Here's a peak at the first scene of my mystery novel. It's set close to my hometown in Northern Wisconsin, and I'm trying to create a slightly-awkward but entertaining and strong female lead. Let me know your thoughts.
Chapter 1
I
screamed when the eight-legged monster jumped from the shelving above the oven,
missing my head by inches and my scrambled eggs by even less. Fortunately, I
quickly recovered and beat the spider to a pulp with my trusty old hiking
boots. I shoved the dirty brown boot back in its place near the door before
returning to the stove top and giving the eggs another stir with the spatula. One
more joy of living in my parents’ not-so-well insulated log cabin: bugs around
every corner and crevice, preparing for attack. I was at least 72% certain that
the bugs in this little four-room building had a personal vendetta against me
from day one, and, after only two weeks here, they were winning. It was me
(Jordan Nimsby) vs. the Evil Bug Bastards (or EBB for short).
Yes, that’s correct; my parents gave
me a boy’s name, but I’ve grown used to it, to say the least. My friends used
to call me “Nimsby” in high school, probably just because they thought it
sounded funny. Now, however, most of them call me Jordy, partially because I’m
a huge Cheesehead and #87, Jordy Nelson, is one of my favorites. Seriously,
don’t come over during a Packer game, unless you’re bringing fresh cheese curds
or kolatchze to share. You may laugh, but we don’t jest about our cheese and
European baked goods here in Northern Wisconsin.
I shoveled the scrambled eggs onto a
slightly-chipped plate and moved to sit in one of the two dusty armchairs that
face the large double-hung windows in the “living area”. I call it the living
“area” because it’s technically just an extension of the kitchen. The kitchen
and living room combo are basically a narrow, 6’ by 14’ room with a
refrigerator, maple-stained cabinets, sink, and oven on the kitchen end and the
armchairs and a bookcase on the other end. In between the “kitchen” and
“living” sections is a narrow hallway containing doors that lead to the tiny
bathroom, a bedroom, and another room that could technically be used for a
bedroom, but is just a storage area for me at the moment, since I’ve just
recently moved into the cabin. My parents still have an old wooden bunk bed in
that room, leftover from when my younger sister and I were kids. A few other
awkward touches, such as the duck-patterned wall paper in the bathroom, and the
Northwoods-themed animal decorations in the bedrooms, make me feel like I’ve
somehow gotten trapped inside my childhood vacations.
I finished the eggs and had a
hankering for toast, but I tragically haven’t had a chance yet to buy a
toaster, so I substituted the toast with the amazing nectar of the gods, AKA
black coffee. I had no shortage of mugs to choose from and selected a “Coffee is the name of my other lover” slogan printed on a hot pink
background.
“Hah- as if there was another man in my life,” I laughed and
winked at my coffee cup. You can judge me; it is an unnatural relationship that
I have with this mouth-watering beverage that makes life worth living.
Carefully filling the mug to the
brim, I made my way back to the cozier armchair (I swear the one on the left
was missing some stuffing in the cushion). I settled in with a sigh. Then, I
breathed in the delicious Mocha Nut aroma of the flavored brew, letting the air
slowly out of my lungs.
Today would begin the first day of
my new job, and I had some thinking to do. In fact, I had a lot of thinking to
do, seeing as I had basically taken a ginormous leap backwards in the job and
life department as of late. You see, I wasn’t always a single, 27-year-old
living in my parents’ old cabin. I used to be successful. Haha. Okay, you
caught me; I used to be relatively successful, in comparison to someone greatly
unsuccessful. I have tried for years to convince myself that it isn’t my fault,
however. I had good intentions, I swear!
After graduating from Loyola
University in Chicago with a BS in Criminal Justice, I became a private
investigator. It had always been my dream job, and it’s why I went to school in
the city to study the field. However, after five very unsuccessful years, I had
little to show for it. I’d been working with a firm in downtown Chicago,
certain that I was on my way up, even though I’d been relegated to a desk
position for my first four years, doing little more than secretarial work no
matter how hard I worked to try to prove myself. When I finally saw the
opportunity to advance, I was quickly passed over for some freshly-graduated,
tough-looking guy who “knew the neighborhood better”. As if. And even if he
did, so what? Being from the area wasn’t exactly part of the job description,
and I made the mistake of pointing that little fact out to my boss. Of course,
I did also add, “Now, if this guy knows the criminals
in the area, then he’d have an
advantage over me.”
Apparently, my boss didn’t deem that
comment as productive as it was and I found myself without any job a few days
later. While searching for a new job, I moved in with my aunt, who lives in a
downtown condo. My student loans were piling up, and I certainly didn’t have
enough in my savings account to cover the pricey rent of most Chicago
apartments, even with the odd job here or there to supplement it. Fortunately,
Aunt Melani works in some fashionable sales firm downtown and insisted that I
only pay half of the electricity and internet bills. The rest was on her. It
was nice living there when she wasn’t around, which was quite often. When she
was around, my comfort level dropped immensely, as she’s a vegan hipster
without a door on her bathroom who claims to be allergic to even the smell of
meat. Fortunately for me, she was gone quite a bit due to the traveling aspect
of her job, and I still, to this day, do not fully understand what it is that
she does.
Needless to say, it reached a point
where I realized that I wasn’t getting anywhere in the field or in my
retirement account, so I ended up returning home…more or less. My parents live
in Tomahawk, about an hour southwest of their cabin, and they had been talking
about selling this old log home for years. They kept it up fairly well (if you
don’t count those bitter insects and a thin layer of dust), but they just
didn’t see the point of keeping it any longer. As my mother said, “It was so
much more valuable when you and Cynthia were little. Then we would go up to the
lake to swim and fish…we just don’t do that much anymore…”
(I
know what you’re thinking- my sister’s name is Cynthia? Seriously, Mom and Dad, why did you give her the uber
feminine name? Did I really look like a member of the male species when I was
born? Sure, I was born bald, but throw me a bone here already. Sigh. I
digress…)
My parents wanted to sell the cabin,
long story short, and I had just enough money saved up to offer them a
reasonable price for it. At first, my mother felt bad about making me pay for
the cabin, but my father reassured her that I was a “grown adult” and “more
than fully capable” or spending my money on my own necessities. (Now, don’t ask
me how someone can be “more than
fully capable”; it seems to defy the realm of reality.) So, a short investment
later, and I was back in the only-slightly-neglected cabin. I wasn’t terribly
saddened to return back home, and honestly, the cabin is in fairly decent
shape, maintaining some semblance of coziness. To the left of the large windows
in the living area are the sliding glass doors that open up to a small patio
with Loon Lake a short walk beyond. On the patio (where I really would be
sitting, if it wasn’t so gloomy out, the clouds threatening to burst any
moment), my father made me a lovely wooden table with four chairs. They’re
stained the same color as the house, sort of a burnt oak, and they really add
to the patio area, I must say. He carves and sells furniture for a living, so
they look damn good, naturally.
In my own sad attempt to bring my
personality into the cabin, I have added a few knick-knacks here and there,
like the sign that used to hang above my private investigator business in
downtown Chicago, currently hanging over the bookshelf beside me. I’ve also
added one of those cheesy wooden placards with the 1950’s-style woman picture
and the words “Sarcasm: Now Served Daily!” to the wall in the kitchen. I’m not
really a great decorating guru, never watched any of those HGTV shows, but I do
try.
As I took another sip of my coffee,
my thoughts drifted back to my new job. Along with my move to Northern
Wisconsin, I now had a new job as a barista at a locally-owned coffee shop/bookstore
about eight miles up the road, on the outskirts of the quaint town of Eagle
River. In a way, I was looking forward to the peace and quiet of this type of
job, but I also felt a bit like a screw-up. I was supposed to have left the
small town life behind and venture off into the wilds of the big city, and I
did just that for several years. Unfortunately, chalk it up to bad luck, a bad
economy, or both, my dream just didn’t last for long. Now, I was back into the
jobs of the high school/college student crowd, at an age that was just slightly
too old to actually desire those jobs. Still, I would be working with two of my
favorite things, coffee and books, so I couldn’t whine for too long and loud
about the opportunity, as unfulfilling as it likely would be.
An old high school friend of mine,
Jenny, was the owner of the shop and, once she heard that I was back in the
neighborhood, she was quick to offer me a position. “Nearly everybody has moved
so far away!” she exclaimed at my “interview”, which basically amounted to a
gossip-session reminiscent of high school days. Now Jenny was always a really
sweet and cheery girl, but she was never known to be the brightest crayon in
the carton, so I was a little surprised that she owned her own business. I
suspected that maybe she’d changed a great deal since high school, but about
two minutes into our interview, I realized that Jenny was still partially stuck
in high school, as though the drama and gossip from that time were still
enticing to her. “It’s so nice to see a familiar face from high school!” she
had said at the start.
And it went on like that from there.
For every reasonable interview question, like, “What are your greatest
strengths?” there were at least two or three tidbits of random gossip that I
couldn’t care less about honestly, so that the interview went a little like
this:
Jenny: “Did you hear that Matt
McDonalds is now the owner of a Fortune 500 Company? I mean, seriously, who
could have seen that coming?”
Me: “McDonalds? You mean that kid
with the funny glasses who always used to quote stock prices…uh, yes,
ironically I do believe I saw that one coming.”
Jenny: “Have you heard that Erika is
having her third child now? And each
one with a different father! Can you believe that?”
Me: “Erika Sneider? The one who used
to wear super short skirts with thongs and dated half the football team? Oh,
yes, that’s mind-boggling…”
Jenny: “And, oh-my-God, you won’t
believe what happened to Tiny Tina Tinkerson. She gained, like, a bazillion
pounds and ended up on one of those weight loss shows last year. She didn’t
lose enough to win the competition, though, only like 19% of her body fat…”
Me: “I do remember her having a
fondness for baked goods at the senior picnic…”
And so on and so forth until I began
to seriously question working for her. However, when I found out that she’s really
only there half the time (“So busy with my family now, you know, twin boys, can
you believe it?”), and the fact that I really needed to make money somehow
unless I didn’t want any utilities in my rustic cabin, I accepted the fact that
I wasn’t in any position to refuse any kind of job at all, much less one that
seemed relatively simple yet still managed to pay a few dollars above minimum
wage.
That brings me to today’s business:
my first day on the job. The sensible part of me smiled at the thought that I
would once again have a steady source of income. But another part of me (a part
that demanded hungrily from the pit of my gut why I felt it was worth my time
to study in college for four years just to throw that money down the drain)
felt like kicking myself in the face (though I may need to do more stretches to
manage that maneuver) as I drained my coffee cup and poured another serving
into my sparkly metallic green travel mug. “I like my coffee like my men,” I
joked to make myself feel less awful, “dark and covered in metallic green glitter.”
I jest; I’ve never dated a man who wore glitter of any sort; I guessed the
closest I ever came was Anthony Jespoal, who was an actor I dated in college.
He had to wear make-up in most of his performances and actually didn’t seem to
mind it.
I stepped into my red Ford Taurus
and rolled down the windows to let in the fresh morning air. The clouds seemed
to be dissipating, so maybe it wouldn’t be too gloomy of an early June day
after all. The sun was low in the sky, but that was probably because it was
only 7am, and, despite the clouds, I could sense the promise of warmer weather
to come. I was supposed to be at the coffee shop at 8am to start my first day
of training, but I was giving myself plenty of time to arrive a bit early. I
wanted to make sure that I was fully prepared, and that typically meant having
at least three cups of coffee under my belt beforehand.
The driveway to the cabin is a small
gravel lane. I drove down it and pulled onto the also small, also gravel road
that wound around the lake and led to several other cabins. I had a feeling
that not many people actually traversed this road in the winter, so I was a
little nervous about driving when the winter season rolled around, especially
since I wasn’t even sure if they would bother trying to plow this road.
However, I had plenty of time to wait on that; for now, it was the start of
summer, and the gravel road was relatively busy by Northern Wisconsin
standards; I actually saw two cars pass me on my way out to the highway.
Turning onto the highway, I cranked
up the local radio station, until I realized they were having a polka marathon.
Quickly, I flipped the dial to some alternative rock station that just barely
reached listeners up here in the far northern reaches of their coverage area. I
rocked out with the windows down, a nice cool breeze in my curly brown hair,
unnecessary sunglasses covering my hazel eyes, and my free hand cradling my
travel mug of joe. Hearing an upbeat Of
Monsters and Men tune come on the air, I tried to focus on the positives in
my life. It was difficult, moving up here to the rural wilderness after the
hustle and bustle of downtown Chicago, but it was also refreshing. For
instance, consider the lovely fresh air that I was currently inhaling; it
didn’t have even the slightest hint of car exhaust, pollution, or random smelly
people. That was a lovely change of pace. And where in Chicago could my carpool
possibly be the same distance in miles as the time it took to get there, for
instance? Unheard of, but here, that 8 mile drive to the coffee shop could
easily be managed in just over 8 minutes. I was fortunate to live within
walking distance of just about anything when I lived in the Windy City, thanks
to Aunt Melani and her condo, but if I ever tried to venture out of the city or
to different parts of the city, oh, God help me. I hated driving in city
traffic. Basically, my feeling about driving in Chicago was this: why would
anyone want to sit completely still on a crowded 5-lane highway with absolute
psychos cutting you off and flipping you off just so that they could sit completely
still in another lane? Do you see what I mean? If not, take a drive around
Chicago sometime, preferably on a Friday evening, and then you will soon understand.
