R.A. Linch (& Intern)//Fiction

A little bit of fiction I wrote a few months ago.

He took a deep breath, staring at the door in front of him. For the past four months he had known many reasons why this was his best option, yet standing here now he could think of none. The door was a deep color (he suspected it was made of mahogany), with a single plaque in its center. It read “R. A. Linch” Right above this was a pink sheet of paper upon which was written in incredibly frilly handwriting, “A self is not something static, tied up in a pretty parcel and handed to the chid, finished and complete. A self is always becoming. Madeleine L’Engle” In a moment of courage he rapped his knuckles twice on the door. 

From inside he heard a queer rustling, squawking noise followed immediately by a woman’s voice calling to him to open the door. As soon as he began to open it, however, the woman shrieked in despair 

“Slowly, dear! Slowly! You’ll ruin the whole thing!” The crowded room that met his eyes was the strangest sight he had ever seen. The room was crowded, not with people, but with books. Every wall had shelves filled with books of every color and size, crammed into the shelves in any way that would make them fit. There were three oriental rugs overlapping each other on the floor, atop of which were a large desk and chair and a leather couch opposite it. Instead of a table next to the couch (for there was no room for it) there sat a large birdcage which was itself crammed with books and sitting upon a stack of what appeared to be dictionaries. The large garden window behind the desk was filled completely with books, folders, and paintings so that they fully blocked any natural light that may have come in, causing the need for the lamp on the desk. 

The woman sitting behind the desk looked up at him and gestured for him to sit on the couch. He dazedly sat down, staring at her in amazement. Although she was not surprised to see him, he had expected nothing less than this when he’d been offered this internship. He’d been offered a prestigious internship in the heart of Brooklyn with a world renowned journalist, and now he found her with glasses askew, flaming red hair, wearing a fair isle sweater underneath a leather jacket, leggings, boots, and dangly feather earrings, and wafting from her came an incredibly strong aroma of baby powder. The plaque on her desk said the same as that on her door, and her desk was drowning in index cards. She was now looking down at them and shuffling them around with amazing speed, muttering all the while. He cleared his throat and the unusual Ms. Linch turned her focus fully to him. She said enthusiastically 

“It’s Drew, right?” He barely had time to nod before she grasped him firmly by the shoulders across the desk. She looked him deeply in the eye and said quietly,

“If you had just stolen 3000 dollars from the Brooklyn Museum, where would you put the mask?” Drew’s mouth fell open and he just stared at her. Was this lady serious? He had prepared answers for every question an interviewer would ask him, but this had not been on the list. What was he supposed to say in response to this? If he answered honestly, she might accuse him of not denying his moral ability to steal anything, but if he choose to answer as such she would most likely decide he was avoiding the question. Making a run for it seemed to be out of the question as well, for although she must have been about sixty, her grip was strong and her eyes serious.

A few minutes passed between them, as she waited with surprising patience. She must have taken his silence to mean that he was considering the question. Finally he could bear it no longer and said faintly 

“Miss Linch? I-I don’t quite know what you mean..” She started in surprise, and sat back in her chair, her hands falling down to fumble with the index cards piled on her desk. 

“Why, I’m afraid it’s quite simple, really. I only mean to ask, if you had just taken a sum equalling three thousand dollars from the museum here in Brooklyn, where would you put the mask you had worn while you were doing so? It’s really quite simple, actually. Quite simple, indeed.” She watched him intently, and he began to panic. What was this all about? How could she possibly hope to decide on whether or not he could be her intern based on where he would put a mask? Where would he put a mask? That seems a silly question, though. He didn’t have a mask, that would be a pretty suspicious thing if the cops came calling. It would be as though he were telling the police plain out “Hey, here is my ski mask, hidden in this drawer. I use it when I rob things.” But Miss Linch seemed serious, and as he looked down in thought, he caught sight of a protruding index card on the  desk. It read “Police baffled at case, masked robb--”. What was this all about? The index cards all had something to do with a robbery at the Museum. He looked back up at her in despair. 

“I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t think I could hide a mask, because it would be a weird thing for me to have, since I don’t ski. The police would just find it and know something was up, so why would I want to own one?” Certain that this was the wrong answer, he couldn’t meet her eyes. He’d needed this internship and there was no way he would be getting it now. 

“What’s that?” She exclaimed in delight. “Of course! Drew, you brilliant boy, he must be a skier. Call the police, I’ve solved it!”