RiffRaff

RiffRaff

As squad cars and a SWAT team fanned out across the campus of Eastern High School, I tried to remember our summer training on the effective barricading of a classroom door. With quick help from a few football players, we wedged most of the desks and bookshelves against it and stacked chairs nearly to the ceiling. 

Whatever threat was outside my classroom, unless it was a bomb, it was not getting in.

The cops were looking for and quickly found Granby Parcell, who pissed his pants in the C-Wing when an officer aimed a long gun at him and told him to lay on the ground, NOW!

Early in my high school teaching career, I learned it paid to cozy up to someone on the security team. Randy Doogan, a star quarterback for Eastern a few years back, who boomeranged back to us after tearing up his knee in a JUCO upstate, was my guy. 

Parcell, a country boy who was pissed at everything and everyone, drove a jacked-up Chevy Silverado with 22-inch rims and FJB stickers covering the back window. He shot his middle finger at anyone he drove by as he came and went from Eastern and was also, as it turned out, not serious about his threat.

Aside from a Bowie knife found in a tackle box in his truck, Granby had no weapons, bombs, or fireworks — yes, students just before winter break set off cherry bombs in multiple areas of the school to simulate a mass shooting. 

Granby spent the afternoon with county police, fielding questions on what he did, why he did it, and who else was involved. Doogan said the boy readily confessed, which he guessed had something to do with his near-murderous shit-kicking father, who sat quietly but menacingly across from his shit-kicker son. Granby’s night at home perhaps loomed larger than any juvenile interrogation could.

Word spread quickly through the school about who levied the threat. Most kids were pleased with Granby Parcell as the bluff got them out of school and practices for the day. And if we’re being sincere, a good many teachers were able to shake off their fright and enjoy a pint or two at a brewery a couple miles up the road.

Granby posted his threat on a new social app called RiffRaff. What made RiffRaff unique was quite simple: the app connected people within a five-mile radius — like a neighborhood, work campus or school area — and all posts were anonymous. What young Granby didn’t know was RiffRaff had to expose a poster’s identity to law enforcement if there was a credible threat of violence. So his post about gunnin’ down some dickheads became, well, unanonymous.

Granby never returned to Eastern High, though he would be long remembered as the kid who started a wave of viral viciousness at the school.

Within twenty-four hours of Parcell's actions, the student body's use of RiffRaff went through the roof. The highly localized social community of around a hundred grew tenfold by Tuesday. 

Most posts were sophomoric and trivial: complaints about school food, lack of parking, and a smattering of pop culture reviews. But this content wasn’t getting users the number of likes, comments, and feedback they were brought up to crave, so the budding group collectively raised the ante.

The next wave of activity took on a different tone and tact. The posters, to this point comprised of students only, began targeting specific kids in harmful and typical ways. Your garden variety attacks on masculinity, yo, for real, Marcus ain’t got NO dick, and the time-honored tradition of slut-shaming, Sarah P be happy to get on her kneez! But these kinds of posts got old and stopped generating the ‘likes’ and desired commentary, so the ante was raised once more by the hive mind that RiffRaff was becoming. 

The post that marked the beginning of real trouble was directed at Assistant Principal Virgil Juggins. Juggins was a huge black man who stood out in a school of mostly white students and staff. Doogan said he was a stand-out college athlete about 25 years and 150 pounds ago. He was tabbed as the enforcer among administrators, as to look at all 6’7” of him made most kids submit without much need for words.

However, any fear students may have had of AP Juggins in person melted away over a social network where anyone could say anything, and no one would know who said it. 

Juggins became an early non-student target as the network grew to 1,500 participants. There were deeply racist comments, posts on his size, and, predictably, what he may or may not have in the way of genitalia. All of this, while troubling, was purposefully ignored by the school administration, with the thought that paying it any mind would only fuel the fire. 

But then came trouble admin couldn’t have imagined from one particular student who connected a few dots online. The day before Valentine’s Day, Assistant Principal Juggins would forever more be referred to as ‘Scrumptious.’ 

Those younger than Gen X would understand that he did it to himself, as he made a simple yet fatal mistake of mixing the usage of two separate Twitter accounts. To be specific, Juggins had a professional Twitter account where he would praise students' athletic and academic achievements and a personal Twitter account — the ‘danger account,’ if you will — where he would follow, comment, and borderline stalk voluptuous bodybuilders, fitness models, and NFL cheerleaders. 

His oft-used complimentary public comment for those possessing his favored physical features was ‘Scrumptious.’

If he had kept the accounts separate, his personal interests would have been just that. However, AP Juggins got sloppy and would occasionally — and accidentally — jump into his danger account to praise a student and tag that student within the post. These errors opened the door to his danger account, which exposed his more sordid activity.

As students shared valentines at school, AP Scrumptious’ danger account follows, posts, and re-posts were copied and pasted into RiffRaff for all the school to see, forward along, and comment on. And boy, did they. 

The next day, Virgil Juggins was fired, just three days after the Parcell kid posted his threat.

After soaking up the banter in the teacher’s lounge, I jumped on RiffRaff to see the student body’s reaction to the AP’s ouster. Some were upset and felt he’d been handed a raw deal, whereas others proclaimed victory, with one post referring to Juggins’s firing as the community’s ‘first admin pelt.’

A war of words developed between the factions that soon fizzled out as other, more topical subjects cycled in: a discussion on the best way to blow up a mailbox, a how-to on creating a helmet bong, a dust-up over which English teacher was more ‘bangable.’

Two days after the Juggins’ fracas, there was a lull in activity on the app that I apparently couldn’t tolerate, for I did what I shouldn’t have as a staff member: I began to participate.

Like most bad habits, you start slowly, ‘liking’ something here, responding with an emoji there. But then I found myself, with a late evening scotch in hand, commenting on this post or that, Yas! need a win this Friday fer shur! and Yer right, Ms. Talbot is suss —”

My activity begat comments and likes. I felt a connection by posing as one of them and caring about what they cared about, hated, and wanted. But there was a ceiling to any buzz one could create over the app without posting a unique topic and goosing it along. I surmised that as long as my posts weren’t dangerous, I could remain anonymous, so what was the harm in wading into the cesspool?

My first offering: 

Cramming disgusting school fries into my mouth as I cram for my health test - have I learned nothing?

Almost instantly, it received ten likes and two comments. One agreed and said they thought the school cook was on acid, and the other called me a ‘fucktard’ for wasting his time on ‘stupid shit.’ That last comment got 25 likes and 30 dislikes. 

And we’re off to the races. My second post leaned political:

All these old white fucks wrecking our future  #curbfossilfuels

That one turned on the hate faucet. 

Within five minutes, there were 14 angry comments, all utilizing terms the kids likely borrowed from their home lives. If I were to mash the sentiments into one sentence, it would read something like, FINNA run your fat ass over with my gas guzzlin truck, you libtard shitbag! Of course, the theme had unique variations, but you get the gist. I’d hit a nerve, and the comments, likes, dislikes, and re-posts went on for a good while. 

It was exhilarating.

I don’t recall posting the next one. I remember thinking about doing it, but I don’t remember actually doing it. When I looked at the timestamp the next morning, I figured I either ‘sleep-posted’ or had that third scotch after all. 

The post was simple and not thematically different from what I’d seen in other student posts: Who agrees that Mr. Chambers takes it in the a$$? The fact that I’m ‘Mr. Chambers’ certainly bears mentioning.

The RiffRaff mob jumped all over the post. Of course, some went with the negative flow I started. But far more defended me.

For as many—

Chambers been sizin’ up my D! and That boy wipe his nose 2 much #cokehound

There were twice as many—

Ya’ll wack, Chambers is the sweetest, and Wish my step-pa would die so my ma and Chambers could hookit

While it was nice to be defended by so many students on the platform, I felt more of a charge from the negative comments. As savage as they were, they lit something inside of me. I didn’t feel a need to defend myself against nameless, faceless foes who hurled insults at me into the RiffRaff void. I instead felt the urge to lean in and double down — to become both source and victim of the abuse.

I jumped into each negative thread and added fresh venom — Chambers can’t teach a pig to shit, and Hurd he sell dope on the side, fo real tho

With my thumb placed firmly on the scale, the RiffRaff opinion shifted progressively away from anything positive or supportive. It was darkly delicious.

Upon arriving at school the next day, I could feel a shift in how the kids looked at me as I walked down the hall. I received about ½ of the usual, “Hey, Mr. Chambers!” And maybe I imagined it, but I felt as if students made-way for me as I moved from here to there. 

During my planning period, the school principal asked me to pop in. While ever-nervous about entering a principal’s office, there was a devilish excitement at not knowing where this would go.

“Mr. Chambers, have a seat,” she said as a sad smile stretched across her face.

“Is there something the matter?” I asked with faux naivety.

“Oh, Mr. Chambers, I suppose you’ve not heard about all the posts.”

I gave her a practiced bewildered look.

“You remember what happened with Mr. Juggins?”

“A little. I try to stay away from, what do they call them, social mediums?”

“That’s smart, Mr. Chambers. While I can’t discuss Mr. Juggins’s, well, ‘situation,’ I can say what we have here isn’t the same.”

“I think I’m lost, Ma’am.”

“I don’t want you to visit that hateful site, Mr. Chambers. I will find out which students are posting these horrible things about you, and believe you me, I will punish them.”

I feigned further puzzlement, thanked her, and left, knowing she couldn’t get to the bottom of anything. Unless a direct and credible threat was made, the posts and reactions to them would remain anonymous.

I and others gave further oxygen to the accusations and hateful posts about me, causing the school to split into two camps: one suspicious, the other sympathetic.

The Student Leadership Council launched what they called a compassion campaign on my behalf. It consisted of fliers with my face surrounded by hearts and multiple banners placed in high-traffic areas with slogans like SLC Supports Chambers and In Chambers We Trust!

Another less official council also took action. Instead of using fliers and banners, this crew collected hundreds of pictures of naked men and glued them to my car. There wasn’t a square inch of paint not covered by these photos. It would appear that one of the transgressors had unearthed some Playgirl magazines from the 80s, as most of the models had bushy mustaches and copious amounts of chest hair — well played.

Increasingly, those pro-Chambers and anti-Chambers seemed to align with today’s political climate. MAGA supporters were against me, and progressives were for me. Each side was as easily played as the other. As long as my posts were consistent and vicious, students became rapidly entrenched.

Walking my dog after work, only a week after Granby Parcell’s expulsion, I wondered whether this secret project had run its course. Was it time to just let it peter out, which it most certainly would without my coaxing? Or was there a finishing move I hadn’t thought of? Something that could catch that initial high I felt when the social knives first went in.

I didn’t log into the app that night. Worn out from all the commotion and consideration, I went to bed early. 

Upon entering the school parking lot the following day, I found the Chambers’ Charm Offensive had picked up further steam. A parade of moms with picket signs walked in a circle around the flag pole. Monitor Your Kids, Defend Our Teachers, and 3 Cheers 4 Chambers! were among the chants they bellowed into the cold morning air. One of the moms, having spotted me, offered a flirtatious wink and smile as she pranced after another.

At that moment, I found their showcase of support triggering. The dark actor within craved something more punitive and sinister yet safely unprovable. The thought of a finishing move surfaced again. But who would be ‘finished?’ Did I want to end up like Juggins? Did I want to somehow finish off the scoundrels I’d ginned up in the first place? Did I want to finish off the culture of RiffRaff, which had — with my influence — upended a happier order within our school? Or perhaps ‘more’ was all that I craved; more black, oily, hateful gushing into RiffRaff, just to see how well day-Chambers could stand up to the acts of night-Chambers. 

That evening, I sifted through the seven different streaming services I paid for each month and found the entertainment options no match for re-entering the app. More than ever, I craved the distinct RiffRaff ding from my phone, signifying someone had responded to one of my posts. It had been a quiet night on the platform without my hands on the rudder, and the silence was maddening. I was hyperventilating as I grabbed the phone and thumbed the app open. I told myself not to think, just to act. To give in to the compulsion. To scratch the fucking itch!

I posted: It has taken all my courage to post this tonight — I think what Mr. Chambers and I are doing is called statutory rape

The community re-awakened at once. Each ding sounded louder than the last and closer together in frequency. Then, relieved of the pressure I’d felt just moments ago, I placed the sounding gong on the pillow next to me and fell deeply and peacefully asleep.