Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

  Others in our circle chatted about nonsense. I had hoped Jesse would canvas the room and mingle, but he didn’t. This whole spectacle was ridiculous, and I wanted to go home. A husky guy with an obnoxious Christmas sweater standing next to me had a piercing, wheezy laugh. This noise was so comical that it distracted me from the anxiety I felt. It reminded me to breathe.

  Christopher tapped me on the shoulder after several minutes. “I’ll get us some drinks. Bradley wants to show me the construction on his porch.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait here and pretend I want to talk to these people,” I said. Christopher narrowed his eyes at me as he walked away. Jesse approached me with a cocky look on his face.

  “Where did you even find this guy?” he asked, facing me. He held a rocks glass with brown liquor and swirled the ice. “Have you been dumpster-diving?”

  “What the fuck’s your problem?” I crossed my arms. “He’s a great guy.”

  Jesse stepped back. “Chill. Mean no harm. Is this the guy you replaced me with?”

  “Need I remind you that you broke up with me?”

  He gave a dismissive laugh. “I want what’s best for you, that’s all. And this guy’s not what’s best for you. Trust me. I know this guy.”

  “It’s none of your business. Why are we talking about this?”

  “As long as you’re happy, I guess. I bet you’re wondering if I’m with that guy who came with me, huh?” He patted me on the back.

  “Nope.”

  “He’s interested in me, but I told him I’m not ready for a relationship after losing you.”

  “Stop telling me this.” My throat sputtered. Outside on the porch, Christopher’s silhouette sat next to Bradley, clinking wine glasses.

  Jesse whispered, “Losing you was hard.”

  “We had this conversation already, and we will not repeat it here.”

  “You’re right. We’re at a party.” He put his hand next to his face to do a let’s drink gesture with his thumb and pinky finger. “I only want you to know I miss you. You have fun with Christopher. I’ll try to have fun with Brian as much as I can without thinking about you.”

  “Why do you keep torturing me? You miss me but can’t be with me. It hurts to be without me, etcetera,” I said. “You’re not allowed to do this anymore.”

  He straightened the length of his tight sweater and held his breath. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone for a while.”

  To keep from being that guy—the one who stands alone at a party—I walked over to a group of people I didn’t know. Now I worried about saying the right thing in front of them; as if Christopher would be mad that I wasn’t outgoing enough. I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends, but I didn’t know what to say.

  Bradley and Christopher walked inside from the porch. Bradley busied himself around the kitchen while Christopher waved for me to join him. For all my complaining about Christopher, at least he wanted me around.

  “Darling, Bradley thinks you’re hot. He’s uber jealous. I can tell the others are too, but they’re too shy to say it.” He walked away a moment later to meet up with someone else with an oh-so-fabulous greeting. It dawned on me that our relationship would never go beyond the superficial. Eventually, all the compliments would stop making me feel better about myself. I had to break it off with Christopher.

  “Having a good time?” Bradley spooked me from behind. I bit my lip. “When Christopher and I were dating, we would throw parties like this all the time. You and I would be a better match than any combo I’ve seen tonight. Think about it.” He stroked my arm and walked back into the kitchen to take appetizers out of the oven. His shirt caught on the oven door as it closed and he cursed.

  “You dated Christopher? Wonderful. This night gets even better.” Bradley wasn’t even paying attention anymore. “Wait, did you just hit on me?”

  I took out my phone and spoke into the voice recorder “I don’t need it,” and saved it to my song ideas list. I imagined a hip-hop beat. Then I left saying nothing to Bradley, Christopher, or Jesse.

  Marlene sat on the sofa and patted the seat for me to sit next to her. She had already prepared a vodka Red Bull for me, my version of chamomile tea before bed. I pulled my mom’s crocheted afghan blanket over both of our laps.

  She pulled my head to lay it on her shoulder. “Sweetie, I know something’s wrong when you grab the blanket like a child.” All I could do was whimper. “Christopher’s gotta go, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s just that, sometimes when he talks,” I said, pausing. “I just want him to shut the fuck up.”

  “Then why are you still with him?” She laughed. “You sure know how to pick ’em.” She examined my face. “Oh, I see. It’s the Sex. That’s quite a dilemma. Have you ever tried masturbating?”

  “It’s not the sex.” My face boiled. “He annoys me, and my annoyance with him has turned into downright anger.”

  “You need to break up with him right away. The sooner, the better. Afterward, we’ll take you to Pancake Heaven and pick a flavor for the Christopher breakup. They have gingerbread pancakes for Christmas.” She made the delicious ooh face.

  “Okay, I’m gonna call him right now. Wish me luck.” It was time to face the music.

  “Just be strong. Don’t back down and stay with him longer to avoid an uncomfortable situation… like you do.”

  “Don’t even go there.” How dare she bring Jesse into this mess.

  She guffawed. “I better get a new song out of this. I want the gay millennial version of ‘I Will Survive’.” Now all I could do was join in her laughter.

  My phone sat next to my laptop while I stared at it on my bedroom desk. I pulled Christopher’s contact number up, but it took a half-hour before I had the guts to press call. I realized that breaking up via a phone call was shitty, but I was too chicken-shit to face him. At least I didn’t do it with a text, or even worse, just ghost him.

  “How could you fucking ditch me at the party like that?” Despite his anger, his voice was flat in a way I hadn’t heard before.

  “I’m not the one for you.” I trembled as I spoke, sitting on my chair with my feet tucked under my legs. “That world is not for me. Those people aren’t my friends. Not your real friends, either.”

  “But we look good together. I can keep your look up to date, and you’ll keep me down to earth.”

  Christopher didn’t get it. He didn’t get me. I wasn’t his toy. His obsession with looks and appearances in front of those bitches repulsed me. And Jesse, he was the worst, trying to put on a charade like that. That wasn’t like him. Christopher was quiet for a moment, and then he cried. The last thing in the world I expected was for him to cry. He wanted me for superficial reasons, but I didn’t think he had a real attachment to me.

  “Fine. The next time you go to Aldine’s, everybody will give you dirty looks,” Christopher said between sobs. “They’re all going to hate you. They’ll find out how much of a jerk you are, and you won’t be part of the in-crowd.”

  “You’re not getting it. I don’t care what people think of me.”

  “This is about Jesse, isn’t it? He told me you used to date and that he would take you away from me.”

  “I’m not going back to Jesse,” I said, though I knew I would if I could.

  “I’ll find a guy that’s much cuter than you,” Christopher said. “Do you remember Jeffery from Aldine’s? He likes me.” I didn’t recall meeting a Jeffrey, nor did I care if he was better-looking than me. The conversation fulfilled its purpose, so I hung up.

  Before going to bed, I got out my guitar and strummed light enough to not wake Marlene. I was alone again. Before Christopher, I pined over Jesse. He distracted me and now my shiny object was gone. Would I be alone forever?

  Part Four

  Swedish Pancakes

  Chapter Eleven

  YOUR POETRY

  Every Thursday, a bar in Rogers Park named Black Dog Inn hosted an open mike, and I would get out of my comfor
t zone and sing. It was an excellent way to test out new songs. They divided the bar into two sections. The left side housed a long bar with stools occupied by tattooed and bearded men drinking craft beer, more than a few sporting man buns. On the right was a nightclub with a stage, an impressive soundboard, and a few pool tables. This place could hold a large crowd.

  I took a seat near the stage. Only two people in the crowd had guitars, one of them a gorgeous cherry Gibson Les Paul. The stage had a keyboard and some mikes. Despite the rule about acoustic instruments only, they allowed keyboards since there was no working piano. An urban hippie with a wicked-ass goatee walked onto the stage.

  “Hello, all. My name is Lawrence, and welcome to the Thursday night Open Mike here at the Black Dog Inn. Please sign up next to the mixer, and we’ll go round-robin to get everyone in as many times as possible. We’ll start in five minutes.” He pointed to a mini-mixer with small speakers next to the stage. It surprised me they used it instead of using their house system.

  I stood behind the crowd near the stage and signed up as sixth on the list, glad not to have to go first. In the past, this open mike had an eclectic mix of poets, storytellers, and musicians.

  “Welcome to the stage, Michael,” Lawrence said, nodding to a guy standing next to a table in the front row. Michael was tall with unkempt hair and jumped on the stage as Lawrence meandered off it. He stood holding a crumpled piece of paper and no instrument.

  “My piece is called The Chicago Visionary,” Michael said. He took a deep breath and bowed his head.

  The current environment is made for a select few,

  A select few that includes neither me nor you.

  This atmosphere which encourages greed,

  Makes those few wealthy while the rest of us bleed.

  If we lost the corruption, and all worked together,

  We’d have sunshine for all and impeccable weather.

  Michael went on for a few more stanzas with an energetic and staccato delivery. His poem was too political for my taste, but it reminded me I was in a hippie paradise. This was a place where people valued the freedom to share their beliefs, most of which were similar. Wait, did he just promise to improve Chicago’s weather? The group applauded as Michael left the stage and Lawrence reappeared.

  “Welcome, Robert,” Lawrence said. He stepped down, and a guy in a white striped shirt and sandals walked onstage. He had his own piece of crumpled paper he held at eye level and read through wire-rimmed glasses.

  The day my mother died was cold and rainy, yet at all times the sun shone through the clouds. She had suffered for months, and while we knew this day was coming, it still stung upon its arrival. For all my life I had a guiding light. Now I have to travel through this world without someone to give me reassurance.

  I doubted my ability to run my life. Parents assist you on the one hand and instill confidence in you on the other. Perhaps in my maternal dependence, I never gained confidence, and I am forced to do so before my time.

  He droned on for what seemed like years, and my thoughts wandered. They introduced the third performer as Patrick. He had a small frame, a black curtain of bangs covering his forehead, and a short black beard with olive skin. His eyes darted, and he cleared his throat into the mike before starting.

  While we had walked this Earth together for only a short time, he made an impact that will never leave me. He believed in me, my abilities, my art, and my words. That confidence stays with me even now we’re apart.

  I craned in not wanting to miss a word. He was speaking my language.

  He held my body, but kept my spirit together. I never wanted to leave his arms or his side, and now that I have, I am empty inside. If I could see him, what would I tell him? If I could touch him, what would I feel?

  He laid his vulnerability out in front of everybody, like he had nothing to hide, and like he was talking about Jesse and me. Could I ever let my guard down again like he did without getting hurt? The apathetic crowd applauded with indifference when he finished. His piece was so touching; I couldn’t understand why nobody in the room seemed as affected as I was. He glanced at me as he left the stage and I smiled. I’m not sure if he was smiling back at me, but butterflies did cartwheels in my stomach. I jumped out of my seat when Patrick walked towards his table and sat down. The next performer was tuning his guitar onstage. By then, I had vodka Red Bull courage. I must have startled him, judging how he snapped his head as I appeared in front of him. I leaned down and smiled.

  “Duncan,” I said, holding out my hand. His handshake was like a wilted flower, but he flashed me the same confident smile I saw onstage. “I loved your piece. It moved me.”

  “Really?” he asked, with excitement in his voice. He paused and patted the chair next to him. I sat, and we both smiled again. I couldn’t wait for our awkward smiling to turn into a real conversation. We couldn’t talk while the other performers were onstage, so we waited. Giddiness made me forget that I was going onstage after the next two performers.

  “Welcome to the stage, Duncan,” Lawrence announced, startling me. I hadn’t even paid attention to the other performers. I scrambled to grab my guitar from my previous seat. There was no time to be nervous as I walked onstage. My heart raced when I noticed other musicians in the audience. Poets and writers I could handle, but the musicians could dissect my song and judge it verse by verse.

  I cleared my throat and strummed my guitar once.

  You absorb me with your poetry

  You fascinate me with your beauty

  You move me like a song

  I can’t help but go along

  As you sing your poetry

  I raced through the song. People around the room applauded. Thank God it was over. It would have had a better reception if Marlene had been there to sing it although she never would have touched the thing. I took particular notice of those holding guitars, trying to read their faces to see if they liked the song. Patrick stared me down and there was a flutter in my belly. I set my guitar in its case and headed back to his table.

  He grabbed my hand and held it as soon as I sat down, squeezing and letting go, while I breathed deep into my loins. We bowed our heads in embarrassment to avoid eye contact. Again, I had gotten butterflies over a guy I had just met.

  The next performer was a keyboard player. She was phenomenal as a player, but used too many keyboard frills to fill in the blanks of what should have been a melody. The next three performers were excellent guitar players and songwriters that made me jealous. They should be jealous of me because I had Robin.

  The list circled around and returned to Patrick. He read a piece called Alone, and it stirred me even more than the previous one. When he finished, I wanted to get to know him. Better yet, I wanted to turn the words of Alone into a song.

  When my turn came up, I performed a stripped-down version of “Touch My Soul.” Some chords in the pre-chorus were too hard for me to play, so I played substitutions, which meant I had to move notes around in the melody. Patrick seemed to enjoy it. Polite applause followed, then Lawrence was onstage, grabbing the mike with two hands, telling the crowd the open mike was over. There was a loud pop in the speakers after they switched the mixing board off. Too bad there wasn’t a third round so I could sing “The Thrill of Something New,” now that I had gotten the hang of it.

  Patrick turned in his seat to face me and flashed another awkward smile. He held his hands out in an open invitation. I took the bait and placed my hands on top of his. He giggled, and my floated in clouds.

  “Is this your first open mike?” I asked.

  “No, I’ve been to plenty around the city, but I haven’t been to this one for a long time.”

  “You a talented writer. Your pieces touched me.” A loud cheer came from the other side of the bar where they huddled around a giant TV screen showing football.

  He giggled again. “‘Touch My Soul’ touched me.” We laughed together. “I wish I could put my feelings to music.”

 
“It’s easier with music. You get one line and put a melody to it. That melody gives it emotional content you can’t get with words. It would be difficult to say, ‘Touch My Soul’ in a paragraph.”

  “Can you stay for a few drinks? Then we can plan on dinner another night,” he said, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head with confidence.

  Thank God he was the one to ask me out. “Let’s do that.” We looked at each other, looked away, then looked at each other again, then looked away again, and repeated that for a while. My stomach churned as I thought about what to say next. “How about that drink? They have a great shiraz here.”

  I went to the bar counter and returned a minute later. The crowd had already emptied out. I set our drinks down next to him.

  “I’m a software programmer. And you?”

  He cleared his throat. “I am an editor for a small literary magazine targeted towards Chicago and the Midwest. It’s a liberal post with political and social commentary, but also has pieces about love, death, relationships, and other thing-a-ma-bobs that make up life. They allow me to submit pieces of my own and I’ve had four of them published. They have accepted none of my political pieces, but they exalt my poetry. I can handle rejection of my political rants, but my poems; they’re my babies.”

  “Sounds like you’re in the right job. I can tell.”

  He glared at me. “Are you in the right job?”

  “That’s a loaded question, and you already know the answer, right? I like my job sometimes, but music is my passion. I work with some other songwriters to record music.”

  “So you get to do your passion while paying the bills. Few people are so lucky to have both. Creative types fight an uphill battle.”

  The bartender came by with a free round from the house. “I love young love,” she said, grabbing her half-of-a-heart necklace, suggesting there was another lover out there with the other half. I tipped her a dollar, took a sip of wine and reached across the table and held Patrick’s hand. We continued this way, letting go only to take a drink. With our chairs facing each other, our knees were in the way. I locked my knees around his tiny knees.