Ace
The bullpen of the Wilmingson Herald was much smaller than Ace remembered. That wasn’t too surprising. The last time he’d been in the office, he’d just graduated high school. He had picked up a job as the obituary writer the summer before college started. It didn’t look like much had changed in the eleven years he’d been gone. The walls were the same ‘80s style wood paneling they’d been when he worked there, and while the green carpet was balding in places, it didn’t look as though anyone was in a hurry to replace it. If not for the new-ish computers set up, Ace would have thought he he’d stepped back in time.
Trying to compare this place to his office at the Boston Register—with its industrial interior and sleek iMacs—was like comparing apples with durian. Sure, they were technically both fruit, but one was amazing while the other, quite frankly, stunk.
Ace gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders, then stepped out from behind the protruding wall he’d been using as a hiding place. Any minute now, everyone would look at him—Arin Sherridan, the prodigal son of Wilmingson returned home because he’d lost his job. He stood, waiting for the barrage of greetings, but other than one or two people looking up from their desks, there was nothing. Some of the tension in his body eased. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad, after all.
And then Bud McGee walked out of his office.
A smile broke across Bud’s face like a crack in a rock, and he crossed the room in five strides to stand in front of Ace. Reaching out, he grabbed Ace’s hand and gripped tightly. The last time Bud had given him a handshake, he had winced in pain. Now, he held his own and squeezed in return.
“Well if it isn’t Jack Sherridan’s boy. When you emailed and told me you were looking for a job, I just about couldn’t believe it.”
Ace tried to force a smile, but he was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace. “Neither could I,” he said truthfully.
The layoff had completely blindsided him. Sure, the landscape of journalism was changing, but it didn’t mean print was completely dead. He’d done his best to plead his case, but it was no use. And now, here he was, tail between his legs. Worst part was, he didn’t even have anyone to come back home to, since his dad’s death six months before.
“Well come on back in, let me show you to your desk.” Bud’s voice broke through his thoughts. “I’d offer to give you the grand tour, but you already know the place. Not that it’s so big you’d need a tour.”
He slapped Ace on the back, and Ace winced. No matter how much muscle he might have gained since he’d been gone, it was still a bit painful. They made their way over to a desk in the corner, with a computer that looked to be at least five years old.
“Now it’s probably not what you’re used to,” Bud said, “but we did just update to Windows 8.”
Ace took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. This was going to take some getting used to. He sat down at the computer and booted it up, acutely aware of Bud still standing right beside him. Sure enough, the bright blue of Windows 8 popped up. He scanned the apps, relieved to find they at least had InDesign and Photoshop, even if they were a few versions old.
He felt Bud still staring at him and swiveled his chair to face him. Bud was looking at him expectantly, and Ace realized belatedly what he had forgotten.
“Thank you for agreeing to take me back on,” he said. The words burned like acid on his tongue.
This was the last place he wanted to be. In Wilmingson, everyone knew not only his name, but his entire life’s story. It had frustrated him as a teenager to the point he’d made it his mission to leave as soon as possible. Now that he was back, more than one neighbor had already stopped in to check up on him and send their condolences for the passing of his dad.
It wouldn’t take long for them to see how Jack Sherridan’s boy had gone out and seen the real world, and the real world had chewed him up and spat him back out. But this was just a pit-stop. As soon as he found his next job, he would be out of here. Gone, never to return, except to sell the house.
Bud cracked another grin. “Glad to have you back on staff. It’ll be a different change of pace from what you’re used to. Slower, I imagine, but at least it isn’t the obituaries again.”
Thank the lord for little miracles.
“Do you have an assignment for me yet?” If he did, then Ace could use it as a chance to escape the office, which was quickly becoming far too stuffy.
“Well, I don’t, as such, but Makenna does. She’s our Life editor, so you’ll be working with her.” Bud waved at a girl across the room, but surely she couldn’t be… no. She was too young to be any kind of editor. “Hey Kenna, come here for a minute.”
Ace wanted to scream. The closer Makenna got, the younger she looked. She looked like the type of girl who had been in a sorority in college—pretty, tan, and bland. And she was his boss.
She stuck her hand out and Ace shook it, though he let it drop sooner than was probably polite.
“So, you’re our new features writer,” she said. Her voice was over-bubbly. Certainly, she wasn’t trying to flirt with him, right?
“It would appear that way.” When he’d written to Bud asking for a job, he hadn’t exactly been specific about what he was looking for. If features was all Bud had, then he would take it.
“Good to have you on board!”
“Bud said you have a story for me.” Ace cut her off before she could continue in her enthusiasm. He just didn’t have it in him today.
Makenna nodded. “Every now and then, we like to do a profile on a person in the community who people might not know.” How anyone could not know someone in Wilmingson was beyond Ace, but he let her speak. “We’re wanting to do a pretty big feature on a local artist named Phoenix Wrenn to go in next month’s issue.”
Ace frowned. “Next month’s issue? I knew print was a dying medium, but is it really so bad you’re only putting the paper out once a month?”
Chuckling, Bud shook his head. “This isn’t for the paper. It’s for the magazine—Wilmingson Life.”
It took a moment for him to understand, and when he did, he nearly quit on the spot. When Bud had replied to his email, he had only said they could use him somewhere—he didn’t specify where. Since the magazine was owned and operated by the newspaper, it made sense now they might have considered him for that role as well.
“I’ve never written for a magazine before,” he said. It wouldn’t be too difficult, but he wasn’t entirely keen on his name appearing in a magazine read mostly by housewives and patients in waiting rooms.
Bud clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Like I said, sure beats the heck out of writing the obituaries.”
“So as I was saying,” Mckenna interrupted, an edge to her tone, “I’d like you to do a feature on Phoenix Wrenn. He’s a Wilmingson native—a charcoal artist, who sells his work at the Wechsler Art Center.”
Now that she said the name again, it sounded familiar, but Ace couldn’t quite place it. “You said he’s a Wilmingson native?”
Bud nodded. “More or less. His folks moved here about… oh, fifteen years back?”
“Okay, well, how do I get in touch with him?”
“We have his address and phone number, since it’s in the book,” Makenna said, “and I got his cell phone number from his brother. Other than that, we don’t have a whole lot. He’s something of a recluse. It’s what makes him interesting.”
There was an eager tone to her voice which Ace didn’t particularly appreciate. They were talking about a human with actual emotions, not just fodder for a story. Still, there was something about the story that interested him.
“Alright. If you get me his contact info, I’ll get in touch.”
“Sure thing!”
She flitted away, and Ace sighed. Leaning back, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He really couldn’t find a new job soon enough.