Riot Street

by Tyler King

  “On occasion I’ve been known to enter a room without saying anything at all.” He winks. Snarky shit.

  “And you know what they’re thinking.” I slide my finished plate of food to the edge of the table to alert the waiter that we’re ready for the check. “Everyone in the Cave and everyone they’ve told so far.”

  “That we’re sleeping together,” Ethan says, dry and without inflection. “Maybe you’re sleeping with half the senior staff and that’s why you have a job when there are more experienced and qualified candidates begging for scraps.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “What?”

  “Sleep together.”

  “Ethan…” Glad he’s taking this seriously.

  “Look.” He sets down his glass and leans forward. “Nobody’s handing out Brownie points for nobility in that place. If you want something, take it. If you don’t like something, fix it. Cyle doesn’t have his job because he’s nice to people. Five years ago he was an intern who chased away everyone else who wanted his gig until he got to sit in that dark little hole and lord over his minions. If you want people to respect you, don’t take any shit.”

  “That’s you,” I say, folding my straw wrapper into an accordion. “That’s not me.”

  “It could be. This is your shot to define your identity. Don’t waste it on being a shadow.” Ethan sips his tequila like the world could explode around him and it’d barely ruffle a hair out of place. “Because whatever you were doing before, Avery, it wasn’t working.”

  He’s not wrong, and that bugs me more than it should. Ethan can’t understand what it’s like to have already shed one whole person from my psyche. To look back just ten years and barely recognize myself. As if the memories were of a past life, of a stranger. Echo was a failed attempt at being. Not viable once removed from the controlled environment in which she was created. She wasn’t equipped for the outside world. Delicate, unable to withstand the stimulation and disorder, pain and loneliness. Echo was shriveling, breaking down. She became destructive. So I killed her. A very late term abortion.

  But it’s like fragments of her survived, implanted so deep I can’t claw them out. I see afterimages that flash and flicker behind my eyes. Hear her inflection in my voice. Sometimes I still taste her cravings on my tongue.

  Becoming who you want to be requires conviction and stamina.

  Ethan will never get that.

  * * *

  When we get back to the office, Ethan tows me around the Farm from desk to desk like it’s the first day of school all over again and I’m today’s show-and-tell. Arts and Culture girls with thick black glasses, and cardigans over striped shirts like they live in a perpetual French film festival. Econ boys in pressed button-downs and skinny ties, laptop screens an ordered frenzy of charts and decimals. The crime-and-punishment crew, all haggard and going to or coming from their smoke breaks on the roof. There’s a permanent stench of tobacco in the air around them. Traversing the landscape, doing the grip-and-grin, I’m regarded by the staff with about as much enthusiasm as a flyer handed out on a street corner.

  “Every one of them assumes you’re out to take their job,” Ethan says. “The better you are, the more they’ll hate you.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No.”

  Seems the group I met Friday night were selected as the more-welcoming face of Riot Street and Ethan was saving the less-savory personalities for after I signed the contract.

  Once we’ve made the rounds, he takes me to IT on the third floor to pick up my laptop, after which we sit at his desk while he escorts me through the process of setting up log-in credentials for the magazine’s intranet, email, publishing platform, and a few other sites and services I’ll need access to.

  “Getting settled in?” Ed leans over the side wall of Ethan’s cubicle. His eyes are a bit droopy from a Taco Tuesday food coma and his faux hawk is a smidge off-center.

  “All good,” I say, sitting up straight. “Got a tour, I’m all plugged in…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I just want to thank you, again, for giving me a chance. I know my interview wasn’t—”

  Ethan shoots me a chastising glance as Ed swats at the air in a dismissive gesture. Not much of a talker, Ed. Seems his visit is more a formality than genuine interest.

  “I’m not sending her back to the Cave.” Ethan reclines in his chair and folds his arms behind his head, like he’s issuing a decree and his word is final. Now I send him a glare, because I thought we’d come to an understanding on the matter.

  Ed looks away. At the wall or at dust moats floating through the air. “I heard.”

  Undeterred by my silent thought waves begging him to back off, Ethan grabs my bag from the floor and drops it over the front wall of his cube to the adjacent empty desk. “Take that one.”

  Ed’s lips stretch to a thin line, brow furrowed. “Vee’s desk?”

  “She’s not coming back,” Ethan says, harsh and clipped.

  “Who’s Vee?”

  Ethan stares past me like he’s pretending really hard not to hear her name. Ed just taps the top of the wall and nods before walking away. The man has no fucks left to give about shit like this.

  “Seriously?” I say, once Ed is out of earshot. “Will you stop?”

  “Quit apologizing. If you walk around like a charity case, that’s how people will treat you.”

  “Then stop acting like my chaperone.”

  “I’m not going to let you get absorbed and disappear. So you might try a little gratitude.”

  “And a touch of humility wouldn’t kill you.”

  “I tried it once. Didn’t suit me.”

  No kidding.

  8

  The Slaughterhouse Six

  As a child, I was raised to assimilate. Don’t ask questions. Don’t talk out of turn. Don’t think too much. Because an isolationist system built on the shaky foundation of a man as a conduit for the spiritual energy of the world doesn’t survive on diversity and free expression. It requires the sort of harmony found only through totalitarian authority. This is the line; walk it or perish. The talent is in convincing people they like it.

  In the newsroom, the editor’s word is law. It is final and absolute. Quite often this power is wielded with ruthless disregard for petty, fragile ideas like compassion, ego, or sympathy. This is illustrated as, one by one, the five other writers in this pitch meeting step into the arena and are quickly struck down by the vicious ponytailed lion that is Cara tearing at their muddy flesh. I now feel privileged that she went so easy on me during our interview. And I realize that Ethan’s brief warning this morning, before I walked into the Slaughterhouse for my first taste of the Wednesday Whipping, fell short of preparing me for the visceral carnage of it all.

  “Stop talking.” Sitting at the head of the conference table, Cara takes a deep inhale through her nose, manicured fingers pressed to her temples, and breathes out like a baby’s whisper through pursed lips. “Amy, from a place of love,” she says, eyes closed, “I need you to get an ice pick and stab that thirteen-year-old girl who lives in your head right in the eye. Can you do that for me?” She looks up. “Just—” Cara jabs at the air. “Right in her little sparkly pubescent eyeball. Okay?”

  Amy nods, eyes liquid and lips clamped shut. Her pen slices frantic lines over the bulleted list of eviscerated story ideas.

  “What’s next?” Cara’s steely eyes slide to another victim.

  “I have a source,” says the CPAC disciple in the mint poplin Dockers shirt, “who’s offering photos of three congressional aides at a DCCC fund-raiser in Malibu with a gay male porn star.”

  Cara’s shoulders tense before he’s finished the sentence.

  “New rule.” She slaps her laptop shut with a force that tightens every ass in the room. “I don’t give a shit about reality-show divas, hunting for secret gays, or dogs that look like dead celebrities. Any of you
want to write that garbage, go work for the New York Post. We are not a dumping ground for your vapid listicles because you got too drunk last night to develop an authentic idea. We are not going to race every lazy BuzzFeed wannabe to the bottom of the media shit pile. Show your colleagues some respect and don’t walk into this room without something you’re willing to get arrested for. Clear?”

  I’m so hard for Cara right now. Like I could climb across this table and grab her by the ponytail to lay one on her. But that would inappropriate. So I smother an aroused smile and give only a tight nod of agreement. I admit now that I pegged her wrong. Sure, she might be a bit too cozy with the business side of the magazine, but she isn’t the soulless sellout I first thought.

  “Avery.” Cara’s arctic eyes flash to mine and I’m reminded that I’m not just an invisible spectator. “What have you got?”

  That’s a damn good question. In light of the last several minutes, my scribbled pitches appear dead on the vine. Not that I would classify any of them as vapid or tabloid fodder, but neither do they comply with the one criterion I know will make Cara happy—they’re not about Echo. And while I admire Cara’s attempts to keep the magazine from getting sucked into the sewer, she scares the shit out of me. If I let her down, if I push back against the only reason I was invited to this table, I might watch my career wither before it’s bloomed.

  I’ve already wasted ten seconds on this existential crisis while the room narrows and every pair of eyes around the table turns away in embarrassment. Except for Cara’s laser gaze. My blood drains into my feet and my shoes become two sizes too small. I can’t feel my face. I’m aware of every excruciating second that ticks by while she waits, staring, and I blink, blink, blink in silence like doing so will change the image before my eyes until I’m no longer trapped in the chaos spiral unfolding around me.

  “Anything else?” Cara glances at her phone then sweeps her eyes around the table of broken, defeated faces. “We’re done here.”

  An anvil drops to the hard bottom of my gut, shaking organs and sending vibrations through my limbs. This is the lonely, silent sensation of utter failure. I’m not even worth mauling for sport.

  We all gather our things and shuffle toward the door.

  “Avery?” Cara calls from behind me. “A minute.”

  My breath stalls in my throat and my skin tingles. I let the others pass, catching a disparaging glance from Cyle, then turn to Cara standing beside her chair.

  Her narrow, pristine face is vacant of expression. “I hear there was a disagreement yesterday.”

  Shit. “I—”

  “I don’t care. I’m not concerned with where you sit as long as your copy comes in on deadline. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I say, regaining sensation in my fingers.

  Her posture shifts, shoulders relax. “Cyle suffers from a malignant case of Mediocre White Man Syndrome, but he does his job. You don’t have to like each other, but you do have to work together. That going to be a problem?”

  “No.”

  Cara likes short answers, so I keep them succinct. She’s not interested in how Ethan took it upon himself to throw down the gauntlet or how I would be happy to fester in the dank recesses of the Cave with the other Morlocks. She just wants compliance.

  “Good. Now the next time we meet, I expect you to contribute.”

  I think that’s about as close as it gets to a pep talk with her. Not quite a womance, but it’s a start.

  Ethan is waiting for me when I get back to my desk. Reclined in his chair, office phone wedged against his ear, he wears an expectant smile until the hollow darkness of my expression sits him upright.

  “How’d it go?” he asks, scooting forward with a hand covering the phone’s mic.

  “Oh, brilliant.” I drop my notepad on my desk and yank my chair out.

  “Okay…” I hate that smirk. “Care to elaborate?”

  “It was a total burn-in, all right?” I flop down in my chair and stare at the drop-tile ceiling. “No survivors.”

  His phone clicks into its cradle. “What did you pitch her?” Then he rolls into the aisle beside our cubes.

  “Who’d you just hang up on?”

  “Director of Health and Human Services.” He shrugs. “I was on hold.”

  Ethan stares then pops his eyebrows, still waiting for an answer.

  “Nothing. I froze. Sat there like an idiot with nothing to say.”

  This is the shit that killed Echo. The anxiety and desperation. A shy little girl hiding in the shadows, afraid to be seen and longing for attention. But no matter how many ways I try to excise that part of her, it burrows deeper, only to resurface when it’s most detrimental.

  “Hey.” He slides into my cube and yanks my chair forward to demand I look at him. “Relax. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “No, I’m not. I had one job, and I failed. I’ve wanted this for so long, and when I finally have the chance to prove…” A sick, nauseated feeling seeps through my stomach. “I humiliated myself.”

  “So what?” Ethan leans in, lowering his voice. “Are you going to give up?”

  “No.” I don’t have an escape plan. There is no backup.

  “Are you sure? Sounds like an end-of-the-world scenario. Wouldn’t you rather run away and find something easier, less demanding to do? Somewhere your biggest responsibility is counting back correct change?”

  I have a sudden urge to throw something at his face. “No.”

  “Then quit your bitching, love, and get to work.”

  Great. Good talk.

  * * *

  I spend the next two hours at my desk staring into the white abyss of a blank screen. I try listening to music. Chew gum and twirl a pencil between my fingers. Cross my eyes until the tiny pixels become large and excited like static on a television. Drink three cups of coffee and eat two stale doughnuts from the snack room. None of which produces a thought that doesn’t sound like something that would inspire Cara to homicidal rage.

  “I can hear you thinking,” Ethan says through the wall that separates our cubicles. “Stop trying so hard.”

  “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Just sit back and wait for divine intervention. For the magical sprite of inspiration to land on my shoulder and fart an idea in my ear.”

  “You’re mean when you’re cranky.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “I can help. You want to bounce some pitches off me, brainstorm?”

  “You want to write it for me, too?”

  It’s not that I don’t appreciate Ethan’s willingness to help, but I can’t let his constant need to intervene become a crutch. If I can’t even pitch one solid story on my own, what the hell am I doing here? Besides, it would only be a matter of time before his goodwill turned to resentment and I became a burden rather than a project.

  No, it’ll come. Eventually. Until then…I have to stave off the creeping sense of terror crawling up my neck. Maybe it’s just me, but there’s a strange disquiet rippling through the newsroom. Nothing material, per se, but rather an indistinct energy like someone sneaking up behind me. Whether morbid curiosity or something more, lingering stares and furtive glances hang on me while I sit frozen in stasis at my desk. But I’m accustomed to the attention—eyes that dart in the other direction when they catch my gaze, conversations that cease when I approach—and I can’t let it distract me from…

  Hell, I got nothing. A big, white, empty void of nothing.

  I flinch when Addison taps me on the shoulder. “Lunch?”

  My savior. “Yes.”

  “Ethan?” Addison asks, leaning over the cubicle wall.

  “Go on ahead.” He picks up his desk phone and wedges it between his ear and shoulder. “Careful with that one. She bites.”

  * * *

  For some baffling reason, the staff doesn’t observe an official Wednesday lunch alliteration.

  “This seems like a grievous oversight,” I say, as I wait in line with Addison and C
.J. at the pita place down the street. We got here at 11:50 and still have fifteen people ahead of us. The line snakes through the room of tables and out the doors to the sidewalk. Better be a damn good pita.

  “For a while there was a diner nearby that served chicken and waffles,” Addison says. He wears his sunglasses inside to block the bright glare of sunlight that skips off passing car windshields and cuts through the restaurant. And because they go with the outfit. “Then a brief campaign was made for adopting Wing Wednesday, but a salmonella outbreak had half the staff on the toilet for two days, so…”

  “We’re about to eat.” C.J. grimaces and shoves Addison’s shoulder. “Is Ethan still at the office?”

  “He had some calls to make,” I say, and turn away from an aspiring hedge fund type with a date rapist smile waiting for his order. “Why, should we see if he wants us to bring back something?”

  “Don’t do it.” C.J. shakes her head.

  For someone who takes senators and pundits to task with the pitiless wit of a George Carlin and Samantha Bee love child, she’s more approachable than I expected. And shorter. But then I had envisioned Serena Williams with a tape recorder and pencils in her hair.

  “What, does he stiff you on the check?”

  Addison takes off his sunglasses and looks at C.J. as if trying to parse out how best to phrase a response. “Ethan tends to be very popular with new girls. Usually interns,” he qualifies, like I might take offense otherwise. “Before you know it, they’re picking up his lunch orders, spending their weekends fact-checking his manuscripts, and devoting three weeks buried in the city hall archives of some tiny municipality in West Virginia.”

  “Oh, wow, yeah,” C.J. says, taking a few steps forward as the line inches closer to the register. “I forgot about…”

  “Brandy? Brittany?” Addison shrugs. “Something like that. She was never seen or heard from again.”

  “Is that what happened to Vee?”

  A pause. C.J. and Addison stare at me like I just farted at a funeral.

  “Persona non grata, sweetheart.” Flippant, almost joking. Even I recognize Vee is a sore subject Addison would rather hurry past. “Let’s call it creative differences.”