Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

  I had always counted on her to listen but now it sounded more like she didn’t want to listen to my self-pity anymore. I needed to consider if she was right.

  No, Jesse was it. THE ONE. talk l84 - work emergency.

  But I didn’t care about my work emergency. I had two other crises going on. First, I lost the love of my life. Two, I don’t know if I can ever write a song again. Jesse was my muse, my inspiration, the flowers and rainbows and all that stuff. Without him, where would I get song ideas from? Fuck my job! All I want are Jesse and a hit song. Is that too much to ask?

  I searched through Jesse’s old emails. I remembered falling in love with him right after we met. We sent each other erotic emails at work. Another reply from Marlene popped up.

  Delete his old emails. And Facebook messages, etc. Don’t think about it, just do it. Otherwise, you’ll torture yourself.

  How did she know I was looking at them? Everybody at work sent personal emails. Sure, it was against company policy, but nobody had the time to monitor emails, unless somebody wasn’t doing their job.

  I can’t delete them. What if we get back together?

  You’re not getting back together.

  I feel you never liked Jesse.

  He can’t seem to make up his mind about you.

  She was right. My happiness depended on his. One moment he was satisfied with our relationship, and the next minute he felt he needed freedom. It didn’t work. We didn’t work. I didn’t want to admit it. I stood at my desk and reached to the sky to stretch through this idea when Marlene messaged me on Facebook again.

  Duncan, this could be a song. The best songs are about breaking up. Use this to your advantage. If we write a song about it together, it’ll bring you closure. Print out every email he sent you and bring it home tonight. And when you’re done printing, don’t forget to delete the emails.

  Printing all those emails would’ve tied up the office printer for hours.

  “Greg, I will search the code for Beth’s requests,” I said through the partition wall. I never lied to my boss before now. I never had a reason to.

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’m making a few calls, and I have a phone conference at one,” he said. “This division is always trying to get more than they budgeted for and then bitch that their projects don’t pan out.”

  I scanned through Jesse’s old emails. They reminded me that the first three weeks of our relationship were like a tornado. I became a different person. Nothing mattered except Jesse. Everything in the world seemed perfect. Our romance had a twinge of teenage immaturity mixed with what seemed like genuine love. We soon settled down, and the giddiness passed. But we still had something special.

  I leaned forward on my desk and read:

  Sweet Duncan,

  Last night was…‘great’ is not the word. You’ve changed me. Every time I think I know you, you show me a different side of yourself. I want to know more about you. It’s way too early to be jumping to conclusions, but I’m jumping to conclusions. You made me feel spiritually alive. This is why I want to go to seminary. You challenge my beliefs, and I think we can do just that—challenge each other. I want to grow with you.

  I think I found him.

  Love you,

  Jesse

  And then he dumped me. The next email brought up happy memories that soon turned sour.

  Duncan,

  When we have sex, it’s like we’re having sex with our brains. I swear. All my previous boyfriends only wanted to pound me and then fall asleep.

  I feel at home when I’m lying on top of you, and you’re holding me. Time stands still, and I feel beautiful. You hold my heart with your hands, and I belong to you. I’m trembling right now as I type. I can still feel you inside me. It sounds silly LOL.

  Jesse

  Yeah, it was silly. We were young and in love, young, as in two years ago. But now I was a ripe twenty-five years old and needed to get serious. My cell phone’s light flashed for an incoming text from Jesse. I hope ur all right. This is hard for me. I had seen this before. He broke up with me to make a point and then we got back together after we resolved the situation. But I would not give him the satisfaction this time. My inner Marlene kept me strong.

  Dear Duncan,

  I’ve finalized our plans for our San Francisco trip. We’ll fly out on Thursday and stay downtown. We’ll spend the first day doing the downtown touristy stuff. Then we’ll spend Saturday in Chinatown and drive over the Golden Gate Bridge like a million times. That night we’ll find some clubs in the Castro district. Let me know what you think of my plan.

  Love,

  Jesse

  Did his plan include us breaking up? Was that in First Corinthians? Sending all those emails to Marlene would flag the company’s security, so I combined them into one large file for printing, hoping to get to the printer before somebody else picked them up. Many people in the office still shuddered when they walked past the “gay” cubicle. Last year when Jesse sent me flowers for my birthday, the whole office was ablaze with gossip. “Are those from your wife?” people asked.

  Duncan,

  It was so HOT when you went down on me in the Denny’s bathroom. I hope you don’t mind, but I told my work friend Kirsten. She thinks it’s hilarious. I’m still glowing. I’ve never done that before. I bet you’ve done it a million times.

  Jesse

  I hadn’t. And he didn’t know I did it after Marlene did it with a guy she knew. She didn’t believe me when I said I could do the same thing. She dared me. I did a lot of stuff because Marlene did them first.

  The printers were at the opposite side of the office. I gulped, printing only a few pages now that lunch was near, when few others would be printing.

  In an email from ten months ago, Jesse wrote:

  Time is standing still. I need you to touch me: my mind, body, spirit, and soul. I’m melting, and it’s impossible to feel this alive

  “Duncan, did you see the email about the timeline for Beth’s project?” Greg asked at the worst possible time.

  “Not yet. I’ll look.” I couldn’t think of anything other than my emails sitting on the printer. Carrot-top Carol was over there snooping around. If she picked up my papers, I would be done for.

  “Attach copies of the emails showing where she electronically signed off on them,” Greg said.

  Carol was carrying reams of paper to the printer. She glanced down as sheets of paper piled up on the tray, but didn’t read them. I chewed my fingernails down to the quick. She left the printer area, but I kept an eye out just in case. When Greg left his desk, I high-tailed over to grab my printouts. It seemed like an endless walk down the row of cubicles.

  I’ve printed them all out.

  Didn’t expect that!

  Then why did you ask me to?

  I wanted you to, just didn’t think you actually would. We’ll sort through them tonight. I invited a guitar player to come over. He’s interested in seeing how we write. I’m sure he doesn’t want to read through your sappy emails though. You’re still deleting his emails.

  Is this your ex I never got to meet? Is he gonna turn this breakup song into an angry rock song or a sappy ballad? Please tell me it won’t be one of those ’80s ballads with an ’80s guitar solo.

  No ballads, remember? I suppose we’re writing an angry rock song then. And yes, he’s my ex, Robin. He’ll come up with some killer guitar riffs to convey an angry emotion. I’ve played in several bands with him. He can take a lyric and create the perfect groove to match the passion. I can say I feel sad and he’ll create a sound that’s perfect for it. Or I feel pensive and believe it or not, he has the perfect sound for that too. And don’t think I will let up on Jesse’s emails. Delete them.

  Yes, no ballads. None of the emails between Jesse and me were angry though. They won’t contribute lyrics to an angry song. Even during the worst of times, we weren’t angry.

  Stop ignoring me. Delete the goddamn emails!

  I waited a few sec
onds with no reply before she replied again.

  We’ll see tonight. I’ll skim the emails, try not to puke at the sentimental stuff that always made me sick, and highlight things that could make a song. We’ll use Jesse’s angle. We’ll use Jesse’s words to write this song. This way you don’t have to relive it. GTG piano lesson @ 2:30.

  I had no intention of deleting his emails. Besides, if I walked out of work and a tornado hit me, I’d be glad I still had them. Then she’d be sorry she asked me to delete them. I left work early, feeling lucky I missed the Cubs crowd and found a seat on the train. Even better, when I walked into the apartment, I didn’t have to endure one of Marlene’s students butchering Chopin on the upright piano.

  “Last two students didn’t show,” she said. It was too bad for her since it was her livelihood, but a relief for me.

  The stack of paper I handed her defined the last two years of my life. “I could’ve gotten into a lot of trouble printing this at work.”

  “That job sucks the life out of you. Remember your priorities. Writing my songs.”

  “Still gotta pay the bills.”

  “You’ll find someone new. And when you do, make sure he’s willing to make French toast in the morning. Let me find something of value in those emails. We’ll write a song and tomorrow at work you can finally delete them.”

  “I already did.”

  “I can tell when you’re lying.”

  How did she know? She scanned through the emails. “You’re gonna need to hire about twenty therapists. Robin will be here in an hour.” She stopped at one piece of paper with an email from Jesse and paused. “For a guy who doesn’t know what he wants with you, he has some sappy words. Even my heart skipped there for a second or two.” I sat on her piano bench while she thumbed through some of my most private words. “Soulmate?” she squealed, placing her hands on her chest while laughing. She flipped through a couple more sheets and stopped to mark one with a pink highlighter. “I need you to touch me,” she read. “I want to hear those words coming out of Robin’s mouth.”

  We looked at each other. “This is about me. My breakup. My drama,” I pointed to my chest. “Anyway, what’s going on with you and this Robin guy?”

  “We dated years ago. My little Freudian slip was an accident. We’ve both moved on. We need a guitar player, and that’s it. Go change before he gets here. There are no words to describe how uncool you look. I don’t want him to feel like he’s auditioning for the water cooler society.”

  “What?” I asked. I liked wearing khakis.

  “This will be a great song,” she said. “Sexy, smooth and sensual.”

  “Pushing the envelope?”

  “Not much. I skipped all the parts where Jesse wrote about semen. Nobody wants to hear a pop song about semen.”

  “We have thirty minutes before Robin comes over. Are you hungry? Microwave pizza?” She headed for the galley kitchen to search through the fridge. We filled the freezer with microwave dinners while the refrigerator had some old mustard and leftovers from last month.

  “I’m gonna write my next hit about semen. It’ll be this generation’s ‘Macarena.’”

  “You do that. It’ll be the number one song in Boystown. Anyway, we have cheese and veggie.”

  “Veggie,” I said. I tinkered on the piano. I couldn’t play a concerto, but I could play a few progressions, enough to write songs with, which is as far as I wanted to take it. Before Marlene, I would play my ideas into my Yamaha keyboard and quantize the shit out of it in Pro Tools to fix the rhythm and make it sound like it came from a real keyboard player. I couldn’t do that with guitar chords. An excellent guitar player would solve that problem.

  Chapter Four

  SMOOTH AS BUTTER

  The buzzer rang before we could eat. Marlene hopped out of the kitchen and buzzed Robin in. She waited by the door in anticipation. Her face lit up when he knocked a moment later. I was afraid to say anything, lest I kill her excitement. She opened the door to a smoking-hot black guy with deep eyes and a short dark beard. Stylish and cocky, just how Marlene likes her men. Straight out of a fashion magazine, he donned a metallic-gray blazer, tight leather pants, and a well-coiffed afro covered by a knitted beanie. Now I see why Marlene wanted me to change before meeting him, not that anything I had in my closet could compare. An electric guitar drooped over his shoulder.

  He set everything down on the floor. Marlene jumped on him, wrapped her legs around, and squeezed with all she had. He glanced at me, unsure of what to do next. I waved, waiting for her to get off him. Marlene had no qualms discussing her sex life with a priest, but I’ve never seen her goofy-eyed over a guy.

  “Most of today’s music all sounds the same. You need guitar tracks to set your demos apart.” Robin shook his head. “Can’t believe we live in a musical world where the guitar is rare. Today is all computerized robotic whooping sounds that sound like they’re scratching a chalkboard.”

  “Robin’s an awesome player,” said Marlene. She raised her eyebrows up and down at me as if to signal he was the shit.

  “He’s been in so many bands and played on so many recordings it’s insane. One of the bands he’s in now, Dirty Nasty Triple X, will be on TV in Seattle.” She went from zero to hyper in sixty seconds, like she was drinking one of my vodka Red Bulls.

  “Sounds like the kind of band that would sing a song about semen.” I blurted. Marlene flashed me the shut-up scowl.

  Robin laughed. “If only we had a song like that.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I told Robin what we’re trying to do with your songs and he’d like to get on board,” she said.

  “I have a few ideas for your songs, Duncan. Put this on the laptop.” He handed a disk drive to Marlene. She complied, and Robin pulled his electric guitar out of its case. He strapped it on and pulled a tiny amp out of his backpack. “A mini-amp is perfect for times like this.”

  Robin got his pick ready, and Marlene played “Smile from a Stranger.” After two bars of my strummed melody, Robin started riffing over it. It was light years beyond my capabilities as a guitar player.

  “Get a good demo together with Marlene singing the vocals, and you’ve got gold,” Robin said, continuing to play.

  A smile from a stranger made my day

  More than I expected from the train

  It’s a tragedy we can’t meet

  It’s a shame that’s all it’ll ever be

  I wrote it after coming home one day from work. I was waiting in the subway tunnel and fighting the crowd to get on the train. A guy was standing a six feet away from me, with tight jeans, a hoodie covered with fleece, and a dark purple scarf around his neck. A fine-cut jawline and high cheeks rested perched his ensemble, topped by spiky black hair. I must not have been very discreet because he noticed me gawking at him. He gave me a smile, and I returned it. Our eyes locked at that moment and my heart raced. The brief encounter gave me life again after another soul-sucking day at the office.

  Robin played a solo lick at the bridge, and before the last chorus started, Marlene pressed the next button.

  “I see this song without your acoustic part,” he said as the intro started. He spoke up over the music. “The keys would hold chords, but the electric guitar would carry it.”

  Robin played only four notes per bar, but he placed them in ways that didn’t interfere with the rhythm of the melody. The harmonies pouring out of that tiny amp were impressive. He kicked it up a notch two beats before the chorus.

  Marlene scowled at the amp. “Yeah. Great song, but I’ll never be able to sing it at the clubs. I guess the point was that Robin made it sound cool.”

  He nodded toward the laptop for Marlene to press next again. I smiled and watched him. I was ecstatic to hear my songs come to life like this.

  Never seen, never heard

  Always left unsaid

  Never found the right words to say

  I’m more than you think I am

  Some anonymous vandal inspir
ed me by spray-painting the words “never seen, never heard” on the side of a building near the train station. I wrote it in my notebook and went with it.

  I recorded single keyboard notes and then used it to create tracks of several airy synthesizer pads with reverb, and didn’t record an acoustic guitar part because it didn’t need it. This was a slow song, but I wouldn’t call it a ballad. If I had access to the electronic drum kits I imagined for it, I could make it mid-tempo. The second half of the song was wholly instrumental. I had added effects, but I didn’t know what I was doing. Robin played a melody over it that didn’t overshadow the overall sound. It was perfect.

  “See, he knows what he’s doing,” Marlene said as the song faded out. Robin’s muscled bad boy vibe was working for Marlene. She lingered with her finger near her lips as she ogled him up and down. He was as smooth as butter and she wanted to spread him on toast. At least this would be entertaining.

  “You’re a strong songwriter, just need a little help to arrange them,” he said. “We could create some hot-as-shit demos from your best songs.” He removed three gold necklaces that rattled against the guitar while he played.

  “Then we could shop them around for song pluggers,” I said.

  “No sir,” Marlene said. “You work for me, Duncan. The song pluggers can have the songs I don’t want.”

  “You work in an office somewhere,” Robin said, with arched eyebrows that suggested it might have been more of a question.

  “Yeah, I’m a software programmer at a company that–”

  “Yeah, he does,” Marlene interrupted.

  “You shouldn’t suffocate yourself in an office, man. You’re a creator,” Robin said with such a cool vibe that convinced me it was true.

  Marlene picked up the stack of Jesse’s emails. “Only look at lines highlighted in pink,” she said to Robin. “Think sensual, not sad and pathetic.”