Page 43 of Moist!

something’s in the water

The clock on the wall reads quarter to five, finally time to close up the publishing company after another hellishly boring day of nothing news in our slow town.

I’ve fallen into a lot of questionable habits since getting the community writer job, but not for a lack of trying to find something interesting to fill up my time.

But things haven't been interesting here in a long while.

The day, the week, the whole month has been clouded with a haze of distraction, stress, and anxiety. My editor keeps demanding new stories, but all the people in this damn county want to talk to me about is the supposed lake monster.

A vicious demon, an ancient sea creature from when the earth was still forming, hell someone even called it nature coming back to attack humanity and make us pay for the destruction we caused, but I think it’s a load of bullshit.

There’s no evidence or pictures, just hazy eyewitness reports from fishermen out after dark and drunks for months now.

After the first headline of the mythical beast, the editor was done with the concept.

He’s a facts man, and without proof, it isn’t worth printing.

“Ain’t today the anniversary of the day that old mobster went missing?” Peter chats, rather than finishing up his article for Monday’s paper. The track and field report can wait apparently.

I swallow thickly, trying not to think about that fact.

Mariner Bradshaw, missing and presumed dead after he went off the rails during his sister’s murder investigation.

People said a lot of things about him, a lot of rumours were spread, but no one knows the truth about what happened to him.

There’s still talk about him being killed by a rival crime family, but that doesn’t make sense given the facts.

There’s only one other organised racket here, and the motorcycle club keeps to itself rather than fucking around with the low grade work Mariner allegedly did.

Not that I can say I know anything about that sort of thing.

I certainly wouldn’t try to get close with the club just for information about a missing man who definitely didn't break my heart.

“Don’t care, no one does, the only thing that matters is the party at the quarry, sorry reservoir, tonight,” Dana pops her gum, aggressively typing away.

“You’re comin’ this time ain'tcha?”

A tap on my foot breaks my train of thought and reminds me that I’m indeed supposed to do something other than writing and investigating a cold case all the time. I’m only a thirty something once according to our graphic designer.

“I am comin’ out for one drink, I still have work to do.”

“Uh-huh, sure, when do we not have work?” Peter scoffs. “Live a little Obbie.”

The chatter continues for the last few moments of the day.

Discussions of dresses and appropriate shoe wear flits around me as I tap my pencil against my notepad.

There has to be something going on, a story that can entice the editor enough to print it and earn my pay check.

Maybe I can interview Bradshaw’s ex-wife again.

She still lives up in Deerfield even after it came out that Mariner bought that house with money he made from illegal drug sales.

Not that she’s ever seemed like the type to care about much of anything if it wasn’t lining her pocket book.

“I’ll pick you up at eight to drive out to the party.” Dana grinned, big and bright, before dashing off .

I finish up some ideas for future articles, praying I catch on to a headliner story to get a bonus, some extra cash to squirrel away into my house fund.

It’s after seven before I finally leave the newspaper.

The sun is just starting to set, the heat of the day still baking the asphalt and making every step soft.

It would be easier to swim through soup than just this walk to my car.

Once home, there is only just enough time to clean myself up a bit, apply some extra deodorant, brush my teeth, and get changed into something more breathable than the chinos and button down I wear to work to look professional.

Dana knocks at my door while I stand in front of the mirror, trying to decide which pair of black jeans make me look slimmer.

As much as I try to will myself to choose and to get dressed for a night out, I’m trapped in my indecision.

“I need your help,” I pull my friend into my apartment, distress coating my tone.

Dana is dressed to the nines in her bright floral summer dress.

It’s short, much shorter than anything I’ve seen her in before.

She takes one look at the pigsty my place has become and tsks.

This isn’t new for us, she’s always trying to push me out of my comfort zone and into “the now” as she calls it, explaining that just because we live in Indiana doesn’t mean we gotta dress like we’re stuck in the 50s

“This is what you’re wearing.”

It’s a direct order, my thoughts on the outfit don’t matter when Dana’s determined to get me to at least speak to a man at this party.

Even if I think the hoochie daddy shorts and cut up t-shirt aren’t appropriate for a guy my size to wear.

They are in my closet for times like this, though.

When I need to be encouraged, reminded that I’m more than worth it even with all the plumpness, extra weight, and love I carry on my body.

Dana always has a way of knowing exactly what to say when I need a confidence boost or smack behind the head for not seeing how great I look.

“What do you see in the mirror?” she asks.

“A single bear?”

“Okay, yes, but you know what I want to hear,” she says, a little pout on her lips.

My chest tightens when I look at us. High school friends, with each other through all the theatre drama and performative GSA meetings. It’s hard to believe we’ve survived this long when I was convinced I wouldn’t make it to twenty one.

“I see two hot bitches about to have the Friday night they deserve,” I answer, a smile playing on my lips.

“Yes, honey.” She claps before pulling out her retro polaroid camera. “Just one quick picture before we go.”

She sets the timer and we pose close together, scandalous outfits that are just right for the heat and smiles that are all teeth.

I can’t tell you how many of these we’ve done, but they never get old, never failing to make me smirk when I look at them later when she’s pinned them up around her cubicle at work.

Dana grabs the sheet it spits out and waves it around before tucking it into her purse.

It’s a bit of a whirlwind, speeding down gravel roads to avoid the county sheriff’s men out on patrol and trying to look only fashionably late once we park up.

Cans are passed around, bonfire lit, and someone’s radio blares dad rock through the clearing not far from the edge of the old quarry.

Before I know what’s going on, I’m letting Craig Kessler take me back to his truck to smoke a joint.

Nervous laughter bubbles up outta me like the fizz from the beer I just downed.

What the hell am I doing? This isn’t really like me at all.

I’m reserved at the best of times, but the beer makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

He smirks at me as I sit on the truck bed, my sandals long since discarded.

I get lost watching the moonlight over the reservoir, the water rippling now that the fishing service has fully repopulated the new lake.

His lighter flicking causes me to jump a little, the burning paper and herb smell are quick to hit me.

I watch him take a drag, following suit when he offers me a turn.

The smoke burns my throat and lungs, making me cough and laugh all the more.

“Here, sweetheart, let me make it easy for ya.”

Craig takes a long drag before setting the joint down.

He moves between my legs, spreading them just enough for him to fit between, and blows the smoke right into my waiting mouth.

My eyes flutter, stomach swooping at how close he is to kissing me.

A giggle, my breath hitching when his rough hands move up my exposed thighs, a soft brush of his nose against mine, it’s all too familiar and too much.

I pull back slightly when the fear of that closeness becomes too much.

My brain scrambles to come up with something to diffuse the situation, but it’s just circling around one headline today.

Local council member, Mariner Bradshaw, presumed dead.

“You were around town when Bradshaw went missing, weren’t you?”

His face twists under the moonlight, something darker taking over his features before he plasters on a sinister sort of smile. Like I’d done something wrong by bringing up that old story.

“Nah, Darlin, I only moved back after that, knew him when he was still running that used car dealership though.” He waves the joint at me, encouraging me to take another drag.

His eyes are different, he’s lost the soft smile and it’s been replaced with a hard line, his hands on my thighs squeezing a little too tight.

He blows another puff of smoke into my mouth, but my head is already feeling too light. I don’t need anymore weed, especially this cheap stuff he’s smoking. I’m more at risk of throwing up than I am of getting the munchies.

“You wanna go for a swim?” he asks suddenly.

Before I can tell him no, he pulls me off the truck.

Craig’s a lot stronger than I expected a guy his size to be, but he’s smiling again, so why would I stop him?

He starts grabbing me more, my arms and my sides.

Nerves start breaking through the haze of weed and alcohol.

What if we get caught? I try to slow us down as we reach the cliff edge.

The water doesn’t look too far away, but then I remember something very important.

“I can’t swim,” I slur to Craig, digging my heels into the hard ground.