Growing into the Job, Post 608: Outreach: Thanksgiving (Prelude 2) (Patreon)

There were maybe four hundred photos from the early morning photo shoot. I had narrowed them down to thirty-two. Then fourteen. Then seven. Now I was back up to nineteen because apparently I had developed - aside from these new knockers, six inches of height, and the ability to unhinge my jaw like a g-damn cobra - some sort of psychological condition that prevented me from making a simple decision.

I clicked through them again.

Melissa smiling with her hands on her hips. Melissa laughing at something somebody behind the camera had said. Melissa pretending to straighten Lexi’s security lanyard while Lexi looked far too pleased with herself.

One with Lakshmi and Josie squeezed in from either side, all three of them somehow looking like they’d wandered off the cover of entirely different magazines and accidentally ended up in the same photograph. Even some with Marisela, who I actually got to smile, once or twice. 

Then there was the one. I stopped on it again.

Melissa, head tilted just enough to make her hair spill over one shoulder, looking like her fucking gorgeous self The new powder-blue Far Horizons volunteer shirt fit her suspiciously well, the white logo bright against the fabric. She wasn’t posing, exactly. She was just looking at the camera the way she looked at people, like whoever happened to be standing there - or in this case, gawking at her tits - mattered. Then she glanced down.

That one was the dangerous one.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. “Jesus Christ, Missy,” I groaned to myself, “and please excuse the language.”

Three months ago I would’ve picked whichever picture looked nicest, cropped it for Instagram, thrown together some cheerful nonsense about giving back to the community, and gone to lunch.

Now I was sitting here wondering whether a photograph could accidentally recruit followers. That seemed like a crazy thing to think. Except…

I clicked to the analytics dashboard.

Melissa’s interview from last week had outperformed everything we’d ever posted. Not just by a little, either. Three hundred and eighty-six percent higher engagement than our previous record. Comments from people who’d never heard of Far Horizons before. Shares across the state. Then nationally. Hundreds of women tagging friends: ‘Have you seen this girl?’ ‘ love her.’ ‘I don’t know why but I can’t stop watching.’

And from the men: ‘sit on me, mommy.’ 

Other stuff, too, but you get the jist. 

I knew algorithms. Algorithms rewarded attention, but this wasn’t just that. This was pull. The distinction bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

I switched over to the draft post Lexi had already started.

‘Join Far Horizons Evolution Center this Thanksgiving as our staff volunteers throughout New Corinth, supporting local shelters, food pantries, community centers and our Holiday Day of Giving! Together we can make a difference!’

I stared at it for several seconds.

<Delete>

Corporate.

<Delete>

Trying too hard.

<Delete>

I rested my fingers on the keyboard.

If people wanted marketing, Lexi could do marketing in her sleep. She’d somehow turned matching volunteer T-shirts into a city-wide event in forty-eight hours. She didn’t need my help sounding enthusiastic. What she needed me for was sounding honest.

Eventually I typed:

If you don’t have somewhere to be this Thanksgiving…come be with us.

I read it once. Then again. No mention of engagement or  branding. No inspirational hashtags. Just an invitation. Funny thing was, I suddenly realized it was - if she could spell - exactly what Melissa would’ve written.

I hated how much that thought pleased me.

My eyes drifted back to the photographs.

I hovered over the polished studio portrait again before moving past it to another one. Melissa had been laughing so hard at something Josie had said that she’d forgotten the camera existed. One hand rested on Lakshmi’s shoulder. Lexi was half out of frame trying unsuccessfully to organize everyone into something resembling a professional photograph. Marisela was scowling. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it felt real. I smiled despite myself.

People were going to come because they saw Melissa. She was beautiful, like ungodly beautiful. She was on television. She was becoming, whatever…important. I wasn’t naïve enough to pretend otherwise. But I was starting to think they’d stay because of the way she made them feel after they got there.

That thought lingered as I assembled the rest of the post. Like: location, time, parking, overflow seating. Donations would support this place called Hope House and other women’s shelters across New Corinth. Volunteers would be serving meals all afternoon. Everybody was welcome. Simple, ordinary, and completely harmless.

My cursor hovered over the photograph one last time.

Then I thought of the small crowds of people that had been gathering on the weekends here, in the parking lot. They came to hear me speak, to talk about her. A few dozen, this past Sunday. How many would there be this coming weekend? Especially if we did this outreach, this marketing?

Churches figured this out centuries ago, I imagined. 

Then I clicked <Publish>.

For a moment, nothing happened. Well, the little progress wheel spun. Then the page refreshed.

‘Your post is now live.’

I watched the first notification appear less than ten seconds later. Then another. Then three more.

Outside my office window, women moved through the administrative wing carrying boxes of donated canned food, folding tables, volunteer packets, armfuls of those stupid matching T-shirts Lexi was so proud of. Everybody looked busy. Everybody looked excited.

Nobody, I thought, had the slightest idea what we were actually inviting people to. Neither did Melissa. I wasn’t entirely sure I did either.

Anyway - watch out, world. Far Horizons - and Melissa Monroe - are coming for Thanksgiving. Get fucking ready. 

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