Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

“Think they’re done?” Marlene asked. We walked back downstairs and found Robin on one knee with his guitar next to Silas. “Is ‘Touch My Soul’ ready for the plugger?”

  “Not for a plugger,” Silas said. “This is to launch your singing career.”

  She placed her hands on her pretend crown. “Finally, I’ll be appreciated as the true diva I am.”

  “What about ‘Radiate My World’?” I asked. “Is that one for Marlene or the song pluggers?”

  Silas asked, turning to Marlene. “Meh.” She shook her head back and forth.

  “How do you promote her as an artist?” I asked.

  “Up to her,” Robin said. “We’re just the back-up band.” He put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Star!” I said.

  “Lots of performances,” said Robin. “A website, fanzine, Facebook, Twitter. Her success is our success.”

  “We all need to work harder,” Silas said. “We’re all busy with our jobs, and I have a wife and kid, etcetera.”

  “And my life with Patrick,” I added. Silas turned away from his laptop to give me a raised eyebrow.

  Marlene chuckled. “One date. You’re not frickin’ married.”

  “And you have the back seat of a Honda Civic.”

  Robin’s jaw dropped, and Marlene’s face turned crimson.

  Four nights later Marlene opened for a band playing at Winnie’s Music Club. The music business could move that fast. This was the first time she’d perform the songs we had written. We opted for the most straightforward setup possible. That meant no live drummer. It would be only Marlene onstage standing behind a keyboard, with Robin next to her with an acoustic guitar and Silas behind a laptop running Ableton Live software. The software contained the remaining tracks, and all Silas had to do was press play, sing background, and Marlene would perform to the recorded tracks. My role was to carry equipment, which I was more than happy to do. After all, how could Marlene be expected to help move gear while wearing a skin-tight, silver-sequined dress?

  I invited Patrick and told him to meet me there so I could help with the band. We unloaded our equipment onstage and stashed the cases backstage. When I finished my duties, I sat next to Patrick in the audience. Silas pressed one button on the laptop and drums, bass, and heavy synthesizers roared above the crowd. Two bars later Marlene added extra keyboard hits. Another two bars later, Robin added a groove. Marlene’s voice had a touch of reverb and soared above the tracks. I attributed this to Silas’s talk with the sound guy. He knew the right language. Clubs often tried to create a hard rock sound, pumping up the guitars and bass and lowering the vocals. Chicago was a rock town after all, and we were playing pop.

  Patrick and I were near the back of the room where there were folding chairs. Life could not have been better from there. I held Patrick’s hand in public, and my music was playing onstage to a crowd that was into it, jumping up and down. Patrick seemed to enjoy the first song. Marlene performed “Touch My Soul” second, and I couldn’t help but mouth the words along with the song. Patrick caught me and laughed. At that moment, it crossed my mind I had written the song about Jesse.

  The third song was “Radiate My World.” I had no idea they would play that one, or that they had a new arrangment. The bass line kicked ass.

  “You wrote this, didn’t you?” Patrick whispered in my ear, his hand on my shoulder.

  “Yup,” I said, nodding and satisfied that he realized this.

  Patrick squeezed my hand harder and rested his head on my shoulder. The next song was something I didn’t recognize. It was in a mainstream pop style, almost Disney-esque. After the first verse and before the chorus, Marlene grabbed the mike and stood up from her seat keyboard bench. She bounced to the beat and stared the audience down with her signature look. That look. The song finished, and the crowd erupted. Patrick frowned. It was the first time I had seen him disgusted.

  The next song was another one of mine called “You Inside Me.” I couldn’t recall how many years ago I wrote it. It was one of the first ones we produced, but I didn’t know they would perform it. Patrick grew sullen standing next to me and shook his head.

  “Pop trash,” he said with disgust. “I’m glad you don’t write stuff like this.” My hand released its grip on his.

  I failed to defend Marlene and failed to defend my song. In the closet once again. I prayed the next song would be one of my more Bob Dylan-esque songs, one of the ones Marlene truely hated.

  Marlene’s performance amazed me as I glanced sidelong at Patrick. The rest of the set comprised pop love songs. They were the fruit of our efforts, and that was satisfying. They ended the set with a cover of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” from the movie Titanic. The arrangement had distorted guitar effects with the groove playing at double-time. It was a hard rock song now.

  “I like this version,” Patrick said. “The original is for lonely housewives.”

  “But it’s the same words, same melody, same song,” I said.

  “But it has more meaning this way,” Patrick said.

  “How can it have more meaning if the words haven’t changed?” I backed down and grabbed his hand again. I didn’t want to start our first fight. Not yet, anyway.

  Marlene said her thank-you’s and acknowledged Robin and Silas. I ran onstage to help pack equipment so that the next band could get ready. We loaded up the car in fifteen minutes and re-entered the club. I stood next to Patrick, offstage, when Marlene walked over, smiling and sweaty. She tried to hug me, but I dodged her, trying to avoid her sweat. I introduced her to Patrick, and she held out her hand.

  “Awesome job. You have a powerful voice,” Patrick said, giving what looked to be an insincere smile.

  “Thanks. Duncan wrote most of the songs,” Marlene said. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and squeezed.

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “I could tell which ones he wrote,” Patrick snapped.

  “Where are Silas and Robin?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  “Really? How?” Marlene asked, ignoring me and zoning in on Patrick with a lowered brow.

  “Judging from Duncan’s speaking style and our intellectual conversations,” Patrick said.

  “Interesting assessment,” Marlene said, keeping her eyes glued to Patrick.

  “I liked some of your songs too,” Patrick said. “Indie is more my thing, though.”

  I put my hand on my forehead like a sailor searching for land after months at sea. “Silas and Robin sure have been gone a long time.”

  “But we’re indie. We don’t have a label,” Marlene said, her neck stiffening.

  He gave an ugly laugh. “But indie-type music, I mean. Not pop. Songs that actually have meaning. He fixed his stare with beady eyes. “What’s your favorite work by Hemingway?” Patrick asked. The blood drained from my face.

  “Who cares?” Marlene said, placing her hands on her hips.

  “I read Proust in the eighth grade,” Patrick said.

  “I can fart in three keys,” Marlene said, leaning in toward him.

  Robin and Silas walked around the corner. “Look who’s back,” I said. I grabbed Marlene’s arm and pointed toward them. They looked exhausted from carrying equipment.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” Patrick announced, walking away. We watched him go, and Marlene moved closer, squinting her eyes at me.

  “That’s your Patrick? You like that pompous ass?” She pointed to him as he walked away.

  “I’ve never seen him like this before. Sure, I was reluctant to play our pop songs for him. He has a different view of art than The Factory.”

  “You have all the information you need to make your next move,” she said with her face so close to mine I could feel her spit hit my nose.

  “He won’t always be like that,” I said. “I’ll shower him with my love, and then he’ll be more agreeable.”

  “Ick. Some people never learn.” She huffed and walked away.

  She
was right. Patrick and I were not on the same page. There’s nothing wrong with fun art. I liked Britney Spears, David Sedaris, and Andy Warhol and I would not feel guilty about it. I didn’t need high-brow art to make me feel superior. Patrick only liked half of me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ALWAYS THIS PASSIVE?

  I took the bus to Lakeview to meet Patrick for our next date the following Friday. The music from my headphones drowned out the sound of children crying in the front seat. I got off at Broadway and Belmont and walked west. I could hear Bob Dylan pouring out of one of Patrick’s windows as I reached for the buzzer. He let me in and headed off to the bathroom, leaving me standing at the entrance.

  “Feel free to look around,” he said.

  The walls were empty except for a long Chinese scroll and other scrolls of paper taped to the wall near the door. The Chinese characters looked like poems, but I wasn’t sure. A thin bronze blanket and three pillows mismatched pillows covered his bed. I tried to avoid imagining myself there with him.

  Patrick walked into the bedroom with glasses of water for both of us. He observed the room as if he was discovering it for the first time himself. I gave him a hug and a quick kiss and opened my eyes wide. I didn’t know what to say and was afraid I would bore him.

  “There’s a Korean hot pot place around the corner. Sound good?” he asked. He wrapped his arm around my waist and rubbed my side.

  “Cute place. I bet it takes you a lot less time to get downtown than it does for me.”

  He nodded in agreement. “We’ve only known each other for six days, but somehow it feels like a thousand lifetimes.” He had his hands out for mine. “A lot of things that made no sense before now make a lot of sense.”

  I smiled and tried not to allow my eagerness to overtake me. We left without speaking and walked back to Belmont. We stepped into a fancy boutique liquor store, and I let Patrick pick out a bottle of wine to take to the BYOB restaurant. He acted like he knew what he was doing. Every bottle on looked the same.

  “I’m surprised they’re putting wine in bottles now,” I said. He narrowed his eyes. My joke clearly didn’t go over well. I walked toward the cheese table and tasted free samples. Patrick flashed me a dirty look.

  “Do you even know who makes that cheese?” he asked. “You have to know where it comes from. I only eat cheese from sources I approve of. By purchasing their cheese, you encourage independent farmers to breed the animal in more resourceful ways. Here, try this,” He picked up a sample from the back of the table. “It’s from the endangered Mongolian yak.” Even the hippie behind the counter rolled his eyes.

  “I like Swiss.” I covered my face with my hands.

  He took a bite, and we left for the restaurant. I glanced through the menu. The smell was unfamiliar, but everything looked good, and I was hungry.

  “Never been to hot pot, so I’ll let you pick it since you know what you’re doing.” My neck stiffened.

  “Are you always this passive?” he sighed.

  “Okay, well.” I picked one off the menu and showed it to him.

  “Are you not interested in the whole hot pot experience? You need to try it all.”

  I glanced back in the hot pot section of the menu and picked another one out. “What about this? It says it’s enough for two and has three types of meat and vegetables.”

  “That’s standard fare. Try something new, something unfamiliar.”

  I rubbed my chin. “It’s all new to me.”

  “You want something that’ll enrich your palate and give you a new experience, not something you can get anywhere. This isn’t McDonald’s.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was angry with me or frustrated. The waiter approached, and I set the menu down. Patrick chose something, and the waiter walked away with our menus. Patrick gave me a self-satisfied smile and put his napkin in his lap. I did not ask what he ordered.

  “I haven’t submitted any work to the magazine this month, so it will only be a typical edition. Many things started, but nothing good enough to submit. How’s the songwriting?” he asked.

  “I’m suffering from a creative dry spell, which is okay because I wrote them faster than we could record them. We’ve all been working overtime to record on extra nights. Our manager is working with a film producer to get one of my songs placed in an indie film. It’s soulful and bluesy, so it’s off the beaten track for me, but Marlene helped me with writing it.”

  “Perfect. I want to hear it sometime.”

  I didn’t know what to expect from him, but it relieved me that I didn’t have to feel embarrassed about my material. Deep down, I knew it was not good. I shouldn’t have to feel like I had to defend my own creations. How much would my relationship with Patrick affect my writing style? Was I going to question every lyric, wondering if Patrick would like it?

  The waiter first brought us our hot pot and started the flame. Then he brought us a seafood pancake filled with squid, shrimp, and clams. I wished I could bring it back to Char at Pancake Heaven.

  “How many songs do you guys have?” he asked.

  “About fifteen. The group gives me feedback on them, which helps.”

  “Feedback from Marlene? Isn’t she more into the flashy stuff?”

  I said nothing and realized Patrick was right about me being passive. I should have stuck up for Marlene, but I didn’t. My silence descended over the table like a cloud.

  More food came, which gave us something neutral to talk about. I stabbed at the beef with the chopsticks in the pot. The wine helped to loosen us up, and we talked about our pasts, peeling back the layers of our lives. We left the restaurant and headed back to his apartment, laughing and talking the whole way. He could be funny when he wanted to be. When we got to his place, we wandered into the bedroom, sat down, and made out. It relieved me not to have to talk for a while. He pulled me down to lie next to him on the bed and rubbed his hand on my chest.

  “You think I don’t understand you, but I do,” he said. “I know what kind of person you are.”

  “Maybe I’m not any particular kind of person,” I said.

  “No, I know you. I’m going to, whether you like it or not. If I had you in my arms forever, you’d never have to question it again.”

  I had a nothing but a blank stare to give.

  “What happened in your previous relationships?” he asked. “Why’d they end?”

  “Do you want a synopsis of each and every boyfriend? How many hours do you have free?” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. “Not sure. Depends on what you consider…”

  “It’s a bad sign that you’ve had many failed relationships.”

  “Haven’t found the right one yet.” I knew what he was getting at, but I tried to avoid it.

  “Typical.” He intertwined his fingers with mine.

  “They all led me down the path to you.” I tried not to laugh.

  “Oh, even more typical.” He sneered.

  “When I do find the right guy, I’ll give everything to him,” I said.

  “Will that guy be me?” He gave me a genuine smile.

  “I hope so.” I stroked his cheek from across the table and smiled back.

  Patrick met me at my apartment for another date two days later. Once again, we didn’t have specific plans; we just wanted to be together. My best friend didn’t like the guy I was throwing myself into, and I worried about what would happen if Marlene came home when I had him over. To top that off, he might not approve of my goals with The Factory.

  He hugged me without kissing me when he walked into the apartment but had a smile on his face. He laid down on the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table.

  “Play me a new song,” he said.

  I leaned against the piano. “There’s nothing new right now. Sometimes I have songwriter’s block.”

  “Okay, play me an old song. What does your group work on every Tuesday?”

  “Many songs. Sometimes we don’t even finish one. Other times we fin
ish two.”

  “Then play me two,” he said. He sounded upbeat about hearing them, but there was a quiver in my stomach.

  I picked up my guitar, next to the piano. He didn’t seem to notice I was shaking.

  “Is Marlene going to be a diva when you all make it? Will she sing your eloquent songs or that pop shit?”

  “I wrote some of that pop shit,” Without realizing it, I strummed all the strings on the guitar without fretting, so it sounded like a crash.

  “Sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely remorseful. “Come here and hug me.”

  I stood in place with an increasing heartbeat. He sat down on the couch and patted the space next to him for me to sit.

  “Just to warn you in advance, we work in a variety of genres to get noticed. I’m sure you won’t approve of some of it.”

  “You don’t need my approval,” he said.

  But I did. That’s why I wouldn’t play the dance music for him. I put the guitar down and took out a CD labeled “Electro-Synth” and popped it into the laptop. I wanted to press his buttons.

  You know you like it when I touch you there

  (touch you there)

  You know you want it baby anywhere

  (anywhere)

  Patrick was static on the couch, and his jaw dropped. He shook his head, and I exhaled. “Duncan, this is amusing, but it’s not you. This is beneath you.” His eyes were dark.

  “You don’t know who I am.” He was always telling me how I feel, like I didn’t know myself. Did I?

  He stood up and walked toward the door. “When you become you again, come back and see me, okay?” He left, and the sound of the door latch filled the apartment. It hurt to lose Patrick, but at least I didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing or feel embarrassed about my music anymore.

  I was late to our session with The Factory that night, which was unlike me. Marlene’s sympathetic face told me she could tell already. She didn’t like him, but she knew how much, I thought, he meant to me.