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Will Work for Story, Chapter 1 |
| Written by Nathan Weaver | |
| Thursday, 12 June 2008 | |
 I am a writer with a rebellious and cynical streak. No, I could say that simpler. I’m a writer; this was how Dexter Johnson began his story. This was how he ended and began his career.
Dexter’s boss was an old man, a firm man but kind. He was patient, tolerant to an extent but disciplined. He pulled Dexter into his office on a Monday, it was 8:17am, “My editors are telling me that your stories are ‘poor quality’ at best,” from behind his marble desk he spoke, “It seems to me your head isn’t in the newspaper, but rather somewhere else. I didn’t hire you to sit at your computer all day and write on your own personal novel. You’re a good writer with plenty of potential, Dexter; that’s why I hired you. But this is it, I can’t wait forever. Either get your head in the game and write a good story or else I’ll give you the boot.”
It was the worst kind of story for Dexter, it was a survival story. Dexter didn’t like survivor stories. In fact, he didn’t like any news stories. He despised journalism; he was only using it as a firm income to support his authoring of the great American novel. He had the perfect novel locked away in his head, but he had been dealing with a writer’s block for the past two years. Dexter was depressed, sick of his job. Sick of having nothing to pen… and he really wanted something to pen.
He had researched just shy of 12 years for his perfect novel. It would change the world, he knew. It would change everything. It would change storytelling forever. It was perfect. If only it would pop out of his fingertips.
His rental car was a silver Ford Taurus, nothing much to brag about. He never got the cool rental cars like Adam Weston. Weston was the paper’s top writer, he got pampered a lot. Dexter was mildly jealous at best, but not too much. Weston couldn’t write something with heart if his life depended on it; he just got stuck with the stories that you didn’t have to write anything to win an award for. You know, like the nine year-old saving his family in the fire? You don’t need anything for that, just the facts. The facts are compelling.
The motel was rundown and ancient; it was probably built in the late ‘60s at best. Dexter was shafted again. His room smelled like sex, pineapples, urine and feet. Not the best mix to say the least. The carpet was old and damp to the touch; so he slept with his socks on. The air-conditioner was broken; he learned that at the front desk. It was August outside and he was in the South. Dexter was not a happy camper.
He sweat all through the night, dosing off only in the morning—just as the sun was rising. He slept for ten minutes at best, and then he received his wakeup call. Dexter left the motel, driving towards his first interview. He used his directions he got from an online map, but the map was outdated. He drove around for an hour or so before he found the house, he was sweating profusely. The rental car was overheating, so he used a technique his father taught him, “Dex, you roll the windows down and turn the heat on full blast. This will cool the car down.” It didn’t work and Dexter was hotter than he’d ever been, both his body and his temper. He was mad to be on the job, mad to be where he was in life… mad at almost everything.
It was a simple house, to put it politely. One could tell it used to be yellow, but now it was off-white and the paint was chipping off revealing the prior color which was avocado. It was easy to see that termites were eating their fair share, that water was leaking through the roof, that these were poor people.
Dexter knocked on the door and got a splinter in the knuckle of the second finger of his right hand, he sucked at it to relieve the pain. The door cracked, “Yes?”
“Good morning, little boy,” Dexter leaned to the child’s height, “Is your mother at home?”
“Get away from there, Jonathon!” a female voice shrieked from the house, sounding angry and scared. The boy obeyed and ran off into the house; a woman’s eye looked through the crack, “What you want, boy?”
“Morning, ma’am, I’m Dexter Johnson and I’m with the Babylonian Chronicle…”
“Not interested!” and she slammed the door.
“Ma’am,” Dexter pleaded, “You’re story is important… we want to hear you’re side!”
Silence.
Dexter was mad again, “Look, I need this story! So, lighten up and get over yourself! You’re no goddess; nothing special… you’re just a nobody! So, pop that ego of yours and give me a story!”
Silence… the door cracks, “You got some mouth, Mr. Johnson.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“You always bark like a dog when you don’t get your way?”
“No, sometimes I position my tail over my genitals, ma’am.”
“You don’t want my story, Mr. Johnson,” she explained, “It ain’t worth no nothing.”
“It is to me,” he spoke selfishly.
“You are full of yourself.”
“I know; can I have the interview?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It ain’t gonna make no matter no-how anyway.”
“Let my editor be the judge, ma’am,” he pleaded.
“Alright,” she said, looking around outside, “But you got ten minutes; no more, no less.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dexter was cooling off now and smiling some.
She opened the door, Dexter entered and the interview commenced. Dexter came out ten minutes later, true to her word… and he was a changed man.
END CHAPTER Copyright 2008 Nathan Weaver |
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