The Boy Kings

may never need to work again? The world was ours.
    Or was it? When we did go back to work, the office and the computer screen and the crowds of virtual friends would be waiting to consume us, turning us again into totems of whatever it was they desired. For our distant audience, we always had to remain cool, in control. It was only for as long as the night held and we stayed asleep, spooned together like silver from the same set, that we could be unconscious of whatever the world was asking us to be for them. Perhaps in this world of digital surveillance and judgment, deep sleep was the only time when we were free. Maybe this was why, throughout the long climb to the top of Mark’s virtual world, where winning everyone’s adulation was our job, we always crawled into bed in the middle of the night, longing not for sex, but for some human presence that existed, silent and breathing, away from the screen.

CHAPTER 9
THE KING STAYS THE KING
    I n July 2009, Mark was in Peru on vacation, contemplating whether I should join him on his press tour around Brazil. He knew nothing about Brazil and knew from my status updates that I did, so he listened to me when I told him how to wrest Brazil from Google’s Orkut social network. Orkut had grown quickly in Brazil in 2006, unlike in other countries that approached online social networking more cautiously, because Brazilians took instantly and naturally to social networking of all kinds. I told Mark that, because Brazil’s culture responds to personal contact, they might take Facebook more seriously if he paid them a visit in person.
    “Mark is debating whether you should be flown out to Brazil for the press tour,” his admin told me in the office that afternoon,only days before the tour began. I continued eating forkfuls of lemon tart from my lunch plate. He would want me to be there, I thought to myself. This was just Mark’s way of keeping me on edge and letting me know that he was in control. If it was an important decision he would have made it earlier, and quickly. “Okay,” I said to her, “whatever he wants.”
    When I landed in São Paulo after the long flight, I was surprised to see a security detail made up of brawny ex-military men waiting to escort me to the hotel in a bulletproof van. The security detail loaded me and my luggage into the van and told me on the ride into the city about their earlier stints guarding Dick Cheney in Iraq. One had even served as Britney Spears’s private security guard, and I asked him to tell me everything he knew about her. “She is really very nice,” he said, “she always made sure the whole crew was fed, and would sometimes even buy us hamburgers.” I was happy to hear that Britney Spears was nice.
    The men in the detail turned serious only when we passed through a tunnel. “I hate tunnels,” one growled tensely. “Why?” I asked. “Everything bad happens in tunnels,” he said. “We learned that in Iraq. They can block you in on both sides and do anything they want to you in the middle,” he explained. He only began to relax again when we emerged safely on the tunnel’s other side. “Everything bad happens in tunnels,” I thought, reflecting on the past four years, Facebook’s single-minded race to domination, and every strange, churlish thing that happened that I just had to shake off, because I was trapped in the middle and had to get through to the other side.
    I like these security guys, I thought. It seemed healthy to be hanging out with people who had fought in real wars.
    At the hotel, where an entire floor was reserved for Mark and his entourage, a member of the detail handed me a small pin to wear on my shirt. “This is in case there is an incident. We need to know who is one of ours so we can get you out of the place as soon as possible. No offense if we can’t identify all the straps by face. The pin is more reliable.”
    “What are straps?” I asked, confused by all the security speak.
    “You are the straps,” they explained. “Mark is the package. He’s number one, he’s the guy we have to protect at all costs. Everyone else is the straps, because you’re the hangers on. You’re only important because he is, but we can’t have you falling into the wrong hands.” Lol, I thought. That was a good description of my entire job. I was only important because he is.
    My room was all white, full of curved tropical modern furniture and a white marble bath with a round portal onto the São