Chapter One Sorry to Bother You, dir. by Boots Riley #4
can expect it by tomorrow end of day? Good! I’ll let my assistant know, ask him to keep a lookout. Good, talk to you later,
then.” Michael laughs again before he sets the phone down on the receiver.
“What should I keep an eye out for?” Eli dares to ask.
“A friend of mine is applying for the staff position that opened up. I wanted to make sure we got his résumé.”
“Oh...” Eli feels his stomach sink to the floor. No, no. He’s not going to catastrophize, not yet. There’s still hope here.
“So, what’s up?” Michael leans back in his desk chair, the hinges creaking loudly, sending a shiver down Eli’s spine.
“We had a meeting scheduled,” Eli says, knowing that he shouldn’t be at all surprised that Michael forgot. “About my articles. And the... the staff position.”
Realization hits Michael. “Right, right! Yes, yes. I totally forgot.” He rests his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands
together. “Let’s talk about it! Interviewer mode on!” He laughs, and Eli forces a similar sound out.
Not that Michael would know anything about interviewing—he usually forces Eli to take his place during the process.
“So, it’s not like I need to ask you about your credentials,” Michael jokes, reaching over toward his computer mouse and clicking
to pull something up, though Eli isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking at; it could be anything.
Eli once caught him watching Instagram Reels on mute during a meeting.
“You’ve been a valuable employee these last few years, Eli. I seriously think that I couldn’t go a day without you here.”
“I appreciate that, Michael. I’ve really enjoyed my time working at Vent . And you know how much I’d like to start making a name for myself.”
“Well, I don’t have to give you the spiel about hard work, determination, doing whatever you can to move up in the world.
You know that better than anyone here. I feel like you’ve been my apprentice, learning and growing along with me. You’re the
Yoda to my Anakin.”
“Right.” Eli nods, ignoring his urge to correct Michael. “Absolutely. And I think that I’m ready to be taken more seriously.”
Michael raises an eyebrow. “You think ? Or you know ?”
“I know .” Eli tries to make his voice firm, but there’s no denying the slight tear that comes from experiencing puberty twice in
a lifetime.
“Good.” Michael nods. “Show me what you’ve got. What do you think has earned you a spot as a staff writer?”
Eli opens his iPad, finding the downloaded portfolio filled with PDFs of the articles and essays that he’s written, some of
which he’s submitted to Michael before, only to have them rejected as “not right for the brand of Vent .”
“I’ve also sent you an email with everything,” Eli tells him, watching as Michael clicks away on his computer. He can only
hope that he’s actually opened up the file, but Michael’s attention is a hard thing to vie for. “But I have several ideas
for more hard-hitting articles for Vent , really giving us that voice that I feel like we’ve steered away from. We could really work to reestablish ourselves as a trustworthy
news site.”
“Right, right. I’ve read all of your pitches.”
“Really?” Eli doesn’t want to admit he’s surprised, but... well... he is.
“Of course I did!” Michael tells him. “I read everything you submit. Your judgment is one that I put quite a bit of faith
in, Eli.”
“Oh, well... thank you, Michael. That really means a lot to me.” Suddenly he feels a twinge of guilt for every snide comment
whispered under his breath.
If only that goodwill could last a moment longer, before it all comes crashing back down.
“But I just don’t think that those are the types of articles our audience goes to Vent to read,” Michael says to him, his words slow. “They’re too heavy. Our readers want something more relaxing; they want something
funny, they want something that’ll make them laugh and brighten their day.”
Eli sits there in shock for a moment, registering exactly what Michael is saying. Until he eventually stammers out the reminder
that Vent broke the story about the Republican legislator who sent bomb threats to San Francisco’s mayor for vowing to make the city a haven for trans people.
Or the Democratic party member who claimed protests against gun violence wouldn’t solve anything, and then Vent revealed he’d received thousands upon thousands of dollars from the NRA.
“Yes, but... that was the old Vent .” Michael leans back further in his chair. He continues, “The new Vent is about entertaining our readers. No one wants those downers of a story. No one wants to know about how”—Michael turns to
his screen—“how homelessness is being criminalized? Is that real?”
Eli nods.
“Jesus...”
“We also first reported on the test records of those self-driving taxis that were prone to hitting pedestrians. And how that
billionaire CEO funneled money out of the city infrastructure fund to build his ugly tech buildings only for the buildings
to be left half-finished so he could ditch us and move to Seattle.”
“More bummer stories. No one wants those, Eli. The world sucks enough these days—don’t you think people need a break from
the dire news cycle? They can get that stuff anywhere.”
“I think that people should be informed.” That was what Vent used to be. An independent source of news that never had to worry about being “advertiser friendly” or whether or not they’d
pissed off some politician.
It used to be the place that Eli dreamed of working for.
And Michael used to be someone Eli respected. Someone who stood for the truth. He still remembers finding Vent in college, reading an article that exposed a local sheriff taking bribes from the socialites of the city. And right under
the article title was the name Michael Clay.
By the time he’d graduated from college, there were announcements naming Michael as the newest editor in chief at Vent and talking about the changes he wanted to make, keeping the integrity of Vent while taking strides to grow their reader base.
“These are stories about our city, though. These are things that people should care about; they just need someone to tell them what’s going on.”
“Well, they don’t care now,” Michael says bluntly. “Our numbers spike when we post about actors and musicians getting canceled,
viral moments on X or TikTok, celebrities being hilarious, things like that.”
“So you’re saying that we can’t write about the things that matter? That impact the citizens of San Francisco? Don’t they
have a right to know what’s happening?” Eli’s aware this argument is fruitless.
Working at Vent is fighting one losing battle after another.
“I think you have the wrong idea of what Vent is here to do. Those hard-hitting pieces? That’s the past, Eli. Our viewers want to feel good when they visit our website;
we want to bait them with a little nostalgia, get them riled up, keep them scrolling while they’re stuck at work or on the
toilet. The longer they scroll, the more they read, the more ads they see, the higher our revenue gets. Those are the basics.”
“So, we’re supposed to be fine as toilet paper?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. But your ideas, they’re too highbrow for us.”
“But you’ve promised me a position for the last—”
Michael stops him. “I know what I promised. But I’m not seeing the growth that I want from you.”
“The growth?” Eli repeats.
“You’re not willing to adapt, Eli. You’re not willing to bend to the course, to give me what I want. You have a strong voice,
it’s just... misguided for the website.” Michael sighs. “It’s a different era, Eli. Leave this serious stuff to the big
swingers. I promise you; it’ll be fine.”
And just like that, Eli is left sitting there, staring at the metaphorical remains of his entire life.
For years, he’s worked tirelessly to make sure Michael’s day goes off without a hitch.
He arrives early in the morning and is usually one of the last to leave at night.
He’s covered for Michael when he was sick, or didn’t have the right info, or just when Michael completely forgot to do something.
He’s thrown together events, fundraisers, parties, he’s argued with caterers, sent out thousands of emails, letters, and cards.
He’s kept track of the important names and faces of people Michael is supposed to know but never bothered to learn.
He’s worked on countless articles, reaching out to various sources, poring over old articles in the archives at the head branch
of the city library. He’s spent thousands of hours editing, perfecting every single word, pulling in Patricia and Rose and
asking them to read his work, watching them as he sat on the edge of his seat, wanting, waiting to know what they thought.
He’s given years of his life to Vent in the hopes that it might lead somewhere . Anywhere. That he might make a difference, not just at the publication by bringing Vent back to its roots, but in the misguided effort to make actual change.
He should’ve known better. He knows that.
Hope always won, somehow...
Now look at where that’s gotten him.
“But hey!” Michael says. “If you show me what I want to see, I’ll reconsider your spot here. Deal?”
Eli sits there, his hands feeling numb from being balled up on his lap.
“Yeah, sure... Thanks, Michael.”
“You’re welcome, kid, and don’t take it personally, okay? You’re young, you’ve got plenty of time to accomplish your goals.”
“Right, yeah.” Eli stands, holding the iPad loosely, his fingers tingling.
Nothing ever makes him feel as small as these meetings do.
Eli steps toward the door, praying silently that maybe, just maybe it’ll be a moment like in the movies.
In this split second, Michael will come to his senses, or feel pity for Eli and offer
him something.
Anything at all.
“Oh, and Eli?”
Eli pauses, his hand on the handle of the door. He barely turns, hopeful despite it all, a lesson he never really learns.
“Yeah?”
“Keep an eye out for that application from my friend? His name is Owen.”
He hesitates, feeling like he’s just been punched in the gut, like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs.
“Of course, Michael. Anything else?”
“Nah, you’re good. Thanks, Eli!”
Eli steps out of the office, dumps his iPad on the desk, and sinks into his desk chair. Maybe it’s not the smartest move to
have a reaction in a public spot. Michael is right there, just fifteen feet away, a single glass wall separating the two of them.
But he doesn’t care. It’s not like Michael will fire him, that much is obvious. He just lets his head drop back, eyes focused
on the ceiling. Only one word comes to mind, a word that perfectly encapsulates just how trapped he is, how frustrated he
feels, how his insides keep twisting and twisting.
Eli buries his face in his hands, trying to come down from the panic, trying to relax, trying to feel like his world isn’t
coming to some overly dramatic end. But only that one word comes to mind, just one word, whispered under his breath.
“Fuck.”