Analytics, analytics, all they fucking care about are analytics. This is what journalism has become. It no longer has anything to do with your interviewing or writing skills. Just analytics

My last article was my pièce de résistance. A multi-interview deep-dive into the life of an Afghan refugee who came to Canada with nothing more than the torn clothes on his back.

A nineteen-year-old who spent the last five years of his life in a refugee camp determined to make it out alive and start a new life. The kid got his hands on every book he could and learned five different languages, so wherever he found himself, he would have a better chance to integrate.

He made it out, and he made it to my small town, and I sat down with him and conducted multiple detailed interviews. Did anyone read it? Not many. Not enough to get me ranked in the top ten most read articles in our analytics system. So, at the last weekly pitch meeting with the editor, ole Jamie Wells says

“Hey, I, uh, noticed that your articles haven’t been picking up any steam lately. I can’t guarantee job security if you’re not ranking in the system, okay?. So, let’s get out there and get some good stories this week. Check out Caroline’s last few articles.”

“I’m covering everything that’s going on in Mill Haven,” I answered, knowing that an argument was futile, but also knowing that I was going to defend my side, anyway. “I just wrote the Afghan refugee article, interviewed veterans for Remembrance Day. I even spent an afternoon digging through archives at the museum for stories of local World War 2 heroes. I did the Lakeview festival, several on the hospital crisis, and an 800 word article on the sale of the sawmill. Christ, Jamie, what else do you want me to do?”

“Just check Caroline’s last few articles, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” I answered, feeling veins pulsating from both sides of my head.

It was no dig at Caroline. She was a fine reporter, but her last few “articles” were only rewrites of police reports. Headlines like, Two Dead After Sunday Crash on Route 11. 21-Year-Old Overdoses on Fentanyl. One Dead, One in Critical Condition After Accident Near St Pauls. Headlines that wrote themselves. I felt like screaming at the prick, Do you want me to go out and hit someone with my car, so I can get a top ranked article and keep my fucking job, Jamie?

Yes, I understood that those press release rewrites were the top three ranked articles in the province. But not one of them had anything to do with reporting, at least not in my humble opinion. The RCMP shared the releases; the reporters reworded them, and the public jumped on them like the vultures they were. It didn’t take Woodward or Bernstein to do that.

I stared at the blank screen of my WordPress page, feeling disillusioned about a career that I once considered a dream, but now realized was just another pointless job. The more time you spent doing anything in this life, the more you realized dreams were only the wanting of things that seemed out of reach. Once you grabbed them, reality set in and those dreams ceased to be. It was a bad time to be a reporter in a safe city. The vultures were no fans of the happy ending.

Then, for the hell of it, I started typing in the headline section. 73-Year-Old-Man Dies in Bank Robbery After Heroic Effort. Would you like that, Jamie?. I continued writing.

A 73-year-old-man has died after a heroic effort on Monday morning at TD bank on Main Street. Two masked assailants carrying automatic weapons entered the bank demanding all cash on hand, says Wendy Andrews, a 52-year-old resident of Mill Haven,

“I don’t trust online banking. I still come on Mondays to deposit cheques and socialize, you know? Like people are supposed to do. Then these men came in, waving guns around. It was terrifying. I thought I was going to die until an older gentleman ran at them and tackled them both from behind. He was like a linebacker. We called the cops. The masked men panicked and shot the old man before hightailing it out of the bank.”

This shit just writes itself. Even Wendy Andrews, a name I just made up on the spot, seemed to fit the article. Good ole Wendy, no way she’ll ever make the transition to digital banking, not my Wendy. I even gave myself a metaphorical pat on the back for coming up with her quotes for the press. They seemed authentic enough, and if that were a legitimate article, the province would gobble it up. And maybe next time, when things slowed down on Caroline’s end, Jamie would tell her to check out my articles. That would be the day, wouldn’t it?

But the facade revealed itself to be just that, and Jamie’s high-pitched nasally voice echoed in my ears, “I can’t guarantee job security, if you’re not ranking in the system, okay?” So I closed the WordPress page and refreshed all the tabs of my different news sources to see if any breaking stories had developed since I started writing my little piece of fiction.

A story had been published seconds ago with the headline, 73-Year-Old-Man Dies in Bank Robbery After Heroic Effort. This was the breaking story of each of my news sources. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It had to be a coincidence. Even if it was the grandest coincidence I’d ever experienced, it still had to be one. Just had to be.

I clicked on the story from the RCMP website and scrolled down to see that it was word for word what I had written. Even the quote from Wendy Andrews, the woman I was sure I had just made up. But there she was telling the “press,” though I was the only press in town, that she went to the bank every Monday to socialize, ya know? Like people are supposed to do.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do or what to think. I actually pinched the skin on my arm. As ridiculous as it sounds, I did it. Pinched and twisted, but there was only pain. There was no gasping moment where I awoke in the middle of the night lying next to my wife. No, she was at work, and I was at work, and this press release was somehow filled with the words that I had written only moments ago.

I went back to the article, and decided that I would continue writing, just to test this insanity. I added at the bottom. “The man’s dying words were, Gosh, I love this town, and I love this country,” says bank manager Margaret Macmillan. Another fictionalized name. I gave a half-hearted laugh at this. An all Canadian man giving his life, and not regretting a single second of it. It was a pleasant touch, I thought, but it wasn’t reality. No, sir.

Lather, rinse, repeat. I hit refresh on the news pages, and once more started with the RCMP release. There it was at the bottom. “Gosh, I love this town, and I love this country.”

Jesus Christ. This is crazy. But…. I paused. This is job security. If I sent this to Jamie now, he would have to praise my punctuality, and Caroline would certainly be knocked from the top spot by the end of the day. A man who died yesterday is old news compared to a man who has died today.

I edited the story a little, added some more fictionalized information that I was sure would prove to be reality once I hit refresh on the RCMP page, then sent it to Jamie. For a brief moment a voice inside my head whispered, “you killed this man. You killed this man.” But I shook it off with relative ease. And it was soon replaced by an even louder voice that said, “Think about the analytics.”

Top ranked stories every day for this small town reporter. I thought of next week’s editorial meeting, and Jamie telling the rest of the reporters to check out my articles for ideas on how to rank high in the system, and have some of that sweet old job security.

All that mattered in reporting these days was analytics. Goddamn analytics.

Sitting in my final math class at the high school I attended, I couldn't stop thinking about how lonely and isolated I felt, a teenager with no friends who felt like she had nowhere to belong. Just then, I felt my phone vibrate inside the pocket of my hoodie, so I took it out to see what all the commotion was about.

Let me explain, I've never been the popular girl, people don't really care much about my few social media posts, and the friends I do have, are all in another state. I am not, in any means, well-known where I now live.

So, when my phone was blowing up with Instagram notifications, I didn't think it had anything to do with me. I turned my phone off and stuck it in my back, trying to turn my attention back to factoring logarithmic equations.

For about twenty minutes, I focus on what my teacher is saying and don't think anything of the Instagram notifications I'd been receiving. As the lesson ended, I pulled my phone back out to put on some music while I attacked my homework; when I noticed the number of notifications had just doubled in such a short amount of time.

Sighing, I opened my phone and pulled up Instagram to see what was going on. Clicking on the little bell to get to the bottom of this strange occurrence, I noticed that I had hundreds of likes on a post from 4 years prior about some random story I wrote that wasn't even cropped appropriately for the post.

Confused, I noticed that someone had messaged me, so I went to my messages next to see that I'd in fact received tons of messages. Clicking on the top conversation, I quickly skimmed the long text and my jaw dropped when I saw that a famous author wanted to talk to me about a book they're working on for her next series. Even more shocking was they wanted MY help!

Quickly typing back, I said I'd love to know more about the project before I commit to anything, and she'd responded immediately with all the information. As I read the description of the mystery novel, my interest peaked and before I knew it, I was helping write the book that would go on to be the single most popular book in America, beating out every single other book in the world for the coveted title.

And to think that it all started in a math class.

I was appalled as I stared unblinking in the mirror. My husband kept biting his lips not to laugh, clearly unfazed and, unbelievably entertained.

“How can you laugh?” I asked in my new baritone. He burst out laughing again.

“How can you not laugh? This is priceless. All these years I’ve always said you were more like a guy than a woman and now, here we are.”

“Not funny! You were talking about my attitude not…not… this!” I shouted, cringing at the sound of my voice and the new appendage staring back at me in the mirror.

“But you bringin’ sexy back, yeah!” he started singing Timberlake’s old song and wiggling his hips.

“Are you nuts??? How are we going to explain this to people? What will we tell Tommy? Hey sweetie, Mom woke up a man this morning. But don’t worry, she’s…he’s…still your mom. What the heck? And what about my mom? She’s going to flip.”

“Tommy will be fine. You know him. He takes everything in stride. And your mom doesn’t know who you are anyway any more so what difference does it make?"

“Not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny, babe. It’s the truth.” He put his arm around me. He was still bigger than me. I had a nice build, but I was a little guy. LOL. A little guy. “We’ll get through this. I mean, you woke up and boom, beard and balls. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be boom, boobs are back.” He tried not to laugh. Unsuccessfully.

“We can only hope,” I sighed. “In the meantime, what do we do?”

“Go with the flow, babe. Act like everything is normal.”

“I am NOT having sex with you!”

“Hahahahaha! You’re not my type, babe. Sorry. No offense.” He kissed my cheek. “I kind of get why you always want me to shave before I kiss you.”

He started laughing again.

“Shut. Up.” I left the bathroom. “I’m going to the gym.”

“Hey,” he shouted as he turned on the shower. “Watch out for the women! You’re a real hottie. Fresh meat!”

I slammed the bedroom door.

And then I immediately opened it, running back to the bathroom.

“I can’t go to the gym! This body does not have a membership there.”

Hoots from behind the shower curtain.

“Give me a sec. I’ll bring you as a guest and then go to work from there. Okay?”

“Who am I? I have no ID as this, this…aaaaaah!” I ended on a groan.

“We’ll say you’re your brother and you were robbed while clubbing last night and don’t have any ID right now.”

“I don’t have a brother!”

“Babe, you’re also not a guy most of the time,” he cracked up laughing again.

“Maybe I’ll just stay home and try to sleep and see if I’m me again when I wake up.”

He turned off the water.

“Don’t give in to the invisible forces at work! Take the bull by the horns! Go out there and live it up as a guy!” He said as he toweled off. “Look at it as an opportunity to see how the other half lives. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to be a guy?”

I rolled my eyes. “You wouldn’t be this chipper if you woke up as a woman.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not what we’re dealing with here.” He put his hands on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. Everything will be fine.”

Then he hugged me. My little guy woke up. Awkward!

“Oh my god!” I screeched (a baritone man screech), pushing my husband away.

“I’m sorry, hon,” he said practically crying from laughing so hard as he walked into our bedroom. “You’ll have to learn to control that.” More laughter. “Think about, puppies and kittens and babies or something.”

“I hate you!” I said.

“Clearly, you love me,” he replied, gagging on his laughter.

He got me into the gym no problem. Everyone at the front desk was really nice to my brother, telling me what a nice sister I have, always smiling and cheerful. It was pleasantly weird and then awkward when one said, “I thought Gabrielle was an only child?”

“Ha ha,” I respond, “she probably likes to think so, but, no such luck. She’s stuck with me.”

It got worse.

I have always prided myself on being able to appreciate both feminine and masculine beauty. I soon discovered that that may not be something you do when you’re new to being a man. Or ever as a man. Think adolescent boy in front of a class at school, his crush smiles at him and all of a sudden, his pants have a tent out front. Yep. The hottest woman at the gym walked by in what anyone else would consider lycra underwear, breasts spilling out of the top, hanging over a six pack belly. I smiled as she walked by and felt a little tingly down below. She looked at me like she ate something nasty and kept walking. At the same time, I realized the tingling was more like a rush…and I immediately put my gym bag in front of me, surely eight shades of purple at this point.

I walk/ran to the locker room, oops, sorry ladies, turned around and ran into the men’s locker room and sat on the nearest bench. Puppies, kittens, babies, puppies, kittens, babies.

“You okay, dude?”

I look up, and the sex god of the gym is standing in front of me. Naked. Well hung does not begin to describe what I was looking at. Directly in front of me. I dragged my eyes upward and said, “Yeah, thanks.”

“You sure? You look a little uptight. You need to relax some. I’m heading to the sauna. Want to come with?”

At which point I notice that he is GROWING right before my eyes. Sex god is gay?!?! Inside I squeal and think there would be some really disappointed women in the gym. At the same time, I grab my bag, scoot up and away from IT, and say, “Uh, no, but thanks, really. I’m not a fan of saunas. But, um, have a good time. Bye!” the last said as I ran out the door.

I managed to run ten miles on the treadmill, stretch and leave the gym without any more mishaps. Thank god.

As per my usual, I stopped at Starbucks on my way home.

“Hey, Chris!” I said to my favorite barista.

“Hey,” he replied politely to the stranger that was me. I forgot.

“I’ll have a grande hot chocolate, please.”

“Right away. That will be $4.57.”

I show him the app on my phone. He scans it. Then he looks at me suspiciously. “Whose phone is that?”

“Mine,” I say.

“I don’t think so,” he says a little menacingly.

Oh, right. “I should say, it’s my sister’s. She loaned it to me because, uh, I was robbed last night and I have no phone, no money or ID right now.”

“Gabrielle doesn’t have any siblings,” he says looking like he’s about to come around the counter and make me submit. (Note: Chris is a body builder when he’s not making diabetes-inducing coffee drinks). I think, jeez, have I told the whole world I am an only child?

I say, “It’s a long story. Forget the hot chocolate. Thanks, bye!” and run out of the store.

I hop in the car and drive to the supermarket. There’s a Starbucks in there and I can get my morning hot chocolate and pick up some groceries. Duh! I should have done that in the first place.

Or not.

I grab a basket as I enter the store and saunter over to the Starbucks counter.

“May I help you?”

“Grande hot chocolate, please.”

“$4.57.”

I hold up my phone, think better of it and hand her a $5 bill.

“Here’s your change, sir,” she says, smiling sweetly. “I’ll have your drink ready in a moment.”

I look around for a guy and realize I am sir, smile and say, “Thanks, miss.”

I roam around the supermarket with my hot chocolate, picking up what I need. In the meat department, a pretty young woman smiles at me a little sultrily, sticks out her chest, licks her lips and asks me what’s the best cut of beef to grill.

“Uh, personally, I like skirt or hanger steak; but, I suspect most people prefer ribeye or porterhouse. Of course, you can’t go wrong with filet mignon.” By this time, she was way into my personal space.

“Thanks. My name is Lily.” She put out her hand for me to shake and held on as she continued. “I’m having some friends over tonight for a barbecue…I would love to have you…”

Tingling, I pulled my hand back and said, “Um, thanks? But, um, my hus…my spouse and I have plans. You have a great day, Lily!” I spun around and headed for check out.

Would this day never end?

At home, I put the groceries away, put the coffee on and then went to shower…where I discovered the only perk to being a guy. Just saying, I could get used to that.

Dressed and in front of my computer with my coffee, I responded to emails, rescheduled my 12:00 Zoom call for the following week (tomorrow might be too soon; I was hopeful that eventually I would be me again) and edited two reports.

Around 3:00, the doorbell rang. I debated not answering. I should have listened to that little voice. It was my neighbor, Jean.

“Hi, Jean,” I said.

“Um, hi. Who are you?” How stupid can I get?

“I’m Gabrielle’s broth- friend. She had to step out for a while. Can I help you?”

“Oh. I just wanted to see if I could borrow the lawn mower. My grass is out of control.”

“I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem. Even better,” I continued, now excited about being a guy, “I can do it for you.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. I’ll do it,” she replied, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I would love to! And I know Gabrielle and Evan would never forgive me if I didn’t help you out.”

She smiled, “Evan’s great. He always lends everyone on the block a hand.”

She paused, looking in my eyes. “Okay, if you really don’t mind, thanks. I’m at 10 Kingsland – three houses down on the left.”

“I know. I mean, Okay, be there in five.”

It was a hot day, so I pulled an Evan and stripped off my shirt mid-mowing. I was dripping. I thought I looked pretty good with the sprinkling of hair on my chest, hard belly (albeit sans six-pack) and nicely muscled arms. I’m bringing sexy back, yeah!

When I finished, Jean came out with a tall glass of something cold. Had she changed her clothes? I didn’t remember seeing that much cleavage before. I wiped my sweaty face with my shirt.

“Hey, thanks so much,” she said as she handed me the glass. “Lemonade,” she continued, preempting my question. And then, “I realized, I don’t even know your name.”

“Thanks. Oh, um, My name. I have a name. And it’s a boy’s name.”

“Mulan,” she said, laughing.

“Haha, yeah. Tommy loved that movie growing up.”

“My girls, too. And what is your boy’s name?” she said with a smile.

“Oh, um, Steve. Steve, um, Smith. Yeah, Steve Smith.”

“Well, would you like to come sit on the porch for a bit, Steve Smith? It’s cooler there,” Jean asked with what I finally realized was a bit of a flirtatious voice. She touched my arm.

I tingled. Crap. I gulped down the lemonade. “Great lemonade, Jean! Thanks! Raincheck on the porch. Gotta go! Bye!” I said as I pushed the lawn mower down the street.

“Hope to see you again, Steve!” she said waving from her driveway.

Right. Not.

Home again, I took another shower. There is more than one reason teenage boys take multiple showers a day.

When Evan came home, I briefed him on my day (to shouts of laughter) and suggested we cancel our reservations and just eat at home.

“C’mon babe. We’ve been looking forward to trying this new restaurant for weeks!”

“Evannnnnn,” I whined…whining doesn’t sound the same in baritone.

“It’ll be great. No one to recognize you and your lack of siblings, good food, good drinks, we come home, go to sleep and with any luck you wake up tomorrow and everything is back to normal.”

We actually did manage to have a delicious meal without meeting anyone we knew. The waitress flirted with both of us. I thought it was amusing. He got jealous. Seriously. Jealous.

“You know we’re still married, babe, right?” he whispered.

“What? Of course. Why would you even ask that?”

“You’re flirting with the waitress.”

I laughed out loud. “Uh, no. She’s flirting with me. And with you. You don’t see me getting all caveman on you, do you?”

“I’m not a caveman. I know what I know. Are you finished? Let’s get the check.”

“Wow! Are you serious? Evan, I am your wife. I am not flirting with the waitress.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m tired. Let’s go home.”

Could this day be over? Please!

The waitress brought the check, we paid, we left.

We drove home in silence.

Getting ready for bed, I said, “I’m sorry you’re upset. I really wasn’t flirting.”

“It’s okay. It was just a weird evening, I think.”

“Ha, you should have been me all day. It was one for the books.”

“How do we do this?”

“What?”

“Sleep.”

“What? Put your head on the pillow, close your eyes…”

“You know what I mean. We always cuddle…”

“Ah, well, I’m still your wife, despite the little guy.”

He laughed. “Yeah. Soooo weird. C’mere, babe.”

“We are not having sex,” I said.

“Yeah, no, we’re not. But we are going to cuddle.”

I turned out the light and he curved himself around me. Soon, we were both asleep.

In the morning, I looked down and I had breasts again and no little guy. As I turned over to face him, I said, “Evan! I’m back!” Then, I groaned, “Oh no. No no no no no no no no no no.”

Next to me was a beautiful woman.