RiffRaff

RiffRaff

It all started with a verifiable threat. Squad cars and a SWAT team fanned out across the campus of Eastern High School on a rain-soaked afternoon. They 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!”

I was working in the auditorium that afternoon and moved quickly to lock all twelve entrances into it as the school alarm filled every square inch of my skull. Whatever was going on, unless it were a bomb, it wouldn’t reach my block of kids.

Granby, an 18-year-old junior, was a country boy. I knew from experience that he was pissed off at everything and everyone. He talked big but did little, especially academically. He drove a jacked-up Chevy Silverado with 22-inch rims and FJB stickers covering the back window. He shot the middle finger at anyone he drove by as he came and went from Eastern High. He was also not serious about his threat against the school.

Granby had no weapons—aside from a long forgotten Bowie knife found in a tackle box in his truck—bombs or fireworks, for that matter (yes, students just before winter break chucked M-80s in 4 areas of the school simultaneously to simulate a school shooting); he just wanted to get over to see his girlfriend in the neighboring county. He never made it.

Instead, Granby spent the afternoon not being a tough guy with Sergeant Lassiter and his boss, Lieutenant Betty Jo Tandy, who questioned him about what he posted, why he wrote it, and what other kids were involved—the answer to that last one was “none.”

Granby, for his part, was honest, primarily because his near murderous father sat across from him in the interrogation room, quietly staring holes through young Granby’s eyes; his night would be far worse than the interrogation.

Word spread quickly through the school about who called in the threat, on what platform, and for what reason. Most kids were actually pleased with Granby Parcell’s actions, as the false threat 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 told officers Lassiter and Tandy about the social media app where he posted the threat—RiffRaff. What made RiffRaff unique was quite simple: the app connected people within a seven-mile radius—like a neighborhood, work campus or school area—and all posts were anonymous. What Granby Parcell didn’t know was that 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.

Though a hoax, Granby’s post set something in motion that would overtake the rest of the semester in ways no one saw coming. While he never returned to Eastern High, he would be remembered as the kid who started a wave of viral viciousness between students and faculty alike.

The use of RiffRaff by the student body went through the roof within twenty-four hours of the Parcell threat. The highly localized social community of 100 grew ten-fold 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 this got old and didn’t generate the likes and desired commentary, so the ante was raised again by the hive-mind that was the RiffRaff community at Eastern High. 

The post that marked the beginning of real trouble was directed at Assistant Principal Virgil Juggins. Juggins was a huge man. He was said to have been a stand-out college athlete fifteen years and 150 pounds ago. He was tabbed as the enforcer among the administrators, as to look at all 6’7” of him made most kids submit without a word.

But any fear students may have 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 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 just add fuel to the fire. 

But then came trouble that Juggins 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 favorite one-word complimentary comment for those who possessed 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 occasionally—and accidentally—jumped 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 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. The next day, Virgil Juggins was suspended without pay, just three days after the Parcell kid posted the threat. Certain members of the RiffRaff community referred to his downfall as their “first ADMIN pelt.”

I decided to jump on to RiffRaff to see what students in the community said about AP Juggins' ouster. While some kids continued their mean-spirited, surface-level insults, with some referring to his downfall as their “first ADMIN pelt,” a surprising number of students were staunchly against his firing. 

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, and an argument over which English teacher was more ‘bangable.’

A day or two 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, it started slow. Anonymously ‘liking’ something here, responding with an emoji there. But then I found myself, with a late evening scotch in hand, briefly 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. By posing as one of them and caring about what they cared about, hated, and wanted, I felt connected. 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 unique post: 

“Cramming disgusting school fries into my mouth as I cram for my health test - what’s wrong with this picture?”

Almost instantly, it received ten likes and two comments. One agreed and said they thought the cook was doing acid, and the other called me a ‘fucktard’ for wasting his time on stupid shit. That last comment got twenty-five likes and thirty thumbs-downs. 

And we’re off to the races.

My second post leaned political:

“All these old white fucks wreckin our future  #curbfossilfuels”

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

It was exhilarating.

The next one I don’t remember posting. 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 3rd scotch after all. 

The post was simple and not thematically off 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 crowd jumped all over the post. Of course, some went with the negative flow I started. But far more were in defense of me and of my character.

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 a nameless, faceless foe who screamed epithets about me into the RiffRaff void. I instead felt the urge to lean in and double down—to become both the source of the abuse and the victim.

I jumped into each negative thread and added fresh venom - ‘for real, he’s a strate up PEDO!’ and ‘chambers can’t teach a pig to shit’ and ‘hurd he sell dope on the side, fo real tho.’

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

Upon arriving at school the next day, I could feel the change 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?”

“I never did hear the ins and outs. I don’t use social media,” I said.

“While I can’t discuss Mr. Juggins’, well, situation, I can say that this isn’t the same.”

“I think I’m lost, Miss Farnsworth.”

“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 thanked her and left her office, 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.

Miss Farnsworth didn’t buy into the RiffRaff narrative. Instead, she stood up for my character, and she wasn’t the only one. While I and others continued to fuel the fire with accusations and hateful posts about me, the school split into two camps: one deeply suspicious, the other exceedingly supportive.

The Student Leadership Council launched what they called a “compassion campaign” on my behalf, consisting of fliers with my face on it surrounded with hearts and multiple banners placed in high-traffic areas with slogans like “SGA 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 late 80s, as most of the models had bushy mustaches and copious amounts of chest hair—well played.

As on-campus interest in my ‘situation’ reached a fever pitch, I added an extra layer of protection by installing a Virtual Private Network, effectively disguising my IP address and redirecting any prying eyes to far-off lands—where is my network today? Bogota? Stuttgart? Someplace in Mongolia?

Those pro-Chambers and anti-Chambers seemed to line up with today’s political climate. Trump supporters were against me, and progressives were for me. Each side was as easily played as the other. Children were ready to become instant adversaries if my posts were consistently vicious on the platform, becoming entrenched within days.

Walking my dog after work, only a week since Granby Parcell’s expulsion, I wondered whether this secret project had run its course. Whether it was time just to let it peter out, which it most assuredly 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 go online that night. Worn out from the commotion and considering what to do next, 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 wink and a smile as she pranced after another.

At that moment, I found their showcase of support triggering. The dark actor within craved something more punitive, sinister, and 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 RiffRaf, which had—with my influence—upended a happier order within the span of a week? 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 RiffRaff. More than ever, I craved the distinct RiffRaff ding notifying me of a reaction 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 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.

END