“Mr. H.?” Tyler poked his head inside the door.
Seb motioned for him to come in. He kept telling the kid to call him Seb, but Tyler refused. Even though Seb was editor in chief, he didn’t cotton to formality much, but they finally settled on Mr. H. “Thanks,” he said as the young man shut the door behind him.
Tyler’s fuzzy, dark brown eyebrows furrowed. “For what?”
“Saving me from this.” He swooped his hand over the dreaded book and set it on one of the several crooked piles on his cluttered desk.
“You’re, uh, welcome?”
“What brings you by?”
The kid frowned. “Wish I had some good news for you, Mr. H.”
Just what he needed—more problems. “Lay it on me.”
“We lost Daniel.”
Oh no.Seb sat back in his chair, stunned. For eighteen years Daniel had been the carrier forThe Times’s most difficult route, a zigzag through a rural, mountainous region that was mostly one-way back roads. Seb would know—Buford’s cabin was at the highest elevation on the route, and after he passed, he’d bequeathed the cabin to Seb, who tried to spend as much time as he could there. Arkansas didn’t experience snowfall, but ice was a problem, and the route was brutal in winter. Daniel rarely missed a day, even during the worst storms. “Was it his heart?” he asked, bracing himself.
“No. Florida.” Tyler parked on the chair, and his leg immediately started to bob up and down. The skinny eighteen-year-old go-getter could never keep still. “He and Becky finally decided to retire.”
“Oh.Oh.” Seb smiled, relieved the septuagenarian hadn’t kicked the bucket like he presumed. “Good for him.”
“But bad for us.”
Seb sobered. “Yeah. Any of our current carriers interested in taking the route?”
Tyler’s leg stilled. “No, sir. One even said she’d rather, and I quote, ‘Drink a castor oil cocktail.’”
“How specific. And descriptive.” He frowned and leaned back in the chair, the creaky noise resounding in the office. This room was larger than the cracker box closet he had atThe Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, not that he’d needed a big office to do his job. But other than his typewriter, chair, a few reference books, plusthe mess of folders and papers on his desk, everything else was still Buford’s. Seb didn’t want to get rid of any of it, and Buford’s nephew Bo was happy to keep his uncle’s things here, where they were appreciated.
Bouncing up from the chair, Tyler said, “Don’t worry, Mr. H. I’ll figure something out. Until then, I’ll take the route.”
“I can split it with you, if that helps.”
“It might, if I can’t find anyone. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Sounds good. Hey, great job on your Witfordville City Hall exposé. I hear rumblings that the mayor might resign because of your reporting.”
“He needs to.” He turned somber. “Hard to believe there’s so much corruption in such a small town.”
Seb merely nodded. There was corruption everywhere, especially when politics were concerned. Witfordville, a town only slightly larger than Clementine and about an hour north, wasn’t immune from problems, and right now they were mostly instigated by its crooked mayor. But there were plenty of good, solid local politicians interested in the job who hadn’t traded in their integrity. Seb had a few friends in Witfordville, and after Tyler’s article hit the stands, it looked like things were going to change for the better.
“Thank goodness Mayor Pancake seems to be an all right guy.” Tyler broke out a toothy grin. “Catch you later, Mr. H.” Tyler dashed out the door.
Seb smiled, but it quickly dimmed. The day was coming when Tyler would put Clementine in his rearview mirror and move on to bigger and better things, just like Seb had when he was the same age. But until then, Seb counted himself lucky to have him. Maybe at some point Tyler would be interested in runningThe Timesand following in Seb’s footsteps.IfThe Timesis still in business.
He glanced at the bank statement folder and set it aside. Facing reality could wait another day and he turned to the small desk that was perpendicular to his larger one, where his black Smith Corona manual typewriter made its home. Due to his shoestring staff, he was having to depend on AP and UPI feeds to padThe Times— something he didn’t care for because, up until the past several years, the newspaper had always been locally focused. At least he could keep his own column going.
He picked up a piece of crisp white paper and wound it into the typewriter. A Macintosh computer with the dust cover still on it was on one of the shelves behind him, untouched since his arrival atThe Clementine Times. He flexed his fingers with unnecessary flair and started typing his column for tomorrow’s paper.
SEB’S VIEW PART DEUX
HOEDOWN LOWDOWN
With the Clementine Annual Memorial Day Hoedown at Wilson Farms coming up this weekend, I’ve been asked to disseminate the following information:
1. There will be horses, cows, pigs, and chickens at the farm, so plan your footwear accordingly. I suggest old cowboy or rain boots for field and barn touring. Trust the voice of experience: You don’t want to bring home anything fragrant on the bottom of your sandals or Air Jordans. If you’re planning to congregate around the event tents, dance floor, and food areas within the white oak fence, you’re in the clear.
