Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

  “HR will give you the exit paperwork.” Greg stood up and waved for me to step toward the door. I turned my head so I couldn’t see Ed. I got up and opened the office door to find that Carrot-top Carol was standing there, wearing a smug look. She backed away as if they had busted her for something.

  Twenty minutes later, I walked through the West Loop with a box of my few belongings, dreading the ride home and facing Marlene. When I got home, she was giving a piano lesson to a bright-eyed, mop-headed little boy, who played his piece quite well for an eight-year-old. I’d heard it butchered many times before by her other students.

  “Why are you home so early?” Marlene asked as I walked through the door. The kid continued playing.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said.

  “No, we’ll talk about it now. What’s in that box?” Marlene asked. “I know when something’s up.”

  “I got fired, okay? Let’s not make a big deal about this.”

  “Thank you, Jesus-Allah-Buddha.” She threw her hands up.

  “What are you so happy about? I’m mortified.”

  The little boy stopped playing and waited for Marlene’s reaction.

  Marlene grabbed the kid’s shoulders and turned him on the bench, pointing towards me. “See, Billy. I’m not just teaching you how to play the piano. I’m teaching you about life. My friend Duncan was stuck in a job he hated, but now he’s free to write songs and be creative. He’s never been able to be his true self, but now he can.”

  “Okay?” said Billy, sounding like he was asking a question.

  “Always be your authentic self,” Marlene said to him, crouching down to meet his eyes. “You have the talent and ability to make music the focus of your life. Don’t waste it.”

  “Okay?”

  I looked at Billy. He resembled me at that age. “When you go to college, don’t study computers,” I said, aware that this was terrible advice.

  “Okay?”

  “Billy, I heard you play that concerto. Do you want to play music when you get older?”

  “Okay?” I could tell there was no going further with this one. The kid stood up and turned to face me with an inquisitive glare. “Why’d they fire you? Did you not live up to the requirements of a high-stress position?”

  Marlene and I turned to each other, shocked at the little boy’s question.

  “Cause that’s why they fired my daddy,” he said. “Mommy was mad.”

  “Great concerto, Billy,” I said.

  “Now that you have so much free time, I expect a new song every day,” Marlene said.

  “That job was a respite from the requirements of hyper-creativity. I can’t test the limits of inspiration all the time.”

  The buzzer rang.

  “Then write crappy songs on Monday through Thursday, and then a great song on Friday. You have the freedom to write crap now. Experiment.”

  The door opened, and it was a beleaguered-looking woman with shoulder-length brunette hair. She looked inconvenienced by having to pick up her boy. She handed Marlene some money and shoved him toward the door without looking at me.

  “Mommy, Marlene said I can live up to my potential.”

  “Great. Just great,” the woman said.

  “Mommy, Duncan lost his job and his wife Marlene isn’t mad at him.”

  His mom locked eyes with me. Then her eyes travel down to my feet and back up. “Sweetie, I don’t think she’s his wife,” she said. They were out the door a moment later.

  “I need money, not songs.”

  “Songs will get you money,” she said. “Don’t you have money left over from The Big Apple Tarts? What about ‘Never Seen, Never Heard?’”

  “I’m fine, for now. But what if I never have a hit again? What if nobody ever likes my music, ever again in the history of the world?”

  “Here comes overdramatic Duncan. Everybody’s in tears.” She pretended to play a tiny violin on her fingers.

  Living without job security unnerved me, but the prospect of being able to do it thrilled me.

  “At the very least this deserves pancakes,” I said.

  “Filing your taxes deserves pancakes.”

  “You’re right. I’m looking at this the wrong way. It‘s just that I worked so hard on the Springfield project. I lived inside those lines of code for a year. Did Silas contact you? I wonder if he knows.”

  Blackberry was the flavor of pancakes I chose to celebrate, or mourn, depending on how I looked at the situation. By then we were running out of flavors to give meaning to. If things didn’t change, we would have to eat omelets. Marlene and I went to Pancake Heaven and waited for Silas. We walked to our usual booth when we saw Char sprint around the corner from the kitchen.

  “Girl!” she shouted

  “Girl!” Marlene shouted.

  “Girl!” I shouted. Each shout was higher-pitched than the previous one.

  Char picked Marlene up off her feet when she hugged her. She turned to face me and scratched at her temple. “Is this good news or bad news?” she asked.

  “Both,” Marlene said.

  “They fired me from my job today,” I said.

  “Which is good news because now he can work on my songs,” Marlene said.

  “I’m sorry and congrats,” Char said. “Me? I’m never gonna leave Pancake Heaven. I’d miss everyone too much.”

  “Today is blackberry,” I said to Char, who knew that meant blackberry pancakes all around.

  We sat down, and Silas walked in five minutes later. He ambled over to our table and slumped down next to Marlene.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck you,” Silas said, pounding his chest and sounding hyper. “You’re fucking free, man. Goddamnit. Why couldn’t it have been me instead of you? If I didn’t have that goddamn kid, I’d quit right now.”

  “I’ll use this time to write more before I find a new job,” I said.

  “Why get another job? We could produce at least one more hit. You don’t have any kids. What the hell, right? This is your life. Fuck you!” He was rambunctious, but I knew he meant it with a tender heart.

  Silas could barely stay in his seat. “You fucking escaped. All the bullshit, all the fake personalities, and all the work. That has nothing to do with what you want to do. The Factory has hired a full-time employee. Now we have to figure out how to get me there. You don’t have to work. You get to work.”

  I scratched my neck, amazed at the size of Pancake Heaven. It seem larger and more open. “I never looked at it that way.”

  “It’s easy to feel fulfilled with a job that’s your passion,” Silas said. “Most people have to slave at suck-ass jobs that make the economy run. People manufacturing shoes, operating trains, making your pizza – they won’t feel the same sense of fulfillment that we feel with The Factory, are they?”

  Marlene cringed her eyes towards me. “And on that note–”

  “Marlene and I were discussing our money situation,” I said. “If we have some successes – doesn’t have to be as big as The Big Apple Tarts, but something every few months – we could make a living with this.”

  Silas shifted in his seat. “We all want to make a living at this. I’d quit my job now if it wasn’t for the kid. I’d sell my condo, kick the bitch and kid out, and we’d all move in together with a room for a studio. That bitch will want alimony though.”

  I shook my head and tried my best to ignore his comments about his child. “Are you for sure getting a divorce then?” I asked.

  “Who fucking cares? I’ll send Rachel alimony and then take Caleb to the zoo every weekend while pretending to give a shit.”

  Marlene choked on her pancakes. “I don’t know what to say to that,” she said. “But, as you know, you’ve been staying with us for a while – a month, I think – and our place is small and–”

  “We’ll get a bigger place,” he said. “With enough room for my studio. No kid.”

  “The kid won’t just go away,” I said.

  We watched as Silas mello
wed. It was as if he just now realized that he’d be responsible for this kid for the next eighteen years. He had bellyached about having the baby before, but he had a harsher look on his face now. He seemed depressed as he slumped down and stopped talking.

  “What about visitation?” Marlene asked. “You aren’t bringing dirty diapers anywhere near me. At least wait until he’s seven. That’s when I can handle children. I’ll teach him to play the piano.”

  “Caleb is so cute.”

  “Caleb is not cute,” Silas said. “He stinks, and costs money just to shit in a diaper. Seriously, it costs money for him to shit.”

  Marlene and I flashed each other a familiar look. How did we get caught up with the Most Evil Father of the Year recipient?

  “But seriously, let’s get an apartment together after our next hit from The Factory,” I said. “The next hit will give us the means to live without actual jobs.”

  “Girls, Pancake Heaven could use some wait staff,” Char said, appearing next to us. She set our plates down in front of us.

  “I worked in a restaurant in college,” Marlene said. “I kept dropping hot food on people’s laps. Several people threatened to sue.”

  “Speaking of Robin,” I said, changing the subject and knowing it would drive Marlene up a wall to bring him up.

  She crossed her arms. “We weren’t speaking of Robin,” she growled.

  “We are now,” I said, smirking. “I think one of my new songs has promise, but it needs a prominent guitar riff. I have it in my head, but I need it recorded so I can finish writing the song.”

  “That’s not what you were going to say, “Marlene said. “You were going to ask if we were together again, if I told him about my mistake with Silas.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was planning on bringing up on this lovely evening,” I said in a singsongy tone.

  “But now that it’s up, it’s what we’re talking about.” She leaned forward and drove a finger into my chest. “I think it’s okay for Robin and me to have sex without clearly defining whether or not we’re dating. Robin wants a clear yes or no on the status of our relationship first. Am I wrong?”

  “I’m siding with Robin on this one,” I said.

  “Pfft. I knew you would,” Marlene said.

  “Make a compromise. No sex sex, but oral sex is fine,” Silas said.

  “Fine, Robin can eat me out any time he wants,” Marlene said.

  I jumped out of the booth. “Oh, good God. Gross.”

  “Please. I hear all about your sexcapades,” she said.

  “And what about anal?” I asked, smirking at Silas. “Can you still do that without a yes or a no?”

  “How about anal only on Tuesdays,” Silas chimed in, laughing.

  Char appeared at our table with our check and some after-dinner mints. “I like anal on Tuesdays too.”

  The first day after being fired, I explored my freedom. I slept late and took naps. In the afternoon, I walked along the half-frozen lakefront. The second day I crashed on the couch next to Marlene, and we stuffed too much pizza in our faces while watching reruns of the Family Guy. The third day, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I sat in my room with the guitar over my shoulder and a pen in my hand, but nothing was coming out. What was I supposed to write about? The guitar rang as I experimented with melodies, and when I found a good one, I sang it three times.

  My bedroom door flung open. “No.” Marlene looked me in the eye.

  “No, what?”

  She shook her head. “No to that song. Start again.”

  “You’re strangling me creatively,” I said.

  “I’ll strangle you for real.” She slammed the door behind her.

  I received a text from Silas. It read: Lucky bastard.

  Silas slaved away at work while I was at home, but I didn’t feel lucky, aimlessly strumming progressions on my guitar, waiting for magic to happen.

  Marlene burst back into my room. “No. Try a dance song.”

  While she stood at the door looking determined, I found a dance groove through Pro Tools. I played with a few settings, pretending I was Silas and using a few of the skills he taught me.

  “That’s more like it,” she said, putting her thumb in the air.

  “That’s not even a song. No lyrics. No melody.”

  “But the club kids will still love it no matter what I sing over it.” She had a self-righteous grin on her face.

  “I kind of miss programming in Python,” I said. There was a grumble in my stomach.

  Marlene’s eyes widened. “No, you don’t. You’re the creative type. You’re a songwriter.”

  “But there’s something relaxing about going through lines of code, solving a business problem. It can be creative.” I shocked myself in missing my old job.

  “You have officially lost it. Your left brain is dead.” She pointed at me. “Give me some hits!”

  Without relationship drama, the bountiful harvest of songs was over, and I would need something new to stimulate artistic cultivation.

  Part Nine

  Buckwheat Pancakes

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE NON-CEMENT PEOPLE

  Tuesday was The Factory’s usual night to record and Silas still hadn’t gone home to his wife and baby. Since Robin was the only one not living in my apartment, it made sense to ask him to meet the three of us there to record with my equipment. With Silas and Robin sitting with me in the living room, Marlene came out of her bedroom wearing purple sweats and a plain white t-shirt. Her lack of flare puzzled me.

  Silas cleared his throat as if to make an announcement. “Since Duncan’s songwriting well has run dry, we’re all going to write a song together as a group.” He said it with a weak tone and the low energy he’d had lately. Every day he behaved differently from the day before. The night before he had been cheering when he came home drunk and announced he got laid.

  “You know I can’t put words together,” Marlene said. It was ridiculous that she kept reapplying her lipstick when she was only wearing sweats.

  “We’re gonna need some inspiration,” Silas said, taking something out of his backpack.

  “Is that a sex toy?” I asked. Jesse and I were pure vanilla.

  “It’s a bong, dumbass,” Marlene answered. She acted like I was kidding, but I really didn’t know.

  “Oh, I tried that once in college,” I said.

  “It’ll write the best song for us,” Marlene said. She grabbed the bong, lit it, and admired its sexy sapphire curves, rubbing her hand over it. My mind went to places I didn’t want it to go. She took a hit and handed it to Silas.

  “Is that legal in Illinois yet?” I asked.

  Silas took a hit and passed it to me. I took a deep breath and then breathed in, choking. This was entertainment for the rest of them. Everyone else was a natural as the bong went around the circle.

  “This is how they did it in nature,” Robin said. “The original people, before there were cement and buildings,” Robin said.

  “The non-cement people? Is this an archaeological dig?” Silas asked.

  “Before we all put our emphasis on objects to own.” Robin picked up his guitar and improvised. He laid down a basic groove with licks surrounding the beats, creating a full-blown arrangement. This was music to get high to—a laid-back tempo and little fluff.

  “What if I wasn’t the only one?” Silas asked.

  “Only one of what?” I asked. Only then did I realize my living room would stink for a week, so I opened the window.

  “That’s my lyric. It’s rhetorical. What if there are others out there who are as unhappy as me? Then I wouldn’t feel so alone.”

  “There are always people who are unhappy somewhere in the world,” Marlene said.

  Silas turned towards the kitchen. “Yeah, but in the song, the lyric asks the question, so the listener doesn’t feel so alone,” Silas said.

  “I like where this is going,” Robin said, varying the progression.


  “You could connect with other unhappy people,” Marlene said. She took a hit and exhaled. We watched her, mesmerized by the cloud forming around her. “Wait, that’s stupid. Scratch that. Is anybody writing this down?”

  I scribbled it down. “There might be something else out there?” Silas nodded, but Robin and Marlene raised their eyebrows at each other.

  “Happiness exists in your mind,” Marlene said, busting out laughing. “That was lame-ass.”

  “I hope so,” I added.

  “It’s like this,” Marlene said. “People complain about their jobs all the time, and I have to ask, ‘Why do you do it then?’”

  “It’s not that easy. Many people are stuck in situations they can’t get out of,” I said, pointing to my laptop.

  “I would be too if I chased after things I didn’t want,” Marlene replied, pointing to her upright piano.

  Silas grew still. “I’m stuck, and I can’t get out. I never will,” Silas said. “I have stuck.”

  “Yes, you can,” Marlene said. “Stop thinking like that. It’s not your marriage and fatherhood you want out of. It’s the state of mind.”

  I shifted in my seat. “You scare me when you say you don’t want to be a father. What about that kid?”

  “I haven’t left yet. I’m the good, responsible dad I’m supposed to be, so you can all fuck off.” He turned his head as tears fell.

  Robin’s groove took a quick nosedive before regaining its rhythm, and then he changed the subject, “All the stuck people out there can help each other find their own happiness.” He looked at me with a pained smile and shrugged his shoulders.

  “That’s the lyric,” I said. “Let’s keep going with these lyrics.”

  “Strawberry fields forever?” Robin asked.

  “That’s taken,” I said.

  “That’s the point. Its total nonsense. We’re too philosophical with this. It ruins the vibe.” Robin continued to play, and I realized he could have a full conversation while keeping a solid tempo on his guitar. “It’s like trying to find the ideal relationship.”