Chapter 56
Sheldon dug the scraper into the edge of the sticker and attempted to peel the rectangle — the approximate size and shape of a “Yes, We’re Open” sign on a bodega door — off the street-level glass window at FitFams headquarters. The adhesive was ludicrously strong, though, so with each effort he’d only get one infuriatingly small ribbon off the glass.
Dee watched over his shoulder with her arms crossed. The stickers reminded her of the ones plastered on telephone poles and traffic lights throughout the city, layered on top of each other like plastic spanakopita and advertising a tagger’s talents, a band’s logo, or a long-dead guerilla marketing campaign. She’d even affixed a kiss-cut vinyl sticker of Banksy’s “Lovesick,” a drawing of a woman vomiting hearts, on her laptop after she was outbid for the original artwork.
But these stickers on the FitFams window weren’t art. There were hundreds of them, and they all said the same thing:
“DEE BRADLEY IS AN ANTI-SEMITIC, ANTI-LGBTQIA HYPOCRITE.”
She knew what this was about. Forbes had found out she was in talks with Glen Fowler, a bloated, anti-Jewish, 70-year-old Republican donor who recently held a $50,000-a-plate dinner dance for a QAnon candidate in Palm Beach, Florida, and in 2018 purchased several of the country’s most upscale gym chains. Some of his money was believed to have come from a Syrian politician who led a brutal crackdown on thousands of his people in the southern town of Deraa.
Though Dee had in the past railed against conservatives and their closed-mindedness — she’d gotten good press for expelling from a studio that guy in the Westboro Baptist Church T-shirt, and FitFams’ Pride-themed socks were big sellers — she’d heard from her #girlboss networking group that Fowler was looking to add to his portfolio and might be willing to buy FitFams for about $500 million.
Dee had thought she could tuck her principles into her sock drawer for a moment and have some preliminary talks with that bloated whale before anybody was the wiser. Clearly, that was naïve.
The sidewalk outside HQ was busy, and though New Yorkers were famous for being nonplused even when cranes swung dangerously overhead, dozens of people stopped to gawk at the stickers and the young, Black man working to scrape them off while a white woman watched.
Dee’s phone buzzed as she headed inside.
“What the ever-living fuck, Dee?”
It was her investor, George Walhickey III.
“Good morning, George,” she said, deciding to take the stairs to burn off some frustration.
“I was watching CNBC today, and they were not kind,” he said.
“You knew I was taking that meeting,” she said.
“Yeah, no shit. I wanted you to take that meeting,” he said. “But I also wanted you to manage this situation so it didn’t blow up in our faces.”
“It’s fine. Really,” Dee said. “It will pass. I haven’t made a deal yet. If I do, I know how this will go. I’ll reassure everyone that FitFams will remain pure, untouched, and that Fowler is going to be silent and uninvolved. Like you.”
“Very funny,” George snapped. “Do you have a crisis-communications firm engaged?”
“No,” Dee said. “I have Cora and the rest of my leadership team.”
“No way,” George said. “That’s not good enough. I need to protect my investment, and the money I stand to make if this deal goes through. I’m sending someone from Tasker, Bentley, Hemble & Crump to work through a plan with you.”
“No, you’re not,” Dee said. “I’ve got this.”
George snorted. “You realize they’re calling you all sorts of names, right? Anti-Semite? Hater of your own kind in the LGBTQZRLMFAO or Whatever community? And you’re not exactly the most cuddly of company founders. I don’t see how you’re going to get yourself out of this jam.”
“Let me worry about that. I’ll get back to you,” she said, clicking off the call.
Dee almost laughed as she took the stairs two at a time. It was just so precious, the way people expected softness from a female CEO and thought feelings came before finances in the fitness industry.
How quaint, when consumers occasionally developed a conscience. Never mind that they all bought cheap workout clothes that they knew were stitched by children — how else to explain the low prices and fine details? They all clambered for the newest phone that they knew was assembled by people who lived 12 to a moldy dorm room in factory cities. They ate at restaurants that abused undocumented workers. They got pedicures at salons staffed by indentured servants. They bought high-end handbags from racist designers.
They conveniently ignored these ugly details and attended to their desires.
Dee scoffed as she pushed open the door to her floor. What a crock of shit. It was ridiculous that she’d been called a traitor to her community when she’d raised so much money for gay 5Ks, walks, and banquets. And to call her an anti-Semite was laughable; her college girlfriend was Jewish.
FitFams was a business, pure and simple. Without money, it could not run. And without money, she could not move on to her next enterprise, her next innovation, her next big idea that would change the world.
As she stomped into her office, closed the door, and dimmed the glass, she turned her attentions to the culprit. Who was leading this charge against her? Disgruntled ex-coaches? The pro-union lobby? A competitor?
Some damage control would need to be done, yes. But so would some investigation. Because those stickers weren’t just a pain in the ass to peel off. They were disrespectful — to Dee and to the company she’d built. And she would not stand for that.