No Way Back Today

by Eric Shoars

  “Why is now the time they pick to listen to adults?”

  I fire back. “Hey, I have your emoji right here.” Lifting my right fist I pretend that they’re about to be flipped off. It is their turn to crack-up.

  “Reminds me of my boys,” Laurel says shaking her head. “Those three would have said the same thing.” Another sip is taken. “Maybe that’s part of my struggle with 50...my boys.”

  My head tilts right and brows furrow. Laurel pulls out her phone and brings up a family photo from this past Christmas. All the boys have Laurel’s sandy brown hair and facial features but are built like their dad was back in the day...all about six-feet tall and stout but not an ounce of fat.

  Laurel sees the confused look and explains. “Not because of my boys. Christopher is 23 and out on his own. He’s works in the loan department at one of the banks in Lincoln, Nebraska. He has a degree in Finance and has started his journey to work his way up his career ladder.” Laurel stops for a moment and looks away from me as though she sees someone she knows but apparently doesn’t. Her thought continues.

  “Colin is 20 and is a junior at ISU majoring in Agriculture. He wants to create a better type of corn that can be grown in any environment. He wants to create a variety that can be grown in any part of the world – especially Africa – where there is less rainfall per growing season than is typically needed to grow corn.”

  “Wow,” I interrupt, “that’s terrific.”

  “Yeah, Colin’s always been that way. Trying to help others. Then there’s Cole. He’s a senior at Ames High School. He’ll graduate in May and then he’s traveling this summer before starting college this Fall at South Dakota State for Mechanical Engineering. Then...” her voice trails off and it all makes sense.

  “...it’s just you and Seth. Empty nesters,” I finish her sentence.

  “Yeah,” comes wrapped in a sigh. “I love my life but for the past 20-some years it’s been about Seth and me being parents and raising the boys. Once Cole finishes high school and is off to college...I’m not sure what life looks like. Seth is a terrific husband and has a successful career as an architect. I think I’m an excellent wife and have a successful career as a retirement planner. We have a beautiful home, we travel. But isn’t there more to life than that?”

  The question hangs in the air. Laurel looks away, momentarily embarrassed, outwardly appearing she’s shared something too personal too soon. The silence is a temporary buffer in the conversation.

  “Haven’t you and Julie faced this with your daughters?” Laurel inquires both because she genuinely wants to know but also because she’s trying to get the spotlight off herself.

  “To an extent, yes. The big difference for us is that neither left town. Nicole walked her own path that didn’t involve college and Ashley got her two-year degree at the community college and went to work. Both girls live on their own. We see them once a month for our family supper,” is my response.

  “Even so,” Laurel presses, “it’s different. They’re not under your own roof. It’s just you and Julie in the house, yes?”

  “True. Julie and I certainly had an adjustment period. I think the fact that she’s a teacher and is around kids all day helps her to be a little less lonely without the girls around. Plus we do some volunteering. I believe having something bigger than yourself to focus on is important.” I stop to provide an opportunity for Laurel to say something. She lets the opportunity pass.

  I press on. “And, quite frankly, the tough part is that our identities get so wrapped up in our kids’ lives that we lose ourselves in the process. We lose what we’re about; who we are apart from being spouses or parents or someone whose identity is independent from those we love.”

  A quick sip of my lukewarm coffee. Laurel’s face is one of quiet contemplation. My thought continues.

  “Julie and I struggled mightily on that score when the girls were out of the house. Took us a year to put our fingers on why we were struggling emotionally. Once we figured it out, the process to resetting our identities made a huge difference in our marriage and in our lives.”

  “Interesting,” Laurel says. Her tilting head putting her eyes on the ceiling. A server walks up to our table. Her name badge reads “Annie”.

  “Sir, can I freshen up that coffee for you?” she asks. The young lady is in a staff shirt and khaki pants with her brunette ponytail sticking out the back of her cap. She looks to be high school age but as I’ve gotten older it’s hard to tell ages anymore. They all look young.

  “Yes, please. Thanks, Annie,” I smile. She takes my cup and walks away. Her ponytail sways back and forth like a pendulum.

  “Makes sense,” Laurel picks up where my last thought left off. “Nearly half my life has been spent being someone’s mom and taking care of their needs first. Same thing for Seth as a dad. Never thought about my issue being an identity crisis. I’d saved that for turning 50,” she teases herself. We chuckle. My words seem to have given Laurel a bit of relief. At least I hope so.

  “Your coffee, sir.” Annie is back with a refill of my medium roast. Then to Laurel: “Ma’am, is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine,” Laurel answers. Annie heads back to the counter.

  “Wasn’t 1986 just a few years ago?” Laurel tosses into the conversation in wonder.

  “Yeah. And remember when everyone thought the sky was falling before Y2K?” I toss back. “It stuns me to think that was 20 years ago. The ‘90s don’t seem that far away.”

  Laurel nods in agreement. “Scary to think Seth and I have been married 25 years. Those years went by in a blink.”

  “Speaking of your husband, what’s he up to this morning?”

  “We’re remodeling one of the bathrooms in the house. He and Cole are hard at it this weekend. They were thrilled to learn that you and I were having coffee today. Apparently me not being in the house is an improvement.” Laurel shrugs her shoulders and opens her eyes wide. “I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t they want me overseeing their work?” She chuckles at her rhetorical question and the obvious answer. “By the way,” Laurel shifts the conversation, “what brings you this way today?”

  “Okay, this is going to sound silly,” I answer a bit sheepishly, “but the real reason I came down this way is to go to Mayhem Comics.” Ah, the cover story. Simple is best and that’s what I’m going with.

  “Here in Ames? Still the superhero fan, huh?” Laurel buys it. Why wouldn’t she? I will be going there after our coffee get together concludes it’s just not the main reason I’m in town. “You must be in heaven these past few years with all these superhero movies and TV shows,” she adds.

  “It’s a great time to be me, Laurel. When we were kids I kept my love of superheroes and comic book collecting a secret because I didn’t want to get teased by the other kids. I think I was 30 before I stopped keeping it secret.”

  “Times have changed, haven’t they? Laurel observes.

  “And how. People come out of the woodwork now to ask me questions before seeing the films or want to see the movies with me because I know all about these characters, their history, and their backstories.”

  I take a triumphant sip.

  “Isn’t it funny all the things kids got teased about or were afraid to talk about back then?” Laurel observes. “Remember that librarian we had in high school? The old lady with the blue hair?”

  I nod and smile.

  “I swear, the other day I saw a third grader with hair bluer than hers! We live in a time when about anything goes. It’s crazy,” Laurel marvels.

  “It is indeed,” I concur. “I’ve lost count of how many times my inner 12-year-old has been freaking out in joy. Never thought I’d see this age of superheroes we live in.”

  “It’s terrific that you still have that love for it. There’s not anything like that from childhood that I’m still into to
day but I’ve become quite the foodie,” she informs me.

  “I would never have guessed that.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been in my kitchen,” Laurel says with pride.

  “That’s superb. Would you call it a hobby or an obsession?”

  “Oh, definitely an obsession,” Laurel answers in a deadly serious tone. “Once I get in, I’m all in.”

  Mental note made.

  Laurel looks down at her watch. “Oh! Didn’t know it was almost 11:30. A group of us moms are getting together to firm up plans for prom. Cole’s last prom,” she says wistfully. “Sorry to run off suddenly.” Laurel grabs her purse hanging on the chair then stands.

  “No, no worries,” I reassure her as I rise with her. “This was fun. Thanks for taking the time out of your schedule to have coffee with me.”

  “Thanks for thinking to invite me,” Laurel says. We move toward each other and embrace.

  “Stay in touch, okay? Happy comic shopping.” Our hug concludes and Laurel is out the door with a goodbye trailing behind her. I return the wave and the goodbye.

  Annie the server walks up to me and says, “Your friend seems very nice.”

  “Every little thing she does is magic,” I say making my own exit.

  ***

  Comic book stores are my happy place, my candy store. Mayhem Comics is such a place. Every comic book store I visit represents one of the best parts of my childhood where I can walk in the present and the past simultaneously. A man walks around the store with the eyes of a kid. It’s awesome.

  A leisurely stroll through Mayhem Comics to get my bearings and then I begin searching for the book I’d been seeking - a hard-to-find, hardbound edition of collected comic book storylines from my youth.

  I’ve been reading comic books since Elementary school but it dawned on me a few years ago that the current adventures of my beloved superheroes no longer resonated with me. Reality came crashing down when it hit home that today’s comic book creators are not catering to a middle-aged audience. Go figure.

  It was then my attention went back in time as it occurred to me there are a lot comics I never read growing up. Back then you got comics off the spinner rack at the grocery store or the drug store and getting consecutive issues month to month was nearly impossible. I thought: Why not go back in time and read the stories I’d missed as a kid? And that’s what I did.

  The major comic book publishers now offer hard bound editions that reprint runs of superhero stories from their earliest days. These collected editions are the perfect way for me to revisit the missed stories of my youth. As much as visiting a comic book store is about the present for me, it’s also about revisiting some unfinished business of my youth. Unfinished business seems to be a theme with me at this stage of life. Or maybe I’m just too damned sentimental.

  Instead of finding the one book I was looking for I find three gems – the one I was seeking plus two more. The remainder of my time here is spent doing laps around the store ensuring I don’t miss a single action figure, statue, t-shirt, or other collectible. I pay for my books after lap four and I’m out the door.

  I hit the highway for Boone at 3 o’clock. It’s only a 30-minute drive from Ames to Boone so I have plenty of time but want to make sure I get a prime spot at the coffee shop. Todd recommended we go to Van Hemert’s Dutch Oven Bakery. The name alone was all that was needed to convince me to go.

  A quick drive later I’m parked at the destination and on my way in to wait for Todd. Van Hemert’s Dutch Oven Bakery is a family-owned, scratch bakery and it isn’t quite what I was expecting. A diner is what I was anticipating. It should have dawned on me by the name that Dutch motif would be part of the experience. The interior – like the exterior – is like being in Holland. I haven’t tasted anything but I know I’m going to enjoy whatever treat I try.

  The dining area is all wooden tables and chairs. Selecting a seat by the window, I take a vantage point that provides a perfect view of the door. A friendly, middle-aged woman - yes, she’s about my age, why do I keep forgetting how old I am? - approaches my table and asks if I’d like a menu and something to drink.

  “Yes, please,” I say accepting the laminated menu extended to me. “I’d like a cup of coffee. A friend of mine will be joining me soon so could you bring another menu when you get a chance?”

  “Sure thing,” she tells me. An instant before she turns away I take note of her name badge - “Claire”.

  Looking down at the menu I instantly know the impossibility of the ordering task. Everything looks delicious. Choosing one thing is going to be tough. Claire comes back as the feverish study of the menu continues. She places the cream-colored ceramic cup at the 11 o’clock position of my place setting.

  “Any suggestions, Claire?”

  “Depends. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Pastries seem to be calling my name,” I respond.

  “Ooh, that is tough.” She starts tapping her chin with her left index finger, her right eye squinting. She is giving this question serious consideration. “You should order the Raspberry Almond Tart. Definitely.”

  My head nods as I close the menu and place it down in front of me. “Sounds like a plan. Once my friend has ordered, that’s what I will have. Thanks for the recommendation, Claire. And for the coffee.”

  “You’re welcome. You just relax. I’ll be back when your friend gets here.” With that she is on her way to help customers at a nearby table. There are two couples in the place. It is certainly not full. But, given the fact that the place closes at 5:30, it’s not surprising. Mornings and lunchtime must be crazy here.

  The clock on the wall behind the counter tells me Todd should be here in about 15 minutes or so. Social media surfing on my smart phone passes the time till Todd’s arrival. It’s tough not to be distracted by the smells wafting through the bakery. The smells permeating the place remind me of Mom’s kitchen with pies in the oven while making a batch of cinnamon rolls. The two best places in the house growing up were my room when I played Atari video games and the kitchen when Mom baked or when we were making sauerkraut.

  The front door chime yanks me from my mom’s kitchen and back to the bakery. Butterflies release from my stomach like doves at the Olympics. Todd and I make eye contact as he walks toward me. If Todd’s happy to see me, he doesn’t show it. His hazel eyes convey a weariness that goes beyond a day at work.

  At six-feet tall, he stands three inches taller than me. By the looks of it, he’s got more than 40 pounds on me today. He’s wearing a long-sleeved red flannel shirt, jeans, and Red Wing work boots. He is a big man. His hand extends to mine. We shake and say hello.

  Todd motions me to return to my seat. He takes off his baseball cap with the logo of his dealership on it and sets it on the table next to his place setting. Todd runs his left hand through his blonde hair to fluff out the hat head then looks to the counter and calls out, “Claire, I’ll have a Filled Dutch Windmill and my friend...”

  “...will have a Raspberry Almond Tart. I already got his order, Mr. Kane. One ticket?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” Todd turns his attention back to me and takes the seat across from me. He grabs both menus and sets them aside.

  “You didn’t have to do that but thank you,” I tell him.

  “It’s the proper thing to do. You had a farther drive than me so it’s my pleasure.”

  His demeanor is taking me some time to get used to. As kids he was always good-natured and friendly. This version of Todd appears more guarded. More world-weary. There is a heaviness on his shoulders which I can’t determine if it’s the result of a tough day at work or the past 30-some years. This reunion isn’t starting out as joyful as this morning’s.

  “Why are you here again?” Todd asks in a way that sounds more interrogation than inquiry.

  “Had a book I’d been looking for that the com
ic shop in Ames had in stock so...”

  “...you drove nearly three hours to buy it? You ever heard of the internet?” Todd certainly is not the easy-going guy I remembered. Screw awkward this is turning cringe-worthy.

  A shrug starts my response. “Of course. But there are instances when old school is the most satisfying.”

  Todd shrugs off my reasoning. Claire is back with our order before either of us can say another word. We thank her, she tells us to enjoy, and is off to help other customers.

  We immediately dig in and only one of us is surprised by what we taste. My eyes nearly bug out of my head, taste buds nearly explode. “Oh my goodness!” I exclaim my mouth still full of tart. “This is phenomenal!”

  “Yeah, it’s superb,” Todd acknowledges as he takes another bite of his Windmill thingie. “Is that your SUV outside with the Chiefs decal on the back quarter panel?”

  My fork gets returned to its original position. No hurry to finish this tart. It’s okay if it takes me a while to eat it.

  “It is.”

  “Thought you were a Vikings fan. You always were growing up.” Todd takes another bite.

  “I was. My favorite uncle was a Chiefs fan. He and my aunt would come up to visit every July. The last summer I saw Uncle Ed I was nine years old. I told him the Chiefs were going to win the Super Bowl as he and my aunt were preparing to go back to Kansas City. He dropped dead of a massive heart attack a few months later. Dead before he hit the ground. I picked up the Chiefs for him and became a diehard fan. I’m still waiting on that Super Bowl I promised him.”

  “Good story. You always did like a good story.” Todd shakes his head.

  “Take it you’re still a Steelers fan,” I state finally getting to ask some form of a question.

  “Till the day I die.”

  What is going on here? I feel like I’m having an exchange with a hostile witness at a murder trial. Todd acts like this is the last place he wants to be.

  “Owner of an implement dealership, huh? How’d that come about? Do you like it?” Hopefully by asking a few questions at a time I may get a bit more out of him.