Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

  He pounced on the bed on all fours and bounced. I removed my clothes and positioned myself behind him, ready to do what I do best. I pressed my cock against his ass. This was the first time I’d had sex with anybody but Jesse. It was odd. It was new.

  I grabbed his torso and pulled him toward me. My cock felt all-powerful, and this position was feeding its ego. He tugged at my shaft and I turned his head to kiss him. He relinquished control, just like Jesse always did. I leaned over to the nightstand to grab a condom. He grabbed it out of my hand and bent down to run his mouth over my penis once and then put the condom on me. After stroking me with the lube, he turned around and ran the lube inside himself. He guided me inside him. While I liked being in control, I also liked him taking the initiative.

  My hands grasped his slender body and moved it back and forth over me. He knew how to master my cock. Too well. It didn’t take long for me to come. I mean, embarrassingly quick. I pulled him closer and kept myself inside him for a couple of minutes and then fell onto the bed. We only lay there for two minutes before he got up and got dressed.

  He slapped my chest. “Now we can finish the movie.”

  “Oh, goodie.”

  “Okay, I can see you’re not interested. You’re giving me a case of the mean reds,” he said, quoting Audrey. “Let’s crank the music and shake the cocktails. What do you work out to?”

  I gave him a couple to choose from. I hooked my phone up to my speaker dock and pressed play. He danced in the living room but hit his knee on the coffee table twice. He said he didn’t like Red Bull, so I improvised the cocktails by mixing raspberry rum with vanilla vodka and a splash of OJ. It wasn’t bad for a first try. Christopher found a crass comedy show on Netflix that I’d never heard of. We drank and laughed and drank and laughed some more. I don’t remember how the night came to a close, but I remember having an overwhelming sense of comfort I hadn’t felt since Jesse broke up with me. We woke up the next morning on the couch, our bodies tangled up. I didn’t want it to end.

  Chapter Eight

  THRILL OF SOMETHING NEW

  Christopher captivated me so much that I figured he’d help me get over Jesse. He was comfortable with himself, the opposite of everything I was. I had to capitalize on this feeling of excitement by writing a song about it. All the songs I had been writing for The Factory were about heartache and breakups because that was what I was experiencing. My friends were dying for me to fall in love again so I could write more upbeat love songs for them. That and Marlene said I was becoming a downer. I spent the next afternoon in my bedroom writing, my guitar strapped to my shoulder.

  Through the darkness came a light that was you

  Somehow, I knew I’d make it through

  Too Celine Dion. Marlene needed up-tempo material, so I imagined a dance song in my head.

  I saw you there, and then I knew

  I found the thrill of something new

  A guy I could screw

  I found the thrill of something new

  Okay, so the second-to-last line had to go. I tried replacing it with this:

  To my world, you made your debut

  I found the thrill of something new

  It was a start. I couldn’t wait to bring it to The Factory to see if they liked it. First, I had to record the basic idea into my computer and move parts around. I still had to fiddle with chords and add a little guitar or keyboard here and there.

  My new infatuation with Christopher didn’t mean I was over Jesse although I’d never tell Christopher that. Hopefully, in time, my feelings for Christopher would overrun my feelings for Jesse, and I could move on. In the meantime, I wanted to write one more song about Jesse.

  Three days later, I went to Silas’s studio where the rest of The Factory waited for me. Robin’s guitars and extensive effects box were already in place, so he was lying on the couch, entangled with Marlene’s body. They looked so damn cute together.

  “Duncan has a new song to debut tonight,” Marlene told everyone.

  “Where’d you get that from?” I asked, puzzled.

  “It’s called ‘Christopher,’” she said. All three of them laughed.

  Silas turned and smiled. He had been staring at a framed Bee Gees poster above his keyboard. “No, the title is ‘Fucking Christopher’,” he said. It was great to see him loosen up a bit with a joke. He seemed more comfortable at home.

  “Wait, I’ve got it. ‘Fucking Christopher Softly, with His Song,’” Marlene said, referencing the Roberta Flack (and Fugees) song.

  “Is it me, or are all the punk songs in the Chicago scene about anal sex now?” Robin asked, looking perplexed. We all stopped and played eye tag. At first, I assumed he was making a joke. Robin would have been the only one of us who knew what was going on in the Chicago punk scene. He was dead serious.

  I picked up Robin’s matte black electric guitar and began a scratch rhythm.

  You hit me like a truck

  I feel it when we fuck

  “Please let that not be it,” Marlene said.

  “I’m kidding, bitches,” I said. “That’s not it.”

  “Christopher’s inspiring new songs. It’s great to write love songs instead of breakup songs.”

  “Your sad-ass breakup songs were pretty sad-ass,” said Marlene. “Is this new one a love song?”

  “Kind of,” I said. “It’s for the Windy City Songwriting Contest. It’s called ‘The Thrill of Something New.’ It’s like we took one look at each other and there was no pretense of playing it cool. He must have known he didn’t have to fear rejection because I looked at him like a dog looks at his food.” It never occurred to me that they might not want to hear about two gay boys falling in love.

  “So, you’re saying you did it doggy-style?” Robin asked. He was so mellow about making jokes about my sex life, or lack thereof. He was perfect for Marlene.

  “Not yet. I couldn’t help myself when I saw him in the club,” I said.

  “Neither could he,” Marlene said. “So, you fucked then?” Her eyebrows rose to the stratosphere.

  “Why don’t we record some music?” Silas said.

  Marlene worked out some keyboard riffs. She created so many layers of synthesizers I couldn’t recognize any of the original sounds. Marlene and Silas butted heads over the bass part. Her synthesizer version sizzled, but it sounded too busy in the song. It took away from the vocals. The purpose of a demo was always to sell the song, not the arrangement. I didn’t want to irk Marlene by telling her I agreed with Silas. They found a middle ground with the bass line, and we moved on to Robin’s guitar part. While Robin and Silas recorded, I led Marlene upstairs to Silas’s kitchen under the pretense of getting water for everybody.

  We leaned against the kitchen island, and I took in the wonders of his modern kitchen. Stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Smurf-blue walls popped with track lighting. It was at least three times the size of our tiny galley kitchen. I’d always dreamed of having a kitchen like this one day, single or not. It looked like the inside of a Williams Sonoma, with a pot rack holding eight copper vessels of culinary goodness. Under it was a beautiful block of wood enclosing knives of different shapes and sizes. Marlene and I had one and only one knife. If we had to cut something, we took turns, but that was a rare occasion, as GrubHub included one or two plastic knives which satisfied all our needs.

  Marlene tapped me on the shoulder three times. I’d seen this look in her eye before. She craved the juicy details. She grabbed the collar of my new purple pinstripe shirt. “Finally, someone took you shopping. I’ve been saying you needed an upgrade for years.”

  “At those prices, an upgrade will only happen every few years,” I said. “It’s not what we bought; it’s how we bought it. He’s so serious about his fashion. When I tried on the clothes he picked out, he squealed when we found a perfect fit. It was like I was his Barbie Doll.”

  “You musta loved that,” she chuckled.

  “But that’s just it. I did.
Like a princess on her wedding day.” I twirled in the middle of Silas’s kitchen. Embarrassed that I had done that, I came to and put on my serious face, but Marlene wasn’t buying it.

  “So? Then what?”

  “Lunch in Chinatown, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and another short romp in the sack.”

  “Yeah? Good?”

  “He’s a screamer.”

  She burst out laughing. “Great, another one.”

  “I’m not sure how long I can sustain it, though. There might not be any substance to it beyond a few entertaining dates.”

  She put her hands in the air. “There you go, spoiling a good thing.”

  “But with Jesse, we had both the connection and–”

  She put her hand over my mouth. “So, you watch some more movies, hang out in the clubs together and fuck a lot. That’s fun. And he’s so cute. Maybe you can go on a double-date with Robin and me.”

  “We’ve reached the double-date status, have we?”

  Marlene tilted her head. “We’re just having fun too, more than you are, if you know what I mean.”

  “How do you measure that?”

  “I’ve got more skills than you do, for one.” She probably did.

  Beth wanted to have a phone conference during lunch about the Springfield Project, but I told her a little fib about having another meeting. That morning, I received an email telling me I won the Windy City Songwriting Contest, and Silas wanted to go out to lunch to congratulate me. I dilly dallied at work, and when noon arrived, I jumped back to life. The promise of chili cheese dogs and the chance to talk about music revived my day.

  Steam covered the storefront windows as the crisp air outside met the heat of the kitchen. It suffocated me as we walked inside Yanni’s Hot Dogs, but I didn’t mind. I walked up to the counter and ordered what I always did: two Rocky Hockey dogs with Tabasco sauce, chili, the melted orange fake cheese that gave me a reason for living, and sweet and hot peppers. Silas didn’t do hot dogs, so he went with a gyro instead. He had to promise me he wouldn’t tell Marlene that I had two.

  Even the busy restaurant was more relaxing than that stuffy office. Silas stretched out his neck. His eyes were puffy and had dark circles under them.

  “No word from any managers. Nothing,” Silas said.

  “Not even a compliment?”

  “They don’t give compliments. They either like the song or not. If they like it, they’ll pay to put a hold on it and wait and see if they can get it recorded by one of their artists.”

  “Won’t they take notice now that I won the Windy City Songwriting Contest?”

  He chuckled and gave me a tight-lipped smile. “I hate to break it to you, but songwriting contests don’t impress song pluggers. They want to hear killer backing tracks. There needs to be a new musical hook every seven seconds to keep them interested. That’s besides the melody and lyrics.”

  Bad news was much easier to take with a chili cheese dog. We made about six demos and sent them out. Robin and I were optimistic, but Silas had expected more by this time from The Factory. It frustrated Marlene that she had no career other than singing unsuccessful demos. She hoped a manager would listen to a demo, intent on finding a song for his existing artist, but then find her own voice captivating and want to sign her.

  Cheese dripped down my chin, and I looked at Silas. “The Factory hasn’t been at it for very long, so let’s give it some time. I had no success for years on my own, but with your knowledge of the business and our better demos, I—I mean we—have a chance.”

  “I made a list of the top forty hits of the last year,” he said. “We need to listen to them and figure out what makes them tick, other than that annoying siren that seems to be in every song these days.”

  “Wouldn’t the artist record it with their own arrangement?”

  Silas dusted his hands. “It’ll be out of our hands by then. Usually, both manager and artist imagine the song the way they heard it the first time. They don‘t want to re-invent the wheel. That’s why I need to up the ante with my producing.” He pointed at me. “And you need to take risks with your songwriting.”

  “But they have already done everything risqué. Everybody has bumped and grind-ed with everything else possible. What else is there, sex with cucumbers? A song about vaginas?”

  “I think you’d have difficulty writing a song about vaginas,” he said.

  “Marlene could sing a song about her vagina with a straight face.”

  Searching through my old notepads and audio files, I hoped I had already written the gem that would put The Factory on the map. After our conversation, I changed my songwriting method and became a songwriting machine. I listened to the songs on Silas’s list, wondering why such dreck became hits when many of my songs were better. Not that I was pompous about my own songwriting; it was just that some of those hits were downright bad.

  Chapter Nine

  I’M THE ASSHOLE

  After recording, I took the bus to Uptown to see Christopher. The front smelled like garbage and two riders fought over space to put their granny carts. I found the only available seat in the back. The back smelled like perfume, one I probably like if the teenaged girl on the seat next to me didn’t apply it by the gallon. Every draft of fresh air that came through the door at bus stops was like throwing me a life ring from the Titanic.

  My phone vibrated with a text from Jesse, the last person I expected to hear from, and the perfume didn’t matter that much anymore.

  It read: Hi. That was it. What did he mean with such a simple greeting.

  Hi back.

  R things going well?

  Fine. Maybe I shouldn’t be curt with him, but what else was I supposed to say? It took seven minutes for him to reply.

  I miss u.

  I bit my fingernail as I pondered my reply, wondering whether to blow my fuse or cry tears of joy. The people on the sidewalk became blurry.

  What do u want?

  I thought we should tie up some loose ends. Don’t u think? Like picking my heart up off the floor?

  Not much left.

  A herd of children walked on the bus, all wearing the same Catholic school uniform, each one louder than the other. Across the aisle from me was a man shaking and singing to himself. He kept rubbing his beard and asking me, “Do you want some?” To avoid his stares, I looked up at the bus ceiling, covered in ads for erectile dysfunction pills. Four more stops to go.

  I don’t know about u but my emotions are all over the place.

  My skin itched, and it seemed like everybody on the bus was louder, even the people who weren’t talking. I checked my phone for another message from Jesse. Three seats down, one kid took out a felt-tip pen and wrote on the walls of the bus. As miserable as this bus ride was, at least maybe this could be the inspiration for another song. I watched him write: “Your mother is a…” Nope, that wouldn’t make a very good song, at least not in the genre Marlene was singing in. The bus became too much for me to handle, so I jumped out two stops early. My phone buzzed again.

  Y don’t we get together n just chat?

  I bumped into a lady on the sidewalk because I was looking at my cell phone instead of paying attention. I waited two more minutes. If I had been smart and confident—if I had balls—I would have said no. Anybody with half a brain or an ounce of self-respect would have stopped it right there.

  Sure. But I didn’t have those balls.

  What ru doing Saturday afternoon? Wanna meet 4 coffee?

  I’m free.

  Let’s meet at Kona around 2?

  See ya then.

  ☺

  I stared at my phone. Did he have to add that?

  I met Christopher in the Little Saigon neighborhood for phở. It was sloppy, but I loved it so much that I didn’t care. Our relationship was too new to introduce him to our pancake joint. Besides, he might think my obsession with pancakes was a little nutty, like most people did. I stood outside the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner, waiting for him. The
restaurant’s awning protected me when it drizzled. I put our names on the wait list. When Christopher got there, he kissed me and peeked under my jacket to see what I was wearing.

  “Glad you wore something decent.” He huffed.

  “And if I didn’t?”

  “Just don’t want to be seen with you when you dress like you got your clothes at a thrift shop.” He sounded bitchy, but teasing. “Just don’t embarrass me.” His voice turned as cold as the December wind thrusting against the windows of the restaurant.

  “What’s with the attitude all of a sudden?” I asked.

  “I brought you to the party the other night hoping to show you off. You didn’t talk to anybody. What happened to the outgoing guy I met at Aldine’s?”

  The wind howled, but we didn’t have long to wait. The hostess sat a large group at their table while I bit my nails. My mouth was dry as he discussed the party in Lakeview where I knew nobody, and I couldn’t wait to get out of.

  I didn’t want to get angry in front of the small crowd waiting for a table. “I wasn’t aware I needed to impress your friends.”

  “They’re your friends too. I mean, they could be. We have this opportunity to run with the better crowd of Boystown, and you don’t care. Marlene is cool. Why can’t you be?”

  “I thought we graduated junior high.”

  “That’s just it. You think you’re so above everybody. You think you’re so deep.”

  “I’m not trying to impress anybody.” My voice cracked as I tried to keep it down. There was no reason to argue before phở.