Michael Hemmingson

Social Media Or\
When Shit Happens

SDk: Michael Hemmingson wrote a new ending for this story especially for publication in SDk03. The new ending reflects his own experience on the streets of Tijuana (see our author interview).


Things got rather difficult when the guy my wife was having an affair with decided to go evil, posting lewd, nude photos of her on the Internet. He appropriated the password of her Facebook account and posted the pictures there, pretending to be her. Look at my kitty! was one caption, and: Take a gander at my snatch, boys!

The photos were in motels and a bedroom that was not our bedroom.

Friends and family immediately contacted her, asking what the hell was this, what did she think she was doing?

In one of them, she was doing an intimate act with a long piece of fruit.

Anna immediately closed her Facebook account.

She didn’t respond to my e-mails or texts, didn’t pick up her cell phone when I called. Then she turned her phone off after I sent this text:

You have a lot of goddamn explaining to do, Mrs. Weiss.

She was drunk when I arrived home.

I’m sorry, she said.

Who have you been fucking behind my back? I asked. Who’ve you been cheating with? I asked. Is it somebody I know? I wanted to know. I felt like Papa Bear after Goldie Locks’ home invasion: Who’s been sleeping in my motherfucking bed?

Just some guy, this guy, this asshole, his name is Greg Black, Anna said. I called it off; he’s crazier than a three-legged chair in an ass-kicking contest, she said. I called it off and he decided to get revenge on me. He’s a nutcase, he’s out of his freakin’ skull, she said. He’s flown off the reservation, she said. Postal, she said. Native, she said.

Why did you let him take those photos? I asked, trying to remain calm and not go native myself.

I was drunk, she said, like that was a logical excuse for an error in judgment – the same goddamn excuse she’s been using the past five years: it’s the bottle, not me.

I was drunk, she said, I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t think…

You didn’t think, I said, and: Oh, woe is me, it’s the drink. I didn’t think because I drink and now I sink. Is that it, Anna?

How do you imagine I feel? she said.

I don’t have an imagination, I said, so tell me.

I’m so embarrassed, she said.

You? You? I said. What about me? I said. This reflects on me, too, I said. I’ve been getting emails and phone calls about your spread legs and wide open inviting pussy, I said.

Don’t be crass, she said.

It’s your ass, I said, your body online.

I’m sorry, she said.

That’s it? You’re sorry?

I am.

That’s it?

What do you want me to say?

I did not know. Could she utter anything that would make it all better, make the bad go away like a case of the twenty-four-hour ‘flu?


This wasn’t the first time she’d been unfaithful during the seven years we’d been together, five of them as man and

wife. There was that fellow from her old job at the department store: that fling had lasted six months.


How long were you seeing this photographer named Greg Black? I asked.

He’s not a photographer, she said.

You could have fooled me.

He’s a high school English teacher.

Oh, that’s even better. How long?

I called it quits a month ago, she said.

Your hair was red and long three months ago. So the affair lasted, let’s say, nine and a half weeks?

Something like that, she said.

Where did you meet him?

Does it matter?

Who have you been fucking behind my back? I asked. Who’ve you been cheating with? I asked. Is it somebody I know? I wanted to know. I felt like Papa Bear after Goldie Locks’ home invasion.