W I T C H: Chapter 2

The day was bright, sunny, and painfully hot. So hot that at one point I stripped down to my boxers as I crouched over an old rotary fan, cranked up to full blast. I spent most of the day trying to get something down on paper. But the oppressive summer heat made it hard to concentrate, so eventually I gave up and abandoned my second-hand typewriter. After a while I looked at the clock and noticed it was almost time to leave my tiny oasis. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t put it off any longer, and forced myself to get dressed for work. While the night shift at the local museum wasn’t exactly a glamorous job, it did stave off my growing boredom by helping me come up with new ideas. Few of them were ever any good, but it helped grease the wheels of progress.

After the brisk stroll from my apartment building, I arrived at the museum’s main entrance just as another tour group was leaving. It wasn’t exactly a fancy place; certainly not as glamorous as the places in New York or Washington. But it was quaint and fun and a nice place to bring the kiddies on Sundays. Newly constructed and at five stories tall it added a sense of luxury to Ironwood, one that it desperately needed for a long time. At the time city officials predicted a serious economic downturn, and considering the number of factories that had recently shut down, it was really no wonder why.

With more and more people out of work Ironwood was starting to feel the strain. Crime especially was starting to take a deeper root all around. It started out like it did with any other town facing jeopardy: with a few small groups. I wasn’t around when it all began, but I was there to see it when it started to take on a more sinister form. In the previous year there had been over two dozen reported murders, and all for various reasons: a drug deal gone wrong, a streetwalker who wanted to get paid, the works. Take it from me, it wasn’t pretty. But at the same time, folks were eager to see this pretty little city avoid the road to self-destruction. The Ironwood Art and History Museum would, hopefully, serve as Ironwood’s salvation.

I wriggled through the group of tourists, all hurrying off to their cars and buses, and saw out of the corner of my eye another group preparing to enter. All were lined up neatly and dressed in matching purple shirts that bore the letters “Miss Angela’s Astronauts.” I smiled slightly before hurrying inside. Grade school kids from B. Chandler Elementary was a promising sight to see. My footsteps echoed softly on the tiled floors as I took the usual route from the main lobby, past the information desk, and down a set of stairs roped off to the public. I trotted down the steps two at a time before reaching the white door at the bottom. I pushed the door to the locker room open and was instantly greeted with the familiar lemon-scented air.

“Hey!” cried a cheerful voice, “How’s it going?”

It’s going,” I replied before zeroing in on my locker. “How’re you doing, Nick?”

“Well, I’m just about off, so… pretty good!”

Nicholas Lorenz was probably the closest thing I had to a friend in Ironwood. Even though I had been living there for a little more than a year, I had been so focused on my writing I didn’t even bother to socialize for a time. But after the rejection letters started pouring in, I decided I needed to add more fun in my life. After all, wallowing in self-pity is only fun for so long. And fortunately, Nick wasn’t afraid to take on the daunting challenge of my companionship.

“Yeah, rub it in,” I joked as I fiddled with my lock.

“Well, you know, you were the one who wanted the night-shift. All to write the next Great American Novel. How’s that coming by the way?”

“Slowly,” I said and I yanked out the gray and brown uniform I had been given on my first day. I didn’t see the point in taking it with me since I only lived twenty minutes away, but frowned when I noticed the new wrinkles forming along the hem of the pants and shirt. Due for an iron, I thought.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Dick replied. He leaned over and carefully folded his own uniform into the duffle bag at his feet. “You’re always coming up with new ideas. I’ve seen those little cartoons you draw on the desk.” I smiled, stripping down to my sweat-drenched undershirt.

“That? That’s only to fight off the boredom.”

“They’re funny,” Nick insisted. “And surprisingly clever!”

“I’m so glad you think so,” I said sarcastically, though I felt myself smile in spite of myself. “Truth is I’m starting to think…” I paused, my hands grasping the sides of my jeans and my fly wide open. I hesitated for a moment, frozen like an absurd statue, unsure of how to phrase what I really wanted to say.

“I’m starting to think I’m not any good at it. Like, no one’s ever going to read my work.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your stuff is fine. Maybe you should find an agent? That’s what my cousin did when she ran away to Hollywood to be an actress.”

“Uh huh, and how did that work out for her?” Nick considered this for a moment before raising his hands in surrender.

“Besides,” I continued, “No reputable agency is going to touch a nameless new-comer. Not even with a ten-foot pole – I know, I’ve checked.” I slammed my locker shut (much harder than I had intended to) and after a moment of silence, Nick turned and picked up his bag.

“Look,” he said, tossing it over his shoulder, “I know it’s frustrating not being where you want to be. But don’t sell yourself short, Zack. Your stuff is really good. If you keep going at it, I’m sure you’ll find exactly what you need.”

“What I really need is a good idea,” I said, following him out and up the stairs.

“Well then, just take a look around,” he countered, gesturing to the first floor paintings and sculptures. “There are hundreds of stories just waiting to be told. I can’t think of a better place to find inspiration.”

-Edited 1/19/24