Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

“I was stupid,” he blurted. “Stupid for thinking that it was you impeding my goals. It’s me, and I was using you as an excuse. Come back to me, okay? This time it’ll be a full commitment. No more childish games.”

  A wave of fear shot me out of my chair and Jesse shuffled in his. The lady at the table next to me gave me a nasty look, and the restaurant spun as the bathroom summoned me. The people, the tables, the food, were all a blur until the bathroom saved me. Was this actually happening? Was I going back to him? Christopher and Patrick were disappointing, and Kenny was a disaster. So have the past couple of months without Jesse. My throat constricted.

  A middle-aged white man walked in to find me hunched over the sink. Right after he slammed the stall door, he let one rip, followed by a tsunami of smells coming my way. What menu item did he order? It was a beautiful distraction from my beautiful dilemma.

  What if Jesse broke up with me again? I survived it the first three times, I could do it again. I was stronger now, right?

  A little too much splashing around was going on in that stall. What the hell was he doing? Never mind. Concentrate on the important task at hand. Jesse wants to get back together with me. The past few months without him have been torture, so it should be a simple answer. Then why is this difficult? Because he might leave again. But how would that differ from how things are now?

  My fingers trembled as they failed to dial Marlene on the phone. Maybe it was a sign from God. He didn’t want me to call Marlene because he knew she’d poo-poo the idea. The guy in the stall dropped another deuce. Essence of Bathroom Stall Guy, by Calvin Klein enveloped me. The universe was telling me that if I didn’t get out there and accept Jesse back into my life, I would have to smell this dude’s crap forever.

  I fixed the cowlick in my hair in the mirror and grabbed the air freshener, but instead of the nozzle gently covering me in its refreshing scent, it exploded and covered my shirt in Lemon Breeze. Another sign I had to get out of that bathroom.

  Jesse stood up as I walked back to the table. He leaned into me and his favorite cologne mesmerized me. Anything beats the bathroom stink. That, and the steak invited me to sit down, and who was I to say no?

  “You understand why I’d hesitate, right?” I said with the most serious voice I could muster, but I couldn’t help creeping into a smirk. I acted cautiously like Marlene would want, but a wave of excitement and relief flooded me.

  “Yes, but I’m begging you.” He smirked. “Seriously, I am.” I didn’t realize that the waiter was standing there listening to us. When I turned my head to look at him, he nodded and turned around, embarrassed.

  Jesse leaned over the table and grabbed my hand in the middle of the restaurant. I laughed.

  “This is cute, but it’s not enough to undo–”

  “Duncan, come back to me.” He held his palms open wide above the table. He had once told me that Jesus often gestured like this to show that everybody was welcome, especially gays. Now was not a good time to bring up that this wasn’t how people had interpreted this historically.

  “All the way? No more hemming and hawing?”

  “All the way. Whatever it is we need to work out, we will. Just say you’ll come back to me and make me the happiest boy in the world. You can write a song called ‘The Happiest Boy in the World.’”

  It paralyzed me. How could I say no to that? I squeezed his hand, and the waterworks flowed. With Jesse, I was strong. Something about his approval made bad things good and wrong things right. Marlene wouldn’t approve of indulging in this weakness, but this time I was confident I could hold my own no matter what happened.

  “I don’t have the power to say no right now,” I said. I wasn’t sure if that was true.

  He sighed in relief. “Good, then I’ll have to take yes for an answer.”

  We paid the check and left. On the way out, it took all that I had to hold back tears in front of the crowd standing in line to get into the movie theater next door, but then the dam burst. He grabbed my face and kissed me. I could taste my tears as they fell between our locked lips.

  “Aw, that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” said a woman with purple hair standing next to us.

  “Yeah, why can’t straight guys do things like that?” asked the woman standing next to her.

  After the movie, we headed back home. I wanted nothing more than to touch him as we walked. It had been over three months since we’d had sex, but it would click just as it did before. Nothing would stand in our way. I laid him down on the couch when we got home and knelt down next to him, kissed his neck and stopped short of his mouth. He closed his eyes while I unbuttoned his shirt and moved both my hands over his chest.

  “Touch My Soul” played in my head, which distracted me from the sex. Eventually, I would have to tell him I used his emails to write that song. The words sang through my head while I ran the back of my hand down his body. He took note of my smile and smiled back as if he was in on a joke.

  I would have waited forever for that moment if I had to. It was dangerous to be attached to somebody this much. I rested my head on his bare chest and waited for him to make the next move. His heart had a voice, and I could hear that he truly loved me.

  Streetlight poured through the window and splashed on the far wall of my bedroom. The air was cold, but his breath warmed it. Everything felt right. We had gone through what was necessary for the two of us to grow up enough to keep our relationship going for the rest of our lives. I removed the rest of his clothes and stared at him. All mine now. He didn’t move, waiting for me to take command the way he knew I liked to. I took my time to make it last as long as I could, like a dream.

  “Never leave me again.”

  “I won’t screw it up this time.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  ARE YOU HIGH?

  The next afternoon, Marlene met me at Pancake Heaven for breaking-the-news-gently pancakes. She walked in dressed in all chamomile white, looking like a Southern belle. The frilly wide brim hat was so wide she had to tilt her head to get through the door. She walked to our booth like she was on a runway and set the hat on the table, leaving almost no room for our menus, while its flowers and feathers landed in my coffee cup.

  “You look like you’ve been laid five times,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just once.”

  She put on a fake smile. “He musta been damn good. I want every detail.”

  “The best of my whole life.” I countered by waving my hands in the air. When Marlene gave me a sarcastic look, I put them down.

  “Uh-oh. We’ve talked about this. You have sex once, fall in love, and the guy runs away scared because you’ve sunk your emotional claws.”

  “Claws retracted.”

  “You haven’t gone out anywhere since that night. Did you meet a boy at the bus stop?”

  I laughed because that was more like something she would do. “It’s an old boy.”

  “Please say it isn’t Patrick. Jesus-Allah-Buddha. I don’t want to sock him, but I will if I have to.” Char raised an eyebrow while delivering an omelet to the table next to us, the scent of her flowery perfume following her. She dropped off extra napkins that she knew I was about to ask for.

  “Nope.”

  She stopped and slammed her fork down onto the table as the light bulb went off in her head. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “There are always plenty of people in the city. Surely one of them can be right for you.” She dropped her head into her hands.

  “I can’t convey how much I need for you to like Jesse, to not be at odds with each other.”

  She huffed. “I did!” She gathered composure. "I liked him before he broke up with you, like four times. I thought you were great together even when he didn’t.”

  “Come on. It’s different this time. And it was only three times.”

  “Was that the exact line he used?”

  “Probably,” I snickered, “and I bought it, every word of it. I’ve made him suffer enough for
his sins. I’m letting him in even if it means I’m a dumbass and I’ll get hurt again. That’s how love goes.”

  “Speaking of dumbasses,” Marlene said, perking up.

  “Wait, are you the dumbass or is Robin the dumbass?” I poured four Splenda packets into my coffee cup, an insane amount, by Marlene’s judgment.

  “I’m the dumbass. He’s the asshole,” she said, laughing. “We might be together again. I think.”

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Love always works out in the end.”

  “Are you high?” She waved her hand for Char to bring us more pancakes. “We’re splitting these. I’ve gained three pounds since you started having boy troubles.”

  Magical arpeggios sprung from my golden blonde guitar, serenading the clear, crisp evening. Enchanted strings told the story of a second-chance romance. Make that a fourth-time-around-but-definitely-gonna-make-it-this-time romance. Lyrics leapt off the page like a mysterious muse that described a language only lovers knew. Jesse was back. Marlene approved, kinda. My songs were on iTunes. The world lived in harmonious unison under the heavens and the earth.

  Silas called. “Dude, The Big Apple Tarts rejected all your new songs,” he said before I could even say hello. “They want a more contemporary feel.”

  “Fuck!” Harmonious unison, my ass. “Is it the arrangement they don’t like?”

  “No, the lyrics need to be more contemporary. He said your songs sound like they could be by the Spice Girls.”

  I diddled around with the guitar pick between my fingers. “They could be by the Spice Girls. The Big Apple Tarts are basically the Spice Girls, right?”

  “Of course they are. Geez, but you can’t say that to them. They want to use the same marketing format they used before but pretend they’re coming up with an original concept. They want you to placate them and act like it’s innovative.”

  “Then what do they want? How do I placate them via song?”

  “Think of modern things. Facebook. Un-friending. Texting. Posting photos online. A song titled ‘LOL.’ I don’t know.”

  “So, you’re saying they want what happens to be trendy now, rather than a universal love song that transcends time. Like a song about platform shoes and bell-bottom jeans?”

  “Bingo. The manager left some notes about songs he thought had potential but needed to reworking. I put the notes and my comments on your desk at the office. I’m sorry, but I can’t meet with you tonight. Problems with Rachel again. I’m not looking forward to going home and arguing with that bitch.” He was breathing heavily through the phone.

  “Chill out. Good things happen in threes. Jesse and I are back together, Marlene and Robin are back together, and now you and Rachel.”

  “Sometimes I think I’d be better off if she left me.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You need to work through it.”

  He waited a moment before answering. “Or not.”

  Willie asked members of the songwriting circle to sit down so he could start the meeting. He wore the same Bears jersey that he wore at the last meeting I attended. He probably still talks about the 1986 Super Bowl win—part of Chicago folklore, up there with the Great Chicago Fire, Al Capone, and the price Chance the Rapper paid for his Streeterville condo.

  “Welcome back everybody. I see some old faces and a new face.” He turned to look at me. “We didn’t get a chance to congratulate Duncan for winning the Windy City Songwriting Contest in December. What was the song’s name again?”

  Heat flushed across my face as I muttered. “‘The Thrill of Something New.’”

  “Speak up, please,” Janet said with a mocking tone, “nobody can hear you on the other side.”

  Before I even finished repeating the name of the song, she was scoffing. “The prize was $100, and they played it on the radio.” Everybody clapped except Janet.

  “Throw a dog a bone and he’ll be happy for an hour,” she said. “What lives did you change? What social movement did you contribute to?” She crossed her arms and stared daggers at me as if waiting for an answer.

  “It didn’t change the world, but it changed my life,” I said. It convinced me to keep on writing and improving. Again the rest of the group clapped while Janet scowled.

  Willie cleared his throat. “And some of you remember our little mishap last month.” He tugged on the top button of his shirt as if he was hot and trying to let air in. “I’ve asked Stan not to come to our meetings anymore.” Stan, who sat next to me, nodded along with others, while some gasped. “But, in the spirit of forgiveness, we have agreed to give Stan one more chance.”

  “Thank you everybody. You won’t regret it,” Stan said.

  Too bad I hadn’t been going to the meetings. Damn! There was free juicy drama, and I missed it. I remembered him from the last meeting. He owns a music production company and promised to make everybody a star. My mind went to all the possible titillating scandals I could have missed. Did he steal someone’s song and get sued? Did he get caught with a young up-and-coming singer that he promised fame and fortune? Did Janet beat him up? I covered my mouth while I sneered under my breath.

  “Vikram, why don’t you start with your song?”

  A skinny Indian guy with a cute accent sitting across from me stood up and smiled. “I’m Vikram, and I write songs about coming of age in my culture.” He took out a CD and handed it to Willie while handing out lyric sheets to everyone else. The song he played was about an Indian girl about to be married. While she was happy about getting married, she was sad that she would leave her family, and in particular her father. The arrangement was pretty light, but the gist of the song came through. He used a female singer for the demo.

  “I like most of the song, but sometimes the melody feels rushed,” said Willie. “It’s like you’re trying to fit too many words into a short space.”

  I agreed with him. Vikram was making the same mistakes I made when I was first started out as a songwriter. I was glad Willie said it because I didn’t want to step on anybody’s toes. Maybe Janet would take that role.

  “As Willie said, you almost have it,” said Stan. “And get a real singer. A real singer can take a phrase that doesn’t work quite so well and make it fit where it needs to. I know some session singers who would kick the shit out of this song. You and I need to talk. These Indian songs would go over well in India, and I heard there are a lot of people over there. And that means big bucks.”

  “Next,” said Willie.

  “I’m Xavier, and I write Christian rock and hymns,” said the guy next to Willie. He wore an orange construction vest over his built-like-a-rock body. He stood up in front of his chair while we gawked at this mass of a man. “I wrote this carol about Joseph, a biblical character who is often ignored in songs about the Nativity.” He sang a cappella with a powerful baritone voice that captivated everyone.

  “Amazing voice,” said an older woman said in a thick Eastern-European accent. “I wish I could write songs like that.”

  Willie waved his hand and cleared his throat. “I have to correct a few theological problems,” he said. Willie and Xavier spent the next ten minutes discussing Joseph’s role during the birth of Jesus and about what cities certain Biblical characters were from. If Jesse were here, he could chime in. I zoned out, but the conversation concluded, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Next,” said a frustrated Willie.

  The room turned to the young Asian girl seated next to him. She had long black-to-blond ombré hair, which she twisted while she waited for her turn. She sat up with poise in a purple cashmere slouchy sweater dress. All the other guys in the room ogled her, especially Stan. I guess if I were straight, I’d be interested too.

  “I’m Leah, and I write ballads and love songs.” A few snickers came out of Janet before she stopped herself. Leah flattened her dress before walking over to the upright piano which didn’t have a microphone in near it.

  I love you so

  Oh, how I love you so

&nbs
p; You are everything to me

  Oh, do you see?

  Oh, how I love you so

  She punched chords on the downbeat of every bar, further emphasizing that the piano had not been tuned in years.

  “The phrase I love you is generic and a little hard to take seriously,” said Willie. “It’s not original. Your voice is gorgeous though.”

  “You’re such a sweetheart,” said the Eastern-European woman. “Can I pinch your cheeks?” Her smile was genuine.

  Despite my recent failures, I’d written a song or two, so I felt confident enough to speak my mind. “You might try something like I can’t live without you,” I said. “Or without you I have nothing. Or something a little more gut-wrenching like without you my life has no meaning, and the earth has sunk beneath my feet.” It’s as if Jesse taught Feelings for Songwriters 101 at the local community college and I was his star student.

  “Sweet sugar, you have it, whatever it is,” said Stan, licking his lips and giving her the once-over. Leah giggled and tugged her skirt down when she sat, but wouldn’t look at him. “You could be on MTV. Or what is it they use these days? YouTube? Snapchat? The song needs work but, honey, you sure don’t.” Sure, she was beautiful, but Stan was downright creepy. “I heard there’s, like, a billion people in China too. Your kind of people would kill to see you in a music video, especially if you—”

  “I’m Korean and I was born in America,” she sneered.

  “You can be the first member of my K-pop band. Maybe I’ll call it Sugar—”

  “Next!” Willie put an end to that train wreck.

  The woman with the thick accent stood up next and addressed the room. She introduced herself as Marta, and that she wrote Bulgarian folk music. She sang her lyrics from a handwritten piece of paper in an angelic voice and in Bulgarian. It sounded like she could be a soloist in a church choir. Everybody applauded when she finished.

  Stan stood up and bowed with overdramatic fervor. “Music is the universal language. It doesn’t matter what language it is in. I could see Americans buying an album in Bulgarian if they heard it in your beautiful voice. There are markets in Eastern Europe that would go for that too. Before you leave, I want to exchange phone numbers with you.” Willie gritted his teeth.