L.S. Murphy - Pixelated

For Greg Wirsig you were right

Its been eight days, sixteen hours, and thirty-five minutes since I arrived in hell. Okay, not hell exactly, but Clarkton, Iowa isnt heaven either. The one pizza place doesnt deliver, and there arent any Chinese restaurants. There isnt even a mall. Welcome to my own personal purgatory.

The Clarkton Gazette sits one block off the town square. I open the front door and the little bell dings above me. The Gazettes office is basically a lobby separated by a long counter, three deskstwo of which are unoccupied, an ancient copy machine, and two closed doors: one to Moms office and the other to the restroom. A set of stairs leads to the second-floor storage rooms. Mrs. Jenkins smiles as I walk through the swinging gate in the counter.

Morning, Piper. Mrs. Jenkins flicks her gaze to Moms closed door. Whatre you all dressed up for?

Um... I registered for school today? My oversize T-shirt has Andy Warhols image of Marilyn Monroe and my black skirt is nothing fancy. Even my yellow ballerina flats dont constitute dressing up by any means.

Mrs. Jenkins nods and stares at my clothes for a moment too long. Well, anyway, you dont want to go back there, she says in a lilting voice thats already getting on my mothers nerves. Sandras talking with Mickey Ross right now, and they arent having the best conversation.

Whos Mickey Ross? I sit on the edge of her desk and glance at the computer screen. The next days layout is done. Mrs. Jenkins might seem like the calmest person in the county, but she types like shes on speed and prides herself on never missing a deadline.

The photographer. She shakes her head. Now dont get me wrong, Mickeys a nice guy and all, but since he found out two big-city media types bought the Gazette, his rate isnt high enough. Its not like he needs the money what with his other job and all.

Hes not staff, is he? In the last eight days, I spent as much time at the paper as I could. Listening to the bathroom faucet drip at home is not my idea of a party.

Mom and her new husband Doug bought the newspaper in Clarkton last month, along with another one in a nearby county. When my father announced hed be guest lecturing at Kansas State for the fall semester, I had no other option but to move to Iowa. That was a great way to end my summer vacation in Florida. Welcome home, Piper, youre moving to one giant cornfield.

Oh no, dear. Hes freelance, but hes the best in town. Mrs. Jenkins turns back to her computer, mumbling to herself as she makes adjustments that dont seem like much but make a major difference in how the paper will look. Seriously impressive work.

I move toward the back and hear raised voices. Even though I cant tell what theyre saying, its pretty clear the conversation is not going in my mothers favor. The door flies open and a big man in dirty overalls storms by me. He doesnt bother to acknowledge Mrs. Jenkins in his rush to get out of the building. I peek into Moms office.

Moms face is buried in her hands with her elbows resting on the only two clean spots in front of her. Even in this digital age, my mother has at least three trees worth of paper covering her desk, the chair beside it, and the leaning tower of newsprint on the filing cabinet in the corner.

Mom? I ask, not really wanting to distract her.

Her head shoots up and the circles under her eyes are darker than usual. She smiles tentatively. Hey, Piper. Did you get registered? Was it too difficult?

I smile like a good little girl and say, Yeah, Im all in. Miss Jazzmin helped me the best she could with their limited classes. She also made me schedule an appointment for a college consultation and wouldnt take no for an answer.

Good. She notices something on her desk and frowns. Her shoulders drop three inches as she reads it. When shes done, she realizes Im still here. Im sorry, honey. Did you need something?

I was just wondering if youd called the cable company...

Her shoulders drop another two inches. Yes, and they dont provide service out by our house.

Are you kidding? No cable means no Internet. No Internet means no life whatsoever.

Im afraid not. But, dont worry, I have a plan. Theres a dish company that can hook up the TV. As for the Internet, itll have to be dial-up until I come up with another solution.

Dial-up? Mom, people havent used dial-up since... since... like before I was born. With dial-up I could write a letter and snail-mail it before my e-mail even loads.

Piper, I cant do anything about it right now. Ill figure something out. Its just going to take a few days. Explore the country with your camera. Im sure there are plenty of photo ops for your portfolio.

With that Im dismissed. I try not to snort at the photo ops comment. I had my portfolio planned out already, but now I have to change the entire story if Im going to get into the School of Visual Arts in New York. And I am going to get in.

I start my car to drive to the new farmhouse ten miles south of town. My tire blows out on a sharp curve and Dorothea skids into a ditch. I hit my head on the steering wheel, hard enough to send my prescription sunglasses off my face but not hard enough to pass out. The accident happens so fast that I sit in the car for a moment and take count of my body parts.

My heart races; my legs quake like the San Andreas fault. Unless I stay focused on something, Ill freak out. The same thing happened when my parents told me about their impending divorce this time last year. I went on a cleaning spree. Dust was public enemy number one. It was like I expected a clean house to make my parents realize they needed to stay together. I needed something concrete to keep my mind grounded, to keep me from a short bus to the crazy ward.

The best thing I can do for my mental state is access the carnage. I take my regular glasses out of the case and slide them on before picking the sunglasses off the floorboard. Once Im sure nothings broken physically, I climb out of Dorothea.

My camera! How could I not think to check my camera? I reach inside the car and pop the trunk. Once I get to the back, I pull the camera bag out gently. The Canon EOS Mark II comes to life instantly and I take a few test shots of the cars damage.

The right front tire is deflated, possibly shredded. Theres a slight dent in the rear bumper. Checking the view screen, a wave of relief washes over me. The cameras fine. Thank God. Ive only had it since last Christmas when Mom and Dad realized how serious I was about photography. They teamed up despite the divorce to buy it, with my grandmother in Florida buying one lens and my grandparents in Arizona buying another.

Best Christmas ever.

Taking a deep breath, I take in my surroundings. All I see are trees, a cornfield, a wheat field, and a rusting tractor in the middle of a meadow. Raising the camera to my eye, I zoom in and snap a few photos. Maybe Ill stop back by later with the 35-millimeter Canon Doug gave me when he married Mom. Film proficiency isnt a requirement to get into SVA, but it helps.

I start around the car again, searching for anything I might have missed. The ditch isnt deep, so the tire is the biggest thing. She might have some internal damage though. Dorothea may not be the prettiest two-door Chevy on the planet, but shes all mine. Her once bright red paint has faded into a dull orange that reminds me of the sky at sunset.

Sighing, I put my camera back in its bag and set it on the passenger seat. Time to call for a tow. I grab my phone and unlock the screen.

No signal.

How can there be no signal? There isnt a spot in the modern U.S that doesnt have a freaking cell tower?! I cant keep the panic down now. It surges into my throat, burning like lava. Without thinking, I kick the bumper, shooting tiny pinpricks through each bone in my foot and into my ankle.