by Tarah Benner
While I got a career-ending diagnosis, the American people got a new lease on life. The new president promised to end the war on cyberterrorism and quietly withdrew our troops from Russia, Turkey, and China.
The conversation turned from national defense to global cooperation, and the American people forgot that we were still entrenched in cyber war.
The attacks didn’t stop. If anything, they became more and more frequent. But the Bureau for Chaos quieted down, and corporations began to accept hacks as a necessary cost of doing business.
I get to the gym just a few minutes late and pay six dollars to park on the street. I slide in with a group of young moms, hoping to avoid Cassandra’s ire, but there’s no sneaking past the eagle-eyed bitch.
“Jonah!”
I freeze, willing myself not to be provoked. I hate every fucking second I spend working for her, but I really, really need this job.
“You’re — late!”
“And getting later all the time,” I remind her, forcing an accommodating smile and pivoting slowly on the spot.
At six foot three, I tower over Cassandra by at least a foot, but she still manages to cut me down to size.
Don’t be fooled by her Bowflex body and perky little boobs. Cassandra is a drill sergeant in spandex.
“Your class is waiting,” she snaps. “They’ve been waiting on you for eight whole minutes. Do you realize how unprofessional that is? A few of them already left!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Come see me after,” she says. A customer just walked in, which is my cue to escape.
ONYX is one of those ultra-trendy gyms in West Hollywood where people go to see and be seen. The floors are a shiny polished black, and there are mirrors covering every surface.
I skate through the lobby toward the back activity suite where my class is held Monday through Saturday. It’s called Muay Tight, which is one step up from Booty Bootcamp.
I waltz in a good ten minutes late and earn several dirty looks from the women who pay two hundred dollars an hour to be here. I don’t know what it is about kickboxing that excites them, but they’re here and it’s a job.
“All right!” I say, clapping my hands together and striding toward the front of the room. “Let’s go to work!”
I ping the sound system to queue up the gym’s playlist — some horrible custom EDM mix. We start every class with fast-paced shadowboxing, and twenty stick women start to move with the music.
The gym has rigged lights and lasers to flash with the beat, which gives the impression that we’re in a dark club somewhere and these women are fending off unwanted advances. The heavy bass rattles my skull, and I will myself not to puke all over the front row.
I lead them through the warmup, trying to guess how many of them have had work done. I spot six pairs of fake boobs, nine suspected nose jobs, and a whole lot of surgically enhanced lips. Everything in LA is fake.
After warmup, we move to the bags, and I shout out the ONYX-approved list of positive affirmations: You can do it! Come on, ladies! You are strong! Harder! Faster!
I’m not supposed to correct their technique or give any feedback that could be construed as negative. I learned that lesson the hard way after one edgy model/actress left my class in tears.
As the hour wears on, the music changes to let everyone know we’ve entered the “hard burn” portion of the workout. I’m supposed to ham it up with extra affirmations. The lights go wild, and my head pounds harder. A few of the women cheer as they pummel the bags.
This is my life now. I’m a professional cheerleader.
Finally, it’s time for the cool down. My enthusiasm has tapered off, but they’re all too tired to care. The lights come on as I stretch them out, and I get to my feet to let them know the class is over. Time to return to your pathetic lives.
The women start to pack up their duffel bags and pat the sweat off their boobs. One woman wearing just a sports bra and booty shorts makes a beeline through the crowd, and I busy myself with my Optix just in case she tries to talk to me.
She clears her throat and waves a hand to get my attention. Great.
I flip off my Optix and paste on a smile. She asks if I’m a trainer here. I say I’m not. She asks if I give private lessons outside the gym. I know what that means.
I brush her off as nicely as I can, fantasizing about having my way with a big fat burrito the second I get out of here. But the woman follows me across the room, and I freeze just inside the shiny glass doors.
I feel as though I’ve seen a ghost, and I do a quick mental check to be sure I’m not hallucinating. The woman is babbling on about her glutes. I am definitely still in hell.
Staring back at me from across the gym is someone familiar and wildly out of place. The man is tall and broad and going bald. He’s dressed in jeans and a black bomber jacket, but he wears the army on him like a second skin.
I haven’t seen him in almost two years, but in this moment, it feels like yesterday. It’s my old captain, Beau Humphrey.
2
Maggie
I roll out of bed with the immediate feeling that I’ve overslept. My heart is pounding against my ribcage, and my brain has been trying to wake my body for several minutes. It’s five fifty — I’m already late.
I snatch my glasses off the nightstand and throw myself across the cloud of blankets. I careen into the kitchen, where Kiran is making coffee.
I can see the tops of his chocolatey thighs under his robe, which is more of Kiran than I’d prefer to see on any given day. It’s his “gettin’ some” robe, which means pocket-square guy must have spent the night again.
“Whoa. Where’s the fire? Someone running a sale on tacky T-shirts from the trunk of his car?”
I look down. I’m still wearing my “Pretty Fly for a Jedi” shirt with no bra, but I’m too excited to take offense.
“It’s today!” I say in a rush, fumbling with the deadbolt and the three chain locks on our door.
“It’s today? Like today, today?” All of a sudden, the snark is gone. Kiran knows what this means to me.
“Go!” he shouts, his robe rippling with his enthusiasm. “Go! Go! Go!”
I fly out of the apartment toward the stairs, narrowly missing Mr. Meyers in all his open-robed glory. He’s lived in the building since dinosaurs roamed the earth, and he is perennially suspicious of hipsters, iced coffee, and any modern form of communication.
“Morning, Mr. Meyers!” I shout as my bare feet slap down the stairs, picking up a hundred years of dirt and grime as I careen toward the lobby.
I’m out of breath by the time I reach the bottom and throw my body against the door. I’m immediately assaulted by a swirl of noises and people — mostly the sporty set out for an early jog with their neon jackets and pale hairy legs. There are club kids still in their torn black tights and a few bums slumped in the shadow of the first stairwell I pass.
Even running down the street barefoot in my cupcake pajama bottoms, I only attract a few alarmed stares. That’s the beauty and the curse of New York City — it takes a lot to get people’s attention.
By the time I reach the little bodega around the corner, I’m gasping for air. The stitch in my side feels like the blade of a knife, but I am victorious. It’s only two minutes past six, which means the papers will still be warm from the presses.
I cast around for the familiar neat stack. I’ve been writing for the New York Daily Journal for more than two years, but today is the first day I’ll see my name in print.
“Hey, you,” says a voice. “Pajama girl.”
I turn.
Raj, the owner, is staring at me with that familiar pucker-lipped disapproval.
“Can’t you read?” He points at the front door, which is papered in so many signs that I have no idea which one he’s referencing. “No shoes, no service.”
I roll my eyes. Not even Raj can get me down today.
“I just need a copy of The Journal.�
�
He continues to scowl. “No shoes, no service.”
I let out a groan and navigate around the teetering display of sunglasses to the dwindling section of newspapers that are still in print.
I get a shiver as I sweep the first glorious copy off the stack. It’s still warm, and the feeling that rolls through me can only be described as orgasmic.
I sigh. The big grabby headline on the cover? “Volkov Is Our Past, Present, and Future.” A particularly evil-looking shot of the Russian president fills the cover page, with a smaller subheading referencing the latest Russian cyberattack — a heist on a branch of the US Treasury.
I scan the front page in a frenzy, eyes peeled for the two sweetest words in the English language: Magnolia Barnes. Magnolia Barnes.
Cliff always gets the final say on the headline, but he promised me my byline. Damn him burying me somewhere in the metro section.
I rip open the paper, feeling a little more desperate the farther my eyes travel down the page. My gaze lingers on a feature on one of the New York–based tech startups that’s launching a satellite office in space before moving to a profile on the Maverick Enterprises wunderkind Tripp Van de Graaf. Gag.
I get all the way to sports and feel my fury bubbling over. Where the fuck is my piece?
I flip through the whole issue, but I’m not in there. Neither is my story about the city councilman redrawing district lines to sway his party’s chances at victory.
“What the hell?” I don’t immediately realize I’ve said this out loud until the bodega falls silent. I look up and realize that an older Hispanic woman is scowling at me from across the counter.
“Get out of ze way,” says Raj. “You’re blocking my customer.”
I narrowly miss the very grabby hand of a Wall Street guy reaching around me for the cooler and elbow him out of the way.
Cliff promised me, and he flat-out lied. Two years I’ve slaved for that man — taking every junk piece he threw at me to fill out the online edition. Hell, I’ve even been pimping out my integrity for Topfold — our parent company’s more profitable, clickbait-y publication.
Layla Jones, my sham alter ego, has been raking in the views. But today Cliff promised me a byline as a real honest-to-god journalist. In print — which, as my dad would say, is the only thing that matters.
“This isn’t a li-vary,” says Raj in annoyance. “Five dollar.” His accent clips off the last “s” to make “dollar” sound singular.
“It was four last week.”
“Za price just vent up.”
My gaze narrows into a glare, and I beam him five bucks from my Optix. What a rip-off.
I shove past Wall Street guy and stumble back to the apartment in shock. I must look as though I’m entrenched in the most hideous walk of shame ever, but I don’t even care.
By the time I reach the third floor, I’m completely deflated. I catch Kiran on his way out. He’s ditched the porn-star robe for a pair of black Lycra shorts and a studded leather vest, and his bright-purple mohawk is in its full upright-and-locked position.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, stopping me with a leather-gloved hand before I walk right into his bike tire. “What’s wrong?”
I let out a wobbly sigh and hold up the paper. I’m too devastated to tell anyone — even my best friend.
“They misspell your name or something?”
I shake my head, fighting back tears. “He didn’t put it in.”
“Your article?” he says, his warm brown eyes crinkling in sympathy. “He didn’t put it in at all?”
I shake my head again. I’m on the verge of a total meltdown, but Kiran doesn’t have time to lend me a shoulder to cry on. His main gig is as a bike messenger, and he’s competing with a whole fleet of delivery bots for business.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine,” says Kiran, instantly dropping his breezy smart-ass facade. He knows that this is serious.
“I’m okay,” I choke. “You go on. I’m just gonna finish up a Layla piece before my shift.”
“Fuck that,” says Kiran forcefully. “If I were you, I’d put on some pants” — his eyes flicker down to the dancing cupcakes on my PJs — “march my ass up to The Journal, and tear Cliffy a new one.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “You think?”
“Abso-fuckin-lutely,” says Kiran, that familiar fire in his eyes. “This is bullshit.”
“It is bullshit.”
“Cliff strung you along for two years.”
“Yeah.”
“Posting Layla Jones fluff pieces.”
“Yeah!”
“Get mad, girl! Go get in his face!”
“I will.”
“Good.”
I glance behind him into the apartment. “Pocket-square guy go home?”
Kiran rolls his eyes. “Um, first of all, pocket-square guy has a name. It’s Brom. Second of all, that was one time. And he went to work.”
Wow. Kiran must really like this guy if he’s defending pocket squares.
“Well, you better get to work, too, so you can afford an adult-sized robe,” I say.
“You get to work!”
I laugh. Kiran always has a way of making me feel better about life. He wheels his bike into the hall, belting out a shrill rendition of “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” that’s sure to piss off Mr. Meyers.
I slam the door behind him and run into my bedroom before my Kiran high wears off.
The floor is strewn with dirty clothes. I don’t even remember the last time I did laundry. I snatch a pair of tangled-up jeans off the floor and pull them on over my ass. It’s feeling a little extra juicy these days after late nights fueled by food-truck burritos and the entire Hostess snack line.
I cast around for a clean-ish shirt before realizing that I’m wearing the last clean thing I own.
Screw it.
I snap on a purple zebra bra under my Jedi shirt and grab my green army jacket with all the pockets. I careen into the bathroom and choke on Kiran’s lingering cloud of spray-on deodorant.
I look as though I just escaped from a mental hospital. My wild blond curls are a tangled mess, and my bright-green eyes are tinged with red. I splash cold water on my face and smear on some tinted lip gloss. I can’t find my sexy librarian glasses, so I’m stuck wearing my gigantic square tortoiseshell ones.
Forget mental hospital escapee — I look like a fortune teller from hell.
I grab my messenger bag off the futon and storm out of the apartment, earning a dirty look from Mr. Meyers down by the mailboxes. Instead of glaring back at him, I force a crazy-eyed smile and throw my weight against the door.
Kiran and I are lucky. We live in a rent-controlled apartment on the Lower East Side that used to belong to his aunt. It’s a much better place than we should be able to afford, but every month is still a gamble when it comes time to pay the bills. That’s when we find out if it’s going to be a takeout month or thirty consecutive days of spaghetti and cereal.
I take the subway to Midtown to talk to Cliff, flipping through my feed to find where he buried my article.
It isn’t there.
The entire digital edition looks different. It still reads New York Daily Journal at the top, but underneath is a line of tiny text that says “Part of the Futurewise Media Network.”
I frown. Futurewise Media owns The Journal and Topfold, but they haven’t been very public about it until now. I glance through the technicolor projection from my Optix at the people shuffling on and off the subway car. Most of them are commuters with their brains buried in Topfold.
I should be grateful. A few thousand people spending ten to twenty seconds in one of my stories will earn me a cup of coffee or half of a kung pao combination plate. But it just makes me feel like more of a fraud.
I get out at my stop, and my heart starts to pound in my chest. People blaze by in a blur of noise, and I can hear the steady beep of construction machines outside. A load of tourist
s bump past me in their rush to board the subway, and I push through the crowd with determination.
I will not take no for an answer.
I zone out on the short walk to the Futurewise Media building. It’s a towering silver skyscraper just a block from Times Square. The Journal offices are on the forty-fifth floor, and they share the building with at least a hundred other publications.
I shove around a small fleet of delivery bots filled with the staff’s coffee orders from across the street. They’re glorified coolers on wheels equipped with cameras, sensors, and GPS, but they deliver on the cheap. I pretend to trip and kick one over on my way to the elevator. Take that, robots trying to put Kiran out of work.
Everyone in the elevator is immersed in their feeds. It’s easy to tell the businesspeople from the content creators. The finance and ad people are all in suits — fresh and glowy from morning spin class and artisan avocado toast. The content creators are sloppy, jumbled, and exhausted. Most of them are in jeans and T-shirts like me.
They’re deeply entrenched in their own stories, making minor corrections and refreshing their views. Some of them are even dictating replies to comments in low rapid voices. Engagement is the name of the game in immersive journalism, so rapid-fire responses are key.
The elevator dings, and I almost lose my nerve. I don’t want to talk to Cliff, but it’s that or stew in silent misery.
A guy with a Jesus beard and a frizzy black ponytail pushes past me, and I resist the urge to kick him in the seat of his skinny jeans. I’ve never met him, but I’ve watched his stuff. He’s a tech journalist for Topfold whose job is to review the latest gadgets and patches. He thinks he’s God in scraggly coffee-breathed form.
I grit my teeth and shuffle toward Cliff’s office, blinking in the bright light coming through the enormous windows. Every inch of available wall space that isn’t glass is covered in screens. They’re playing a mix of digital news networks and Topfold’s trending stories. One of my own — a Layla Jones piece — flickers on over the water cooler.
Sadly, “Around New York in Eighty Pizzas” is my most viewed story ever. It scored a seventy-eight when we ran the idea through ViralGauge, but even the algorithm underestimated its success.
