Last Train to Babylon Read Online Free Page B

The water sprays feverishly against the wall.
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    Hi Jonathan,
    I just wanted to let you know that there’s been a death in the family, and I have to return home for a few days. I’m sorry for the short notice. I will contact you midweek after the services to let you know when I will be returning to work.
    Â Â Weekly crime report is attached for edits.
    Â Â Â Thank you,
    Â Â Â Aubrey Glass
    Â Â UpperEastSidePost.com
    Â Â 975 Lexington Avenue, 5th Floor
    Â Â New York, NY 10021
    The room fills with steam. I hope he fires me.
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    I’m in the wrong profession. I knew that from the start. Hyperlocal, online journalism—a type of reporting that requires a deep interest in the area you cover, an appreciation for the minutiae of everyday life, and little to no actual reporting, except for maybe a weekly phone call to the Nineteenth Precinct.
    I’m not a reporter. At least I don’t consider myself one. I’m an entry-level content creator, and I’m mediocre at best. My job is mostly programmed lists and copy and pasting press releases. I always thought I’d be a writer—a real journalist or a best-selling novelist—but after college, I realized I have nothing to write about, and I’m not passionate enough about anything, really. And isn’t that the cornerstone of being a good writer? Passion? So as long as I have my father’s credit card—or guilt money, as Danny calls it—I don’t mind the repetitive work and low pay.
    My most recent submission for the UES Post went something like this:
    The Upper East Side’s Nineteenth Precinct warns locals that there have been a large number of flashers on neighborhood buses, particularly along Third Avenue. Flashers are bumping into riders, and then revealing themselves as a distraction while their accomplice steals the victim’s belongings. To combat such theft, NYPD recommends the following:
    Â Â Â Â Â â€¢ Use handbags with zippers and locks, and never carry wallets in back pockets.
    Â Â Â Â Â â€¢ Beware of loud arguments or commotions that may be staged to distract commuters as their pockets are picked.
    Â Â Â Â Â â€¢ If you are unnecessarily bumped or crowded on public transportation, be aware that you might be positioned for pickpocketing and/or flashing.
    Â Â Â Â Â â€¢ Never make eye contact with the flasher.
    Â Â Â Â Â â€¢ If your pocket is picked or you are flashed, yell out immediately to warn the driver or conductor, and alert everyone else that there’s a pickpocket/flasher team on board.
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    My parents still can’t get over the fact that they’ll never see my name in print. I’ll only ever have a Helvetica-font byline below the social-media share button.
    I slip on a pair of black leggings, flats, an oversized charcoal cardigan, and pop a Xanax, before wrapping a black scarf around my neck and throwing a pair of Ray-Bans over my dry eyes.
    When I know Danny is asleep, I leave a note on the coffee table in front of him, and drag my laundry bag out the front door. It’s not quite the breakup letters I have stocked away in my desk drawer, but rather a toned-down version that promises I’ll be back by the end of the week and asks him not to worry about me, to kindly respect my need for space at this very difficult time .
    My heartbeat echoes and I start to get that shaky feeling in my hands. I walk toward Second Avenue to grab a cab and swipe my fingers over my hairline to wipe away the sweat. People stare. It’s too hot for a sweater and scarf, but I can already feel my neck and chest rashing up. It always happens when I go home—this red splotchy flush of rouge—and I know Karen won’t ignore it: Oh my God. What happened to your chest? Are you allergic? Do you need Benadryl? So it’s better to just cover up than get into the fact that the thought of going home makes me break