The List Read Online Free PDF Page B

Groton, Yale, and over a
     decade breaking news at the Wall Street Journal stamped on his résumé. His aura sang, “Trust me! I’m always right.” And people usually
     did.
    “Justin Cushing once hit a reporter with his umbrella. Like athwack below the knee,” said Julia, making a Babe Ruth batting gesture and flinging
     her empty plate into the garbage can.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. But they didn’t report it to the HR department or anything. One, we don’t have
     HR, and two, the reporter was flattered that Cushing actually knew who he was. You
     should have seen him. He was glowing like he ate a flashlight. Just because you work
     here doesn’t mean the important people have to learn your name.”
    And that, I realized, was what the Capitolist was all about: not sleeping, working around the clock, and fighting so that Upton
     and Cushing not only knew who you were but also cared enough about you to occasionally
     put your stories on the front page, maybe even to shoot the shit with you every couple
     of weeks. That meant coming by your desk and asking about your life. The right answer
     to that question was always “What do you mean? This is my life.”
    The Capitolist was three years old. Four young Silicon Valley investors had founded it when all
     the other little papers were dying, but it had skyrocketed. From the beginning, the Capitolist had what other papers didn’t: money and intensely dedicated labor. They bought reporters
     away from other publications, they made the paper they printed on thicker than a book
     jacket, and they threw more parties than Vogue .
    The paper and its equally prestigious website were still flying high, and so were
     its employees. A place obsessed with breaking news, the List was launched as print and online because there was no way any List story worth its ink was going to wait until the next day’s paper. The daily print
     edition and the site appealed to different readers, but they both brought in nearly
     equal dollar amounts and equally stressed out the employees. We Style girls had to
     file two Web stories in the morning, then a paper story,then more Web stories. Meaning that when we were breaking news, we were also writing long-form
     pieces for the paper. It was a little like the decathlon without the bonus calorie
     burn. If you lasted a year, you deserved to be knighted. Small nervous breakdowns
     requiring prescription drugs and Skype counseling (to save time) were commonplace.
     Sick days were never taken. If you had a mix of bubonic plague and shingles you might
     be allowed to work from home. The paper chewed employees up and spat them out in a
     matter of months, sometimes weeks. But the ones who made it past the breaking point
     loved it beyond all reason. The only other jobs they would ever consider were United
     States senator or dictator of planet earth and outlying galaxies. Or, if they had
     to, host of Meet the Press . The newsroom was filled with extremely young reporters, all rabidly desperate to
     make a name for themselves. If they played their cards right, they definitely would.
     One year at the Capitolist could save you five years somewhere else, but you had to get through that year without
     doubling your body weight and tripling your blood pressure.
    Most people took their cues from Robert Redford in All the President’s Men: they dressed like farsighted intellectuals, called each other by last names, and
     shouted to sound important. They spoke almost entirely in acronyms, and each one quickly
     adopted a signature sartorial quirk. This quirk was never wearing father’s vintage
     Rolex: it was sporting a skunk hat once owned by Ronald Reagan’s press secretary or
     a stain-covered tie handed down from Senator Boring.
    The Style section was free of the typical Capitolist type because the typical Capitolist type viewed Style reporting as the ninth circle of hell.
    But I saw the Style girls as enviable, attractive geniuses.
    Instead of deciding