by Tarah Benner
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 tourists 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.
The story is ten whole minutes of hot cheese goo stretching itself from the pizza to my mouth and greasy pepperonis glistening under red neon lights.
The week I tried eighty pizzas for the story, I gained four pounds and developed a raging case of cystic acne. But that hedonistic masterpiece put Layla Jones on the map and lives on as one of the go-to stories for tourists hoping to get a bite of authentic New York–style pizza.
I reach the glass walls of Cliff’s office. At first glance, he seems to be yelling into thin air. He’s swimming in a blue cylinder of light beaming from his Optix, but as I look closer, I can just make out the ashen face of another hapless writer.
Cliff wears his Optix as a single titanium stud that looks utterly out of place in his dark thicket of eyebrows. One end projects the image in front of his face and bends the sound of the call toward his ear. The other end is a micro-cam that picks up his image and voice.
Cliff looks like the crotchety high-school principal in every movie ever made. He’s got greasy olive skin, thick sausage-y fingers, and a ring of curly black hair that looks like pubes. He’s always got stains on his wrinkly button-downs, and he’s always spitting and sweating.
I knock. Cliff keeps talking but waves me in, and the tiny camera swirling from his Optix recalibrates to capture his movement. His office smells like fast-food grease and old gym socks.
As I slink in and slide the door shut, I am hyperaware of the fact that Cliff manages dozens — if not hundreds — of writers. I’m barely a blip on his radar.
He finishes his rant and disconnects the call.
“Good morning,” I say, momentarily forgetting my resolve to be cold, sharp, and demanding.
“Is it?” says Cliff. “If I get one more call from some jack-off defending Lisa Strauss’s fashion choice at the MTV video music awards, I’m going to kill myself.” He lets out a sigh and slams back into his rolling chair. “What can I do for you, Maggie?”
Suddenly, every shred of anger and disappointment I felt this morning rises up in my throat. It comes on suddenly like a flash of inspiration, only it’s bitter, heated, and out of control. I reach into my bag, pull out the paper, and slap it down on Cliff’s desk.
“You didn’t put it in,” I say.
Cliff gives me a blank look.
“My redistricting piece,” I add, suddenly flustered. “The scandal — a full-on middle finger to the democratic process.” I rip open the paper to Tripp Van de Graaf’s smug face. “Instead it’s full of this shit.”
Cliff is still staring at me as though he thinks he might have me confused with someone else. It’s as if he doesn’t even remember the piece.
“You said it would be in today’s issue,” I press, working to keep the waver out of my voice. “What the hell happened?”
Suddenly, he groans and puts a hand to his forehead. “Oh, no . . . Not this again.”
“What?”
“Look,” he says, thrusting his head forward like a matter-of-fact rooster. “It was out of my hands.”
“What was out of your hands?”
“The decision came from up top. And it wasn’t just you.”
“What wasn’t?”
He sighs. “You know how hard it is to hawk an actual print newspaper this day and age?” He lets out a dark guffaw. “It’s 2075, for cryin’ out loud. People don’t read anymore. They’re only consuming immersive content.”
“But this is important,” I growl.
“Believe me, I know. But the boys upstairs are lookin’ to cut costs. You know Futurewise just got bought by Maverick Enterprises?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re a ‘creative.’” He puts the most condescending air quotes around the word. “I don’t get that luxury. It’s my job to deal with this mess, and I just got word from our new corporate overlords that we’re not takin’ any more freelance content for The Journal. From now on, all the news copy is gonna be AI-generated.”
“What?”
“The algos already tell us what people want to read . . . This just streamlines the process. The program A/B tests hundreds of ideas, gathers up all the little tidbits it needs from the web, and generates the text — all in a few minutes.”
“That’s not reporting,” I say, shaking with rage. “That’s a term paper — and not a very good one.”
“What can I say, kid? If it bleeds, it leads. People will consume whatever the Topfold algorithms slap in front of their stupid faces. If we want our paper to be part of the conversation, the stories have gotta be just as sexy.”
“But this is the news!” I scream. “Not ‘Who wore it better?’ We’re the fourth fucking estate!”
It occurs to me at this moment that Cliff’s office isn’t exactly soundproof. I can sense people watching me from the other side of the glass, but I don’t care.
“Keep your shirt on, kid. They still n
eed more Layla for Topfold. You’re raking in the views with that food porn. Keep it comin’.”
“This is bullshit,” I say, my voice low and deadly. “You already gave my story the green light. You said if I killed it, you’d give me a byline.”
“Well, I guess you didn’t kill it,” says Cliff with a shrug. “Take it up with billing. We’re done here.”
Cliff settles in and touches his Optix. This is his way of saying he’s done with me — finished, problem solved, on to the next thing.
I can’t believe it. He’s dismissing me. After all the work I’ve done for him — all the blood, sweat, and tears I’ve poured into my articles over the last two years — he still treats me like a piece of shit.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“No!” I shout. “I’m one of the few real journalists you’ve got left, and you treat me like garbage!”
“Oh, you’re a real journalist now?” he says. “Tell me. What the fuck is this all about?” He gestures down at my T-shirt and wrinkled jeans. “Is that the look of a true professional? Or are you just so full of integrity that you can’t be bothered to put on real clothes?”
I open my mouth to form some snarky reply, but no words come out.
“Listen. Unless you want to be writing Layla Jones clickbait for the rest of your life, you’d better clean up your act and show some goddamned respect.”
I fall silent. It’s not the moment of silence before the clap of thunder or the I’m-gonna-get-you kind of silence. It’s full of shame and sadness, and I have to get out.
I turn and shove my way out of Cliff’s office before the waterworks start. I can feel the humiliation scorching my face — the heat of failure burning me from the inside out.
People are staring. I hate them all. I will not give them the satisfaction of a show. I will get to the elevator before I completely lose my shit.
On the way down to the ground level, I focus on my breathing. It’s low and shallow, and it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
I reach the lobby in a daze and stride purposefully toward the door. The delivery bot I kicked is still there, turtled in a pool of somebody’s cold coffee.
I get an idea. It’s the surge of clarity after the storm, fueled by rage and the manic energy of someone who’s got nothing to lose.
I take a deep breath to stave off my tears and click my Optix to record. It’s Layla Jones live — and it is a doozy.
3
Maggie
Three hours later, I’m sitting behind the counter at Revolutionary Café, wondering what the hell I’ve done.
In a blind rage, I streamed a live rant from Layla Jones about Futurewise Media’s decision to farm out all of its Journal articles to robots without bothering to give notice to staff writers or any of its freelance contributors.
Re-watching the entire thing at the café, I’m stunned by my own vitriol. It’s raw, unfiltered, and totally insane. It isn’t Layla, but it sure is me.
In my alter ego’s profile pic, I’m wearing contacts and my most winning smile. Blond curls fill the frame.
Layla Jones is as sugary as her puns. “Donut Underestimate Me: A Guided Tour of New York’s Most Scrumptious Donut Holes-in-the-Wall.” Two point five million views. It definitely strikes a different tone than “Futurewise Media’s War on Journalism.”
Even more shocking is the response. My rant has had more than three hundred thousand views in the past two hours. The comments are lighting up — mostly hate mail directed at Futurewise Media or messages of support for me/Layla.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Cliff has most definitely seen this already. I’m just surprised he hasn’t pinged my Optix to boot my ass off Topfold, too.
I am so screwed.
By the time Kiran rolls into the café, I’m sitting behind the counter torturing myself in the comments section. Revolutionary Café is always slow this time of day. The afternoon rush is over, and the tip meter flashing in the corner of my feed is depressingly low.
Kiran and I have worked here since we first came to New York. It’s how we met, and it’s how I eat when my Layla Jones stuff is less than lucrative. The coffee shop is one of those grungy far-left cafés with posters of famous revolutionaries plastered all over the walls and ballsy quotes stamped on the cups.
Kiran knows something is up the second he walks in the door. He’s nursed me through two breakups and one professional failure after another.
“What happened?” he asks, rolling his bike inside and propping it up against the wall.
I shake my head. I can’t even explain what happened this morning. It felt like an out-of-body experience. Even sensible, caffeinated me cannot comprehend how I managed to fuck myself so thoroughly.
“Oh, no,” says Kiran. He just caught sight of the half-eaten triple-chocolate Bundt cake in front of me. “What happened?”
I open my mouth and close it again. I think I might throw up.
“Use your words,” says Kiran in a cajoling voice. “Suicide by chocolate isn’t the answer.”
“There are no words,” I say. “Though, total nuclear annihilation does come to mind.”
Kiran’s eyebrows shoot up. “You let Cliff have it? Jesus Christ Superstar.”
“It was bad.”
“How bad?”
“Like I just nuked my whole career bad.”
“What did you say?”
I sink back against the counter, wiping my chocolatey fingers on my apron. “It’s not what I said . . . It’s what Layla said.”
“Huh?”
“Go to Topfold. It’s the number-one trending story.”
Eyes wide, Kiran flips on his Optix. He doesn’t have to scroll at all to find the Layla Jones tirade. I see the reverse image of my face fill his Optix, and I cringe as his expression goes from confused to proud to scandalized — all in the span of about ten seconds.
“Oh, honey . . .”
“I know.”
He keeps watching. “Oh . . . Oh, no.”
“Tell me about it.”
He turns it off, eyes as round as coffee cups, and I force a sad smile. “On the plus side, the donut story is getting some nice spillover traffic from this.”
“Stop it,” says Kiran, coming behind the counter and snatching the rest of the Bundt cake off my plate. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” He takes an enormous bite.
“Hey!”
“What?” he says around a mouthful of chocolate. “I logged like fifty miles today. I know you didn’t pay for this anyway . . . You’ll get your break — just not with those ass-clowns.”
“It’s not about my big break,” I say. “I need the money. Cliff is gonna fire me — I mean Layla — and I can’t live on what I make here.”
Kiran rolls his eyes. “You and Layla will be fine.”
“If I don’t get sued for libel.”
“Well, if you do, I’m sure Rob would give you more hours to cover your lawyer’s fees. There’s nothing he likes more than sticking it to the man.”
I grin despite my best efforts. Kiran’s right. Rob, the owner, charges Wall Street guys eight bucks for a Luxemburg latté and ten bucks for a Mandela mocha, but he’s got a soft spot for starving artists. For three bucks, writers can come work on their novels and screenplays and drink black coffee all day long.
Suddenly, the little bell over the door dings. Kiran slinks back over to the other side of the counter, waggling his eyebrows as he shoves the last of my Bundt cake into his mouth.
A man and a woman walk in. The man is tall and dressed in a nice gray suit. He’s got pockmarked skin and a receding hairline but walks with the confidence of someone who’s wildly overpaid. The woman has a cool Nordic beauty: straight blond hair done up in a bun, New York skinny, white funnel-neck coat that probably cost more than my rent.
“Hi,” I say, summoning my most friendly barista tone. “What can I get for you?”
The man and
the woman exchange a look. Then their gazes swivel back to me. “Magnolia Barnes?”
Shit. I’d been joking about the lawsuit, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. These guys are dressed nice enough to be lawyers, though that kind of speed seems fast even for Futurewise Media.
“Sh-she’s not here,” I stammer.
This isn’t the first time I’ve pissed off the subject of one of my stories, but it is the first time I’ve had someone hunt me down at the café.
“Maggie’s not working today,” I add.
The woman purses her lips in what might have been a smirk and then reaches up to the tiny Optix bar on her eyebrow. When she touches it, a life-size image of me fans out around her. It’s the photo from my press credentials. I’m even wearing the same stupid glasses.
“Shit,” I whisper.
A flicker of confusion flashes across the woman’s face, and the man clears his throat.
“My name is Natalie Dubois,” says the woman. “This is my colleague, Erik Blain.”
I don’t say a word. Clearly they already know who I am, and the sort of people who hunt you down by your picture aren’t the type you want to exchange pleasantries with.
“Do you think you could knock off early today?” the woman asks. “Get someone to cover for you?”
“Why?” I ask. My throat is suddenly very dry.
“We’d like you to come with us.”
At those words, the blood turns to ice in my veins. This is it — every journalist’s worst nightmare.
Piss off the owner of a nail salon that’s not paying its undocumented workers, and you should probably find someone else to fill your acrylics. Piss off a multibillion-dollar corporation, and you’ll need to find another profession. Piss off someone more dangerous than that? Those are the journalists found in bathtubs with lethal doses of heroin in their systems.
I glance across the café at Kiran, who’s leaning against the wall pretending to mind his own business. He reads the panic in my eyes and shifts to block the front door. Reaching into the holster around his middle, he produces an expandable baton. It’s the kind the police use, and he carries it on his route for self-defense.