‘The Rumor Mill’ is exactly the sort of business I don’t enjoy visiting. It’s a consulting firm- a place with no real products to browse and no showroom to speak of. Its lobby consists of a desk, three chairs, and a very patient man in a suit that is nicer than anything I own. The décor is sterile in a way that probably feels comfortable to those of a higher socio-economic class. It’s kept cold with the assumption that anyone who is supposed to be waiting won’t be waiting for long.
I wait.
What I hate about a place like this is the scene that occurs when a guy like me walks in and asks for a tour. They know I’m not going to open an account, that I couldn’t scrounge together the money for even the most basic of their services. They suspect I’m crazy or ignorant or that I have the wrong idea about what they do- that I’m hear to launch a petty smear campaign against an ex-lover. Speaking strictly of cost-benefit, though, they’d rather waste half an hour of an intern’s time toward entertaining my visit. The script will be hostile and apologetic, designed to make me wonder why I came.
Hector has started to shiver in his kennel and I’m just about to ask after the thermostat when a woman in a pressed suit emerges.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Right this way.”
‘‘The Rumor Mill’ currently holds the patent for a chemical cocktail that, diluted in pool water, will turn cloudy green in reaction to urine. It is responsible for the popular notion that walking under a ladder is bad luck and that touching baby birds will make them repulsive to their once-doting bird parents. These represent some of ‘The Rumor Mill’s’ greatest successes- little myths that shame or scare people into common sense behaviors. Don’t worry about pee in the pool. Don’t knock over the ladder because you couldn’t be bothered to go around. Don’t touch wild animals. At some point in history, some person or group of people cared deeply enough about these issues to pay ‘The Rumor Mill’ to do something about them. ‘The Mill’ designed and seeded the myth, molding the behavior of the masses with the sheer power of storytelling.
Initially a four-person operation, it might concern the reader to know that ‘The Rumor Mill’ has expanded to nearly 400 employees over the last decade. Concerning, also, is the fact that the rumors mentioned, here, are those that have been de-classified by ‘The Mill’ to serve as exemplars in their portfolio. Current projects are necessarily confidential but, based on ‘The Rumor Mill’s’ expansion into legend and conspiracy, it’s safe to say that business is good.’
The woman and I walk down a hallway that passes the restroom and terminates in a single small office. The office is sparse and even colder than the waiting room. Two picture frames are angled toward the woman as she sits and adjust the chair. Both frames are empty.
“What can we help you with today, sir?”
“I was just hoping to get a rundown of the business or, like, a tour I guess. I’m a-”
“Journalist?”
“A travel writer.”
The woman narrows her eyes. “There isn’t much to see but what you’ve seen so far. As for our business,” and here she pulls a tome from an otherwise empty drawer, “I can quickly take you through a list of our accomplishments. I’m sure you’ve heard about the pool dye. We are also responsible for ‘wait 30 minutes after eating’ in the swimming genre and have lobbied for the sexualization of hot tubs and saunas if you’re curious about the water theme, overall. Opening an umbrella inside of the house wasn’t us but we’ve since absorbed the firm that designed that rumor. Have a look.”
The left pages of the books have simple rumors- that running the vacuum over its cord will electrocute the user, that spiders crawl into one’s mouth while they sleep, that trimmed hair will grow back thicker than before.
“What’s the point of the spider thing?” I ask.
“That was a special case,” the woman smiles, “A woman trying to convince her husband to wear his CPAP. Got a bit out of hand.”
The latter half of the book is devoted entirely to handshake etiquette. Competing palm temperatures, grip strengths, and durations.
“There is a perfect handshake,” the woman shrugs, “And people pay handsomely to keep it secret. Can we talk about your budget?”
Several seconds slip by as I think about how much longer I want to do this. The answer, it turns out, is not even one more second.
“No budget,” I say.
“Ah, well, thanks for coming in.”
The woman extends her hand and I take it. My fingers buzz pleasantly and the next thing I know I’m back outside, feeling as though I’ve met someone important and wasted their time.
-traveler