FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #7

She's a local.

They all said that.  As if it excused her behavior.  She'd lived here all her life, years longer than most folks around here could count.  If you wanted local history, you came to her.  If you wanted local color, you came to her.  If you wanted local yarns you came to her.  Just the way it was, really.

What no-one would tell you was that if you didn't come to her, you would pay. 

She sat in her rocking chair, in front of the dry goods store, in all weather, just sitting and rocking.  Watching everything.  She had the ears of a bat and the eyes of a hawk.  No detail too small escaped her. 

And, no matter how old she became, she remembered.  She could recite family genealogy back to your great-great-granddad’s time, if you let her. 

My father moved our family in when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.  He bought the local newspaper, meaning to have a respite from the big city news.  You know, murders, break-ins; the regular life of the city.  He'd grown tired of bodies covered in blood, murder and mayhem.

He'd never lived in a small town.  He had no idea of the small town concepts of privacy.  He had no idea of small town etiquette.  And he had no idea of her power in this small area.

Father kept the local reporters.  He knew he had to have follow through or he would lose his readers.  But no-one told him she was an unpaid reporter; that he was to talk to her weekly, before he went to press.  And father, though he did read archived copies of the paper, did not realize the significance of her name cropping up in every article. 

“Local color,” was all he attributed to her.  “I’m bringing this newspaper into the 21^st century.  I’m writing current news.”  He edited out comments from her from his reporters’ submissions.

His first weekly paper went to press on time.  The running first page story was a local wedding.  Father interviewed both sets of parents.  He interviewed the young couple, writing about her dress, her bridesmaids, her maid of honor, the flowers, and the church service.  Even wrote about how they’d met. 

Nothing was said about the matchmaker who’d put them together.  Her of course.

The next weekly paper arrived in its bundles.  Father traipsed over to the dry goods store, pleased with the results.  Local boy makes good in national team, the headlines read.  He’d interviewed the parents and grandparents of the local boy.  He’d interviewed the boy himself over the telephone.  He’d printed comments by the coach who’d worked with the boy all during his formative years.  He’d interviewed the old team; printing funny excerpts from the team memories.  He’d even unearthed the initial team picture, the local boy prominent in the front row, missing teeth and all.

But he failed to ask her.

The paper didn’t sell as well as he’d expected that week.

His third week, one of the local reporters asked if he shouldn’t get her comments on the state quilting contest winner – a local resident of course.  Father didn’t think she’d have important input, so he declined.

He brought the piles of papers over to the store, ready for distribution. 

The manager declined the papers.  “Won’t be able to sell any of them for ya,” he advised.  “Ain’t enough local content.”

Father set the papers out front in his own new-built racks.  He took one inside to read.  “I only have local content,” he scratched his head as he highlit every local news item.

Advertising calls came in, canceling some of the next week’s ads.

Father withdrew the week’s newspapers from the outside racks, restocking with the new.  He hadn’t been able to interview anyone local for the county fair.  Our town had been well represented, but no-one would talk to him.

Every week fewer and fewer papers sold.  Every week fewer and fewer local stories had any flavor, any interviews from families involved.  Father fumed.  He wrote late into the night, trying to entice readers back with insightful local histories.  He researched historical items of interest about the town.  The paper grew thinner. 

“Verna,” he’d rumbled to one of the reporters as she handed in her notice.  “What am I doing wrong?  Why are you quitting?”

Verna, hands wringing, perched at the edge of the only other chair in his office, whispered, “You aren’t asking Annie for any comments.  Annie knows something about everything.  If you don’t support Annie, we can’t support you.”

 

 

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