held a lug wrench like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. It was clear this man would outsource any task that required grease in his real life, but this… this was content. Advertising that made Quentin seem like a man’s man.
“Okay,” the director called. “Unlearned episode one, scene one.” CLAP.
The first take was awkward. Quentin tried too hard to look effortless. By take three, he found a more natural way of talking. By the fifth take, Eli could already hear the comments in his head.
He doesn’t have to teach us, but he does anyway.
Imagine being that rich and still changing your own tires. What a bad ass.
These thirst trap videos have me soaking wet at work.
They shot the intro. It wasn’t far off from a teen inviting everyone to like and subscribe to their YouTube channel. Then they shot the steps. Quentin leaning down and unscrewing an already loosened bolt. It was very manly, but most importantly, it would work as stand-alone clips that could be used for social.
Joel hovered near the video director, offering small adjustments. As the creative director, he knew part of his job was to perform collaboration. Joel was never calm, and he was very bad at hiding that fact. Gordon lingered like a creeper, just out of frame. His rule on every shoot day was that he was there to be seen, not heard.
When they finally cut, Quentin lifted his arms in a small victory gesture. Someone handed him green juice in a glass bottle. The whole thing had been suspiciously painless. They had actually pulled it off. Even if the idea had been inherited from their Doppelgängers.
If you’re new here, I write a monthly serialized novel called Everything is Advertising, about a burned-out Creative Director and his cynical team that accidentally create QAnon through a viral marketing campaign. If you like that kind of thing, you can start at Part One and catch up from there.
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Photo Credit: Vika Chartier
I think I might know who the "let them" piece may have come from. Melllllllll