The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
I nodded. “Well, why don’t I drive out to Wickenden and see if anyone in
the history department knows anything else about him.”
“Commendable lot of work. You don’t mind? What else are you working
on here?”
“I don’t mind. I’m sort of curious about the guy anyway. I was going to
work on that piece about Verrill’s garden store moving indoors and building
a fruit-and-honey section. That can wait, though.”
“What do you mean, wait?” asked Art, eyes popping in mock anger.
“That’s not a Lincoln evergreen; that’s breaking news here. Seriously,
though: you go out wandering around on this, we got enough to fill a paper
this week?”
“Should have, I think. I’ll have Verrill’s for you. Then there’s that zoning
piece held over from last week, and the Christmas list. Also, don’t forget the
photos from last year’s Christmas we can put in. Plenty of excitement. Anyway,
I’ll be back here this afternoon.”
He slapped his desk with the palm of his hand. “Great. Go forth and
prosper, my son. May the road rise to meet you and all that.”
the drive from lincoln to Wickenden usually took a bit less than two
hours, traffic permitting. I drove this route a lot when I first took the job and
was spending every weekend with Mia. Mia Park was two years behind me
at Wickenden and light-years ahead of me in poise, sharpness, and tenacity.
We had the sort of uneasy, leaves-over-bear-traps romance that jitters along
when neither person wants to be the first to relax. We had met just before
my graduation and, with a little effort on my part and a good deal on hers,
had continued dating until the end of the following fall semester (we were
still on academic time: a dangerous sign). We split amicably, predictably,
and remained in ever-dwindling contact. After she graduated, I figured that I
would probably not hear from her again, though I suspected I would at some
point read about her. I was curious to see how she was doing, but I figured it
wasn’t worth the awkwardness this time, particularly as I was due back in
Lincoln this afternoon. I’d have probably thought differently if there were
any chance of a nostalgia fuck, but weekday-afternoon sex is one of those
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