5. Marley

5

MARLEY

I frown as I approach the old turn-of-the-century building that used to house the Paintbrush Post. It’s the first building I’ve seen in town that hasn’t been refreshed or given a facelift and even though it’s one block back from Main Street, it looks like the set of a horror film.

One of the small windows is boarded up. The old Paintbrush Post sign is rusted and sitting at an angle and if I didn’t have the keys and the signed contract for the position, I’d be sure this place was better left for nature to reclaim.

I turn the key in the lock with my heart in my throat. I took this job sight unseen, after two phone calls with, the let’s just say—‘eccentric’—owner, and therefore, am walking into this as blind as a bat.

The door opens only after I apply my ample body weight to the door and with a squeal that gives me goosebumps.

“Oh God,” I breathe as I look around at the disaster that’s in front of me—my eyes water with unexpected tears. Or allergies from the dust, it’s hard to tell.

The large lobby area is covered in inches of dust and piled high with boxes and pieces of equipment that were outdated far before I was born. My gut twists as I flip on the nearest light switch to see the horror in technicolor.

The tiles on the floor are warped and breaking, spiders have draped everything in a net of web, and the pervasive smell is an uncomfortable combination of mold, must, and a dead animal caught in the wall somewhere.

I hold in a sob and jump when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I answer the call when I see Mr. Schuster’s name on my screen. “Hello, Marley Green speaking.”

“Miss Green,” he nearly shouts in my ear. “I just wanted you to know I’m running a bit behind. Have you been to the office yet?”

I swallow. “Yeah. I just got here.”

“A real beaut, aint she?” He asks. “My great-grandfather built that building with the last penny he had left. I can’t wait to breathe life back into that place.”

I can feel the fakeness of my smile when I reply. “Yes, it’s a lovely building. I think we need a bit of cleaning though, and maybe a dumpster to move out some of the old equipment.”

“Of course, of course,” he answers as if these are small items to be addressed. “All in due time. Take a look around, settle in, and I’ll be there in about an hour.”

An hour? Fuck me . “Of course,” I answer, “I’ll poke around and see what I can do with the space.”

“Perfect. See you in about ninety minutes.”

Oh my God. “Of course, see you then.”

And with that, the line goes dead and I find myself standing in the middle of a legitimate disaster trying not to cry. I swallow down the anxiety that climbs my esophagus and try to think of a sensible way to approach my reality.

Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I set down my bag and pull out a notebook and pen. At the very least, making a list of things to do will help quell the anxiety until it’s time to act on it.

Straightening my spine, I attempt to look past the mountains of boxes and equipment, past the peeling paint and falling ceiling tiles, to what this space could and should look like. I see bright white walls, gleaming windows, a newly installed wood floor, colorful art, an inviting seating area and a desk for my assistant.

Acknowledging what it could be makes me smile and I wander past the first mound of mess into the smaller offices at the back hoping I don’t find anything worse.

The first office—mine—is the biggest. It’s complete with a large window, torn and yellow carpet, a desk from the fifties that has three legs and you guessed it—more boxes. Gritting my teeth, I jot down what I’ll need—new desk, new flooring, fresh paint, definitely some plants. And maybe a half dozen air fresheners judging by the smell that is somehow unimaginably worse in here.

The second office is much the same, only it’s filled with rusty file cabinets. I pull open a drawer to find yellowed and crumbling articles, contracts, receipts—really anything paper that this office has ever produced is in these file cabinets.

I open a second one and shake my head when I see the handwritten date of 1923. Over one hundred years of information and data is in this room and all of it needs to be digitized and saved.

Making a few quick notes so I don’t fall into the spiral of overwhelm, I enter the hallway that leads to the production room. On the way there is one bathroom, which I’m too afraid to open and a conference room full of old printing equipment, more boxes, more mold, and more yellow. So much yellow.

The production room, to my utmost relief, is in pretty decent shape if you don’t consider the fact that the printing equipment is both old and broken. But at least it’s not piled high with boxes or overflowing with junk and stink. In fact, the cold concrete floors and open-air feels like a nice respite from the closeness of the rest of the place.

I decide to set up camp there at the small desk so at least I’m not inhaling a century’s worth of mold while I work. I find an old stool in the back corner, dust three inches of dirt and cobwebs off it and slide it up to the desk.

Opening a document on my laptop, I optimistically title it ‘Reviving Paintbrush Post’. Ever the list maker, I section it off into immediate needs, future needs, and would love to haves and get to work entering almost everything under immediate needs.

Cleaning is at the top of my list as is junk removal and new equipment for printing—if and when we decide to run a physical paper. New ceilings, floors, and paint follow that up along with modern furniture for the entire place.

When I’m done, those ninety minutes Mr. Schuster gave me have already passed and I pull out my phone to see if there’s been an update.

Nothing. With a sigh, I get back to my list and wait another two hours for my boss to show up.

When he finally walks in, he’s all smiles. Silver hair perfectly combed, a suit that costs more than this building, and imported leather shoes that have to be just out of the box. But even with that elite air to his appearance, he’s as relaxed as can be.

“Well, Marley Green,” he says, throwing a hand in my direction. “I’m so glad to finally meet the woman who’s going to rescue the Paintbrush Post from the clutches of death.”

I shake his hand and let out an awkward laugh. “Well, I’m going to try.”

“I’ve seen your work, Ms. Green, I know exactly what you’re capable of. This is going to be one hell of an adventure.”

I smile stiffly because I’m not sure what my social media articles told him I’m capable of, but I’m sure it’s not ‘summer movies that bring all the feels’ or ‘best albums to listen to at a bonfire.’ “Well, thank you, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Well deserved,” He answers, putting his hands in his pockets. He looks around the lobby, still smiling, seemingly unphased that the ancient dust and mold could ruin his extravagantly expensive shoes. “I can’t believe this place. It hasn’t changed a bit. Well, except for the piles of boxes and mold and…” He chuckles good-naturedly. “Well, you get the idea. We’ll get this place spit spot in no time.”

“I started making a list of things that need to be done,” I offer. “In order of importance.”

“Of course you did,” he leans toward me. “Send me that list as soon as it’s done. I’ll make sure I check each item off. No expense is too much.”

I blink because I didn’t know people actually said that sentence in real life. “Really?”

He laughs. “Of course, this place is my family’s legacy. I’ve been waiting years to have an opportunity to bring it back. I want an online paper and a printed paper just like in the past.”

“But, don’t you want to wait until we know if a printed paper will fly?”

“Nope,” he rocks back on his heels. “I have all the faith in the world that this is just what the town needs. It’s the perfect little town for an old-fashioned idea like a printed newspaper. Nothing beats the smell of ink on the rollers.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times because even if he’s optimistic, I know how hard it is to make a newspaper viable. My understanding was that we would start with an online edition only and then move to paper, but I can see in the sparkle in his eye that he wants to move forward no matter what. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait to see the financials before you invest in the equipment?”

“Finances are not an issue, Ms. Green. We’ll get everything you need, I’ll hire the staff and take care of the purchasing side. You just get busy writing and selling ads, and we’ll be ready to roll in no time.”

I swallow and force a smile. I know he has faith in me to make this work and enough money for it not to matter if it fails completely, but I don’t want to be the iceberg responsible for sinking a multi-million-dollar ship. This dream job has suddenly turned into a nightmare in the making. “Of course,” I offer weakly. “It’s going to be great.”