The Journalist

The door opens and you step onto the train--shake the snowflakes out of your golden hair. It’s warm in here, you shiver slightly at the change in temperature. There’s an open seat next to me, but it doesn’t belong to you. You walk past me without meeting my gaze. You stop by the row in front of me. 

“I think that’s my seat,” you say with a smile. Crinkles appear at the sides of your chocolate eyes. 

The man stands to allow you to pass. He holds out his hand. 

“George Baker.” 

You’re taller than him in your heels. You take his hand and shake it lightly. 

“Mary Gould.” 

You slide off your coat to reveal an oxblood velvet dress. It’s old-fashioned, but flattering. You settle down into the seat directly in front of me. The two of you make light chit chat while you settle in for the journey. 

An announcement starts overhead: the train is about to depart. 

George is a journalist, not a very good journalist. 

“I interview everyday people, let them tell their stories,” he says. "Celebrities and public figures, the ones reporters all want to write about, they're just so full of themselves, don't you find?" 

“I take it you’re going to interview me, then?” 

I can't see your face, but there's something in your voice that says you're nervous. 

“We do have nearly six hours to spend together.” 

He’s smiling as well, you could hear it a mile away. It's one of those sick smiles from a man who might call you 'sweetheart' before buying you a drink. He’s trying so hard to be charming, to lure you into this game of his. He asks you if he can record your conversation and you agree. 

The train lurches. Our journey has begun. 

He’s talking about himself, about his work. You listen and ask him questions, perhaps delaying the inevitable point when the questions will turn towards you. He’s talking about his most recent article, telling you about how he met the woman it features. 

“You must interview many more people than you actually post. How do you decide which ones make it?” you ask.

“I just pick the people with the most interesting stories, or stories that people might relate to.” His voice is overconfident. “So maybe you’ll make it if you’re interesting enough.” 

“I’ll do my best.”

You share a polite laugh. 

I pull out my phone and search for his page. He primarily interviews women--conventionally attractive women such as yourself. 

The articles are monologues, first-person tales, from people this man meets throughout his daily life. Each of these monologues is crowned with a snapshot of the protagonist, smiling or perhaps looking off in the distance. 

They’re clearly curated, though they seem genuine enough for the average consumer. The women’s stories are glowing tales of overcoming hardship. "Hardship" is relative in this case. The few men featured are awful, to say the least. Though he claims to give voices to the voiceless, that doesn’t seem to be the case in practice.  These people are all privileged, likely caught on their way to work or their way home. These people have voices, they don't need someone else to tell their stories for them. 

This is likely the reason why his blog isn’t very popular. 

“So why are you headed to Chicago?” he asks. 

You laugh. It’s a stilted, unpleasant laugh. “I got a new job.” 

“You’re moving, then? Starting a new life in December? That must be quite a story.” 

You hesitate. This is a sore spot, clearly, but you had to have known this was coming. These are very surface level questions. 

“I’m newly single. We were together for eight years, so it’s been rough. My ex kicked me out of our apartment. I wasn’t much help with the rent, I will admit that. I wish he’d given me a little more time, but living with him would have been unpleasant.” 

You sigh. 

“My parents let me stay with them for a while, but they’ve never been particularly supportive of my work. I’m a photographer. I’ve been doing freelance for some time, but it’s not enough to support myself without help from other people. So, I needed to find a real job and I decided I didn’t want to live in my hometown anymore. I’ve been to Chicago before, I liked it, so I decided to look for a job there. It took some time, but I finally got hired.” 

You kept your story vague, and Mr. Baker can tell. 

He prods you for further information, but you aren’t having it. 

“What prompted your breakup?” 

“Has life been better, so far, now that you’re single?” 

He’s asking all the wrong questions, and you avoid giving real answers. Why is this idiot still going? Why not ask about your work as a photographer? Why doesn’t he ask about your hopes for your new job? He doesn’t care about your story, about what truly interests you. He wants another story about surviving a breakup for his subpar blog. 

You excuse yourself to use the restroom. He stands once more to allow you to pass. You take your bag and your coat with you. He watches you as you go. 

I find your various social media pages. You don’t post many pictures of yourself, favoring the other side of the camera. I don’t know much of photography, but your photos are beautiful. It’s easy to take the same tourist-y pictures as everyone else when you live in a city like St. Louis, but that’s not you. You find beauty in the things others overlook--dandelions trampled on a sidewalk, ivy climbing a wire fence. 

You never return from the bathroom. It would have been easy to find an empty seat farther away from George and his questions. 

He never publishes your story. It would have been hard for him to spin your tale in a way to make him look like a hero for giving you a voice. 

You already have a voice, don’t you?