by Isaac Black
how to use it? If not, I can sign you up for a class at the community college. Then you can google who the speaker’s married to. Shouldn’t be too hard from there.”
“We’re not concerned about someone spying on us?”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Trying to play it safe,” Casper said.
“Listen, you’re fine. Do some research, I’m going to look more into why this governor story isn’t getting out there.”
“Fine.” Casper said.
“What are you doing?” Simon asked.
“Playing video games.”
“What game?”
“Some car racing game. Want to come over?” Casper offered.
“You have anything with weapons? I’m feeling a little pent up.”
“Yeah.”
Simon and Casper hunted each other’s avatar in a 3D recreation of Dresden for an hour or so at Casper’s modestly sized apartment, saying little. After Casper won three or four times in a row they quit, and Casper explained at Simon’s prodding why he chose to live in such a small apartment. Simon accused him of trying to pretend he wasn’t wealthy.
“So there’s no way not to be an asshole if you happen to be born into a wealthy family, then?” Casper asked, to which Simon had no answer but to help himself to a beer from Casper’s fridge. Casper got one, too, and they talked about women in grossly generalized terms for a while.
“What do you think, Simon,” Casper asked abruptly. “Is it possible for anyone to really be themselves in this city?”
“What are you talking about.”
“Doesn’t it seem like everyone’s trying to be someone else or trying to pretend to be someone else or wishing they were someone else?”
“Yeah, we’re all wishing we were you.”
“So they can play video games and hang out with you?”
“Hey, if you could get over this whole slum tourism thing you’re going through, you could be bagging a lot of hot girls.”
Casper laughed. “You know the problem with hot girls?”
“What.”
“They get old.”
Simon sneered. “That’s why you get new ones every five years or so.”
Casper took a long sip. “It’s hard to tell if you’re kidding.”
Simon got suckered by L.A. the same as everyone else. He grew up, like all suburban teens, believing he was entitled to more than just a living. After an undistinguished college career, he started poking around for internships in the big city on the strength of a few mediocre articles written for the student paper. He finally landed one through a friend of a cousin, which he then used to find a niche for himself: entertainment. It was brainless, really, and in-demand with mostly regular hours. Journalism was never going to be what he was great at, anyway. Didn’t matter what he did during the day or how he got where he was; his future greatness justified all that.
He had guessed he would chase his dream full throttle in the city, pounding the pavement, making connections, though he too often just found himself tired at the end of the day. And without a dream to articulate, he simply hungered mutely to be renowned and recognized during his commutes. Trying to ignore the fact that every other meatsack in his way wanted the same attention.
At work the next day, Casper found an email from Meghan telling him the name of the land management company. He panicked and deleted it before he could read the name of the company, though from the glimpse he thought it started with “A.” Anderson or something. Just then Rinehard stormed onto Simon’s floor and bellowed out for someone named Chet. A recent hire stood up timidly.
"Who do you work for."
"Um, for you sir."
"Well, no. You don't anymore, but that wasn't the question I was asking. Who's your boss?"
"Gary."
"Like I'm on a first name basis with all my fucking editors. But I do happen to know this Gary. Don't I, Gary?" Rinehard boomed. The Gary in question had walked over to where the commotion was happening.
"You know why I know who you are, right, Gary?"
"I believe so, sir."
"Tell me then."
"The story was accurate, Mr. Rinehard,” this Gary protested. “I vetted all my sources.”
“And why do you think I would care about that when you’re trying to publish a story that accuses one of our advertisers of being involved with human trafficking? We’re going to lose that account. They’ll never pay us a cent again, including what they already owe us. Did you know that? Did you think to do a cost-benefit analysis? Did you think we’re going to get more subscribers because of your bullshit ‘hard-hitting’ journalism? Then did you consider that I don’t give a runny shit about subscribers? They don’t pay your salary. In fact, no one pays your salary now. Get out of my sight. Only pack your shit if you can do it and get to the street in thirty seconds.”
Gary looked furious. Simon thought he could see him already forming the slanderous report of his firing that he would tell all his friends and colleagues.
Mr. Rinehard, for his part, drew himself up and looked around the room as if he wanted to yell at people to get back to work but knew he had done enough damage to morale for one day. He strutted out of the room with an arrogant scowl. Simon dared to look at the bags under his eyes as he walked past.
Simon worked late the next night. Part of the reason was because summer blockbuster season was approaching, and he was genuinely busy with work. Another part of the reason was he had a good guess of what Meghan’s computer password was, and he still needed the name of that land management company. He was on his second guess when a phone rang.
He walked to his desk. It was his phone.
“This is Simon.”
“It’s Mr. Rinehard. You’re working late.”
“Uh, yes sir.”
“Trying to impress your boss?”
“Well, not really, sir, I’m just getting my work done.”
“You’ve got the entertainment beat, yeah?”
“That’s right.”
“Lot of big movies coming up, that sort of thing?”
“Yessir.”
“I want you to come to my office.” He hung up.
The emptiness of the office and the lunar dimness of the emergency fluorescents stoked his paranoia, and he had to take a second to convince himself that there was no way Rinehard could know what he was up to. He tucked in his shirt walking to Rinehard’s office.
“Come in,” he barely heard mumbled through the door after he knocked.
He walked in to see Mr. Rinehard with a girl who, by her dress, was definitely not an employee but was definitely on the clock. There was also a man wearing a fedora and sunglasses. Mr. Rinehard was facing the window.
“Johns. Simon Johns,” he spoke into the glass.
“Yessir.”
“I’ve read your column. It’s not bad.”
“Thank you, sir.” Fuck you, sir, he thought.
“You know how you stay a writer your whole life?”
“How?”
“You write well. You, Johns, don’t write well enough to be a writer your whole life.”
“I’m trying to write well.”
“No, you’re not.” He walked to his mahogany desk and snorted a line off a mirror, wiped his nose with his sleeve. “It’s a good thing. You don’t want to be a writer your whole life. You want to move up. Don’t you? Don’t we all want to move up?”
“I guess. I mean, yessir. I want to move up.”
“That’s good, because it shows in your writing. If it didn’t show, you would just be a bad writer. Something else shows in your writing.”
“What’s that?”
“A lack of principles.” He peered at Simon.
“Sir?”
“What do you believe in?” Rinehard asked.
Simon breathed out. “Uh, I don’t know. I don’t think about it much.” He gets all th
is from my column? Simon thought.
“Ha ha ha.” He let out a coarse, wide-mouthed laugh. “Of course you don’t. I don’t either. Some people go to great lengths to justify their greediness. I just enjoy mine.”
Mr. Rinehard had small eyes for how large his face was. Simon forced a half smile.
“I invited you here to offer you something. Your editor is switching departments. He’s getting a promotion. I want you to take his place. You would also get a raise.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s generous.”
“It’s not that generous. I know what you make.” He looked sidelong at his woman and let out another laugh, this one more subdued. “Have a line.”
“Oh, sorry, sir. I’m straight.”
“Bullshit you’re straight. I’d fire a sober entertainment reporter in a heartbeat. No, scratch that, I never would have hired a sober entertainment reporter. But I get it. Enjoy your night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Come here first.”
Simon walked to where Mr. Rinehard was leaning back slightly in his chair. He opened his top drawer without moving his body position and pulled out an envelope.
“Call it a bonus,” he said as he placed the envelope in Simon’s hand and looked him pointedly in the eye. “Don’t worry about counting it. It’s $10,000. Finish your story and go home, Johns.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
He disobeyed the instruction to finish his story and fled the building. Driving home, his mind flirted with thoughts of a new car, a new couch, a new watch, an entertainment system. He could even just buy some new clothes for a thousand bucks and give the rest away. As he drove, barely seeing the road for his dilemma, he began to resent how little money that was to Rinehard and how it had sent him scrambling like a thief after a loaf of bread. He pulled over, did a search on his