Page 5 of Barre Fight
Like so many of my talented colleagues, I was laid off today… I’m one of the journalists affected by layoffs today… Well folks, layoff roulette finally got me. I’m looking for work… If you’re hiring… I’m open to freelancing.
It was a grim routine she’d seen so many others perform, and now it was her turn. She’d tapped it out quickly, trying not to think about how many other journalists had been cut loose in the constantly tightening job market, how much talent was already out there for that she’d have to compete with.Screw this, I’m done, she’d thought, but she typed the appeal for work anyway, hit send, and put her phone in her bag, feeling queasy.
“You don’t mean that,” Em said from where she sat cross legged on the floor, her back leaning against the couch. “Don’t make any rash decisions tonight.” Through the fog of cabernet sauvignon, Ivy could hear that surprise and concern in her best friend’s voice.
“The industry’s broken, and the people in charge of repairing don’t seem to have any idea what they’re doing. Salaries are unlivable, if you can even find a staff job instead of freelancing forever. Every time we’re told some new strategy is going to save us, it turns out to be a disaster that costs even more people their jobs. Remember when all the papers ‘pivoted to video’ and then social media videos took over and everyone stopped watching video on their computers?” That round of layoffs had been brutal.
“Now everyone’s trying to get people to read morethan a headline and a single paragraph before they click away, or trying to get people to consume their news in a fifteen-second video on an app, and they can’t afford to send actual journalists out into the world to do actual reporting, so the quality is terrible and no wonder people don’t want to read it, and if I stay in this industry any longer, it’ll just be me and an AI bot making listicles about the best TikTok videos and producing spon con for some shady billionaire who’s figured out he can buy himself positive headlines.”
Em was silent for a long moment. Usually, she was the ranter in the relationship, not Ivy. Em was the outgoing instigator, the outraged opinionated one.
“I hear you,” she said placatingly, “but don’t you think?—”
“I’m just so tired,” Ivy said. She closed her eyes, but the room spun, and she opened them again and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve worked so hard for this, and I know it matters, but God, I’m so tired.” She sighed, resignation and wine making her limbs heavy against the couch. “If ballet taught me anything, it’s that it’s better to quit than get pushed out with nothing to show for it.” She could not go through that again. Her world had ended when her ballet dreams had died, and she would rather walk away from journalism than let it kick her out.
Ivy thought about what Alan had said, about how bleak and defeated he’d sounded as he’d told her to get out and find some other career before it was too late.
“If ballet taught you anything, it’s to be way too hard on yourself and freak out if you aren’t perfect all the time,” Em retorted. “Though I guess being an Eldest Daughter helped with that.”
Ivy let out a humourless laugh. Em had found the joy in dancing again, but she’d never forgiven ballet for the havoc it had wreaked on her psyche and her body.
“I just mean that maybe I should quit now and go findsomething else. I could look around for whatever journalism positions are out there, but I haven’t applied for a job in almost eight years, and that’s basically a lifetime. I don’t even know where I’d apply. Papers are laying people off left and right, and it’s not like they’re hiring replacements. And even if they were, it feels like the arts beat is dying.”
“You could freelance.”
“I could,” Ivy sighed. But the very idea was exhausting. She had some former colleagues who freelanced after being laid off, and it looked relentless. The paychecks were small and slow to come in, and you never knew when you were going to sell your next story. Even if she freelanced, she’d have to make some serious lifestyle adjustments. No more socking away money for a rainy day, because it had just started storming. Her stomach dropped as she thought about the holiday she’d booked a few weeks ago. After years of imagining it, and months of saving up for it, she’d finally bought a ticket to the States. She was going to spend ten days in New York, soaking up the culture by seeing as many performances and going to as many museums as she could. Ivy bit her lip, trying to remember the terms of that ticket and praying it was refundable, because she needed that money back now. She couldn’t afford to blow it on bagels and Broadway shows.
“You could write a book,” Em pressed. “You’d finally have the time you need to write a book.”
“Yeah, but writing a book takes years. I’ve only got two months of severance, and after that, I’ll need income.”
“Right. Income.” Em nodded. “A small but significant factor.”
Ivy glanced around her apartment, a sunny second-floor one-bedroom she’d managed to snag at a moment when rents had dipped a few years ago. Her landlord was decent enough, and had barely raised the rent since she’d moved in. The placewas recently renovated, with walls painted a pale terracotta color, and hardwood floors in the spacious living room. She had a little terrace that looked out over her quiet, leafy Clovelly street, and it was a quick walk to the bus and the shops. Compared to some of the shitboxes she’d seen out on the notorious Sydney rental market, this place was a palace. She couldn’t lose it.
Em stood up, still bafflingly steady on her feet while Ivy was certain her own legs would crumple underneath her if she tried to put weight on them.
“Don’t make any decisions tonight,” Em repeated. “Especially when you’re slurring your words.”
“I’m not slurring my words!” Ivy objected, craning her neck to look up at Em. Her indignation was somewhat undermined by a loud hiccup.
Em rolled her eyes. “A previous version of this story stated that Ivy Page was drunk enough to slur her words. She was merely drunk enough to hiccup her way through a conversation.”
“We regret the error,” Ivy groaned.
“I’m getting you some water,” Em said in a mildly patronizing tone Ivy was pretty sure she deserved.
Ivy had just opened her mouth to mutter her thanks when her phone dinged with an email notification. She’d turned her Twitter notifications off a few hours ago, unable to stomach the flood of well-meaning but pointlessoh nos andhang in theres that had started popping up moments after she posted about her job.
She groped on the coffee table until her hand made contact with her phone. Clumsily, she picked it up and, still lying down, held it in front of her face to unlock it. She clicked on the email notification and squinted at the small text on the screen. The letters were oddly wiggly, though that might have been the winetalking. But when she screwed up her face and focused enough to make the letters sit still so she could read the email, she gasped and nearly dropped the phone on her face in surprise.
“What is it?” Em asked, returning from the kitchen with a large glass of water.
“Listen to this,” Ivy squirmed against the couch cushions until she was in a mostly upright position. A strangely familiar combination of emotions—gratitude, grief—swirled in her chest. Her limbs still felt loose from the wine, but her head suddenly felt extremely sober.
“‘Dear Ivy, I was sorry to see the news about your job and the rest of the arts desk at theSun. What a loss for the paper and its readers, but I’m hoping their loss might be our gain. We are currently in need of some extra hands in our publicity department… I’m sure you have no doubt as to why. If you are interested in a career shift and would consider coming aboard, please reach out to Connie Tsai, who I know you’ve been in contact with before.’”
Ivy paused for effect, drawing out the suspense for Em just a little longer.
