The sun shone through the blinds and awoke him. There was a sliver of window at the bottom of the pane where the blinds should have covered but couldn’t stretch far enough.
He would get those fixed at some point, he often thought. Conveniently, some point is an unspecified location in time, and engaging with it can feel like momentum toward a destination without having to do any actual work. Some point is a future he refuses to give up on but won’t commit to living out.
Every morning began the same. Typically somewhere within five to ten seconds of waking up, he would sear his eyeballs with his phone screen. He would say the phone screen’s brightness helped him wake up, but it was just an excuse to scroll Twitter and check the outcomes of sports games the night prior.
On this morning, his attention was diverted away from his Twitter feed when an email notification struck him.
Ryan Morrison
The Hottest Story in New York!Hey Marshall,
Long time no talk! I’m so pumped I found your email address. Can’t believe it’s already been four years out of grad school. Feels like yesterday we were cracked out on coffee finishing didactics for Professor Gustafson’s class lol.
Your name came across my desk last week when we caught one of our editorial assistants surfing BuzzFeed during work hours. While I found your piece, ‘39 Habits That Will Take You From Chopped Unc To Baddie Overnight’ riveting, I can’t say this is the kind of work I saw you doing after grad school. Especially not the guy who spent his entire thesis arguing the Industrial Revolution was the most important literary influence of the nineteenth century.
But I get it, you need to take what you can get in this business. And I guess divine intervention, because I was on the phone with one of the editors at The Times yesterday, and they clued me in on a story they have, some bombshell about a missing woman. They can’t report it due to a conflict of interest, but in the right hands I think this could be the hottest story in New York.
I want you to write it. Come to the office Friday at 10 a.m. if you’re interested—unless you’re satisfied publishing listicles on BuzzFeed.
Ryan Morrison
Managing Editor
Wall Street JournalMarshall sat up in his bed, bewildered at what he had just read. BuzzFeed is a perfectly legitimate gig, he thought to himself. Ryan was a good student and a talented writer, but the Wall Street Journal? I mean come on. Moreover, what could have possibly possessed him to think Marshall was the man for this story?
As Friday morning arrived, Marshall dug a three-times-worn collared shirt out from the depths of his closet in an effort to maintain an element of professionalism for his old college friend. He left a half-eaten slice of peanut butter toast and lukewarm coffee on the counter as he exited his apartment—simply the cost of not arriving late to this career meeting that fell out of the sky.
Marshall strode into WSJ headquarters with two minutes to spare, and was greeted by a dignified receptionist, short hair and striking a subtle smile but without nonsense. ”How can I help you?”, she asked, her demeanor fully at attention.
“Hi. I’m, um, supposed to meet Ryan Morrison here at 10 a.m.?” Marshall had become seldom used to having to employ a professional speaking tone.
The receptionist shuddered at the name and her disposition noticeably shifted. With an air of coldness, she said, “Mr. Morrison no longer works here.”
“I’m sorry, what? But I have this email—“
“Mr. Morrison has not worked here for several months, sir. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” The receptionist spoke right through Marshall, not even looking up from her computer.
“Wait, hold on... I’m sorry, what happened, exactly?” Marshall stammered.
“Unfortunately I can’t disclose that. Besides, I haven’t the slightest clue why you would be inclined to meet with an editorial assistant. Unless you had to retrieve a piece of mail.”
“Editorial assistant? Surely there’s been some kind of mistake. See, I’m also a journal—“
“That will be all sir, please. Have a nice day.”
Marshall sulked and dropped his head. “You too,” he muttered under his breath. If the receptionist’s curt manner wasn’t enough, his career opportunity seemed to have gone just as fast as it came.
He pushed on through the double doors separating the office from the sidewalk. A man leaning against the building smoking a cigarette caught his peripheral attention.
“Marshall?” he heard enthusiastically behind him. He turned around and his mouth fell agape.
It was Ryan. No mistaking it. Only, he looked a bit disheveled. His hair looked as if he had just rolled out of bed and on his body he wore the kind of graphic t-shirt you could only get at Urban Outfitters with sweatpants tucked into his socks-and-flip-flop combo.
“Dude, I’m so glad you came down. Thanks for meeting me. Sorry I’m a few minutes late.”
Marshall couldn’t hide his bewilderment. “Meet you? Ryan, that was awkward, embarrassing, and worst of all, a waste of my time! You don’t even work at the Wall Street Journal?! That receptionist might as well have spat on me after I said your name. What happened?”
“Dude, that place is a complete disaster. That woman in there, Deborah? Obsessed with me. Brought me the mail, like, every day. They won’t be in business much longer, anyway. Not after we publish your story.“
“My story?”
“Well of course, dude. That’s why I hit you up. We got the hottest story in New York!”
“Well...” Marshall relaxed his shoulders and unfurrowed his brows. “What’s the story?”
As if for theatrical effect, Ryan let the question hang in the air momentarily. At once, his expression turned deadpan as he responded.
“The Statue of Liberty is alive.”
“...Alive?” Marshall couldn’t believe his ears. At this rate, aliens could swoop down and abduct them and he would half expect it considering how the day was unfolding.
“Ryan, what are you talking about? Am I on some kind of TV prank show? Is Ashton Kutcher about to jump out from behind the bushes?”
“Marshall, I’m telling you dude. Once a year, every June 17th, she hops off her pedestal, swims to Paris, and swaps places with her replica cousin. Ever wonder why she’s shorter during the summer?”
Marshall took a deep breath. “Do you even hear yourself right now, Ryan? No wonder you don’t work at the Wall Street Journal anymore.”
“Dude, that’s exactly it. The Wall Street Journal knows. I was making copies late one night and some dude from France faxed in photos of the real statue set up in Paris. The city pays them to keep quiet and fired me after I was ready to blow the story up. I have videos, archived letters—I’ll email you everything later.”
Ryan spoke enthusiastically with his hands as he word-vomited his conspiracy theory to another human being for what seemed to be the first time. Marshall couldn’t help but feel like this was all one big practical joke. Then Ryan delivered the punchline.
“And I figured, you know, BuzzFeed would totally run something like this. No serious news outlet is going to pick this story up. This is like... a hydrogen bomb that blows up BuzzFeed and gives you a career-changing story!”
Marshall was struck. He could feel his eyes welling up with tears as he opened his mouth to respond, instead choking back a shaking voice. A sobering feeling it was to reconcile the concrete representation of his pursuits against what had so long been an abstract merry-go-round of false ambition.
Channeling Deborah’s attitude, Marshall replied with watered eyes, ”I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” He strode briskly away with a chorus of half-apologetic pleas from Ryan echoing behind him.
Marshall walked back into his apartment hoping he would wake up from the world’s most bizarre dream. With reality pressing on, he slung his backpack to the ground and checked his phone.
Ryan Morrison
Statue of Lib PROOF!!!Unsubstantiated, Ryan had sent a catalogue of old blurry videos of the Hudson River, washed out comparison photos of the statue with its French counterpart, and a variety of old newspaper clippings speculating on the outlandish theory that the Statue of Liberty was in fact a sentient being.
A weekend passed marked by a lack of sleep. The blinds couldn’t bother Marshall much if he was already awake to beat the sunlight to the window.
“Perhaps this week will be better,” he thought to himself as Monday morning arrived. He clicked the Publish button on his next BuzzFeed installment.
Lady Liberty Takes a Swim
Marshall Evans