Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

  “We’re an hour early,” said Marlene. “We wanted to make sure we got our usual booth. For good luck.” Char waved us to the back corner. “We want everything to be perfect for this meeting.”

  We sat down, and Char brought a pot of coffee and a carafe of OJ. I got out my notebook and reviewed my notes. As an organized Virgo, I segregated my questions into columns regarding business issues, creative freedom, financial matters, and promotion ideas. Marlene had prepared nothing. If only Silas had been there with us—he’d know exactly what to ask.

  We babbled to each other when we looked up to see a woman standing in front of us with long, flowing Alanis Morissette hair and a bright smile.

  “Hello, Marlene. And you must be Duncan, Marlene’s Bernie Taupin.” She shook both of our hands.

  “So happy to meet you.” Marlene stood up. “So many questions. Can’t wait to see how well we can work together.”

  This was the first time I had ever seen Marlene nervous. She twirled her hair and grabbed my knee under the table. Naomi sat down and admired the restaurant.

  “It’s the best,” I said. “I appreciate you coming out of your way. I realize Andersonville isn’t easy to get to from O’Hare.”

  “No problem.” She looked around. “Cute place. I know a great Swedish restaurant back in L.A.”

  Char came by a moment later. “Is there anything I can get for you? You should know Pancake Heaven is getting with the times. We can make all our pancakes gluten-free, if you’d like.”

  “Glad to know people have that option,” I said, “but I like my pancakes chock full of gluten.”

  Naomi laughed. “Thank you. I ate on the plane.” Char nodded and took our menus and walked away.

  “Back to my questions,” I started.

  Naomi interrupted. “Listen, we’ll get to the questions and details in a minute but let me go through something first. This is unlike anything I’ve dealt with before when signing a new client. Usually, it’s at least a full year after signing that they receive any recognition. You’re a different case. Your career is running faster than you can keep up with and we need to jump on board before it’s too late. We need to capitalize on this ‘Bohemian Gold’ song.”

  “Agreed,” Marlene said, sounding more confident, more like her usual self. Naomi’s enthusiasm excited me.

  “Duncan, how many other songs do you have ready to go? We will need ten to fifteen for an album and release it online pronto.”

  I almost peed my pants in anticipation. “I don’t even know how many, but we have a whole catalog of finished products, er, songs, to choose from. We could release three albums. We even have promotional photography.”

  “Even sick stuff you don’t want,” Marlene said. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her.

  “What?” Naomi asked.

  “We have the goods,” I said. “We just need the distribution.”

  “With new artists, I work with one-year contracts,” Naomi said. “If we’re not progressing after that one year, we don’t renew the contract, but you’ll move fast in that one year. Your first single is already a knockout online. We could have an album released within a month. You must fly out to Los Angeles to shoot music videos and more photo shoots. You’ll have gigs opening for some big acts. A tour with a full band.”

  “Damn, I’ll be all alone,” I said. “I’m losing my best friend.”

  “You’re not losing me. I’m only going away for a while. We’ll keep in touch every day.” Marlene and I would part ways, for a while at least. She’d go on tour singing the same fifteen songs over and over while I’d continue to write brand new songs. Our dreams would come true, but we would be apart. Who would I go to when I met the next guy?

  Naomi smiled. “True friendship is hard to find in the entertainment business. Never lose that between you two.” She stared out into space while she appeared to have a moment of reflection. She came to and said, “All I need from you now is to sign this one piece of paper to put all this in motion. I’ll email you the link to the rest of the documents, and you can sign them electronically.”

  Marlene’s hand shook as she signed the paper.

  “Thank you again, Naomi,” I said. “Shall we celebrate with mimosas?”

  “Mimosas at night?” Naomi asked, scrunching her eyes. “Anyway, I would love to, but I have to catch a red-eye to Boston for another artist. It’s just in and out of Chicago for me today. I wish I could have stayed to see the sights.”

  She shook our hands again, smiled, and left. As she walked out the door, Char set down a tray with three mimosas on it.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “I always know,” Char said, winking at me.

  “But Naomi already left. It’s just the two of us,” I said.

  Char huffed. “Girl, this one’s for me. It’s been rough on this floor today, and I ain’t got no musical talent to capitalize on.” She sat next to me in the booth and put her arm around me.

  Chapter Thirty

  IT’S LONELY AT THE TOP

  Naomi’s account was accurate. The record company had an album out within a month, and Marlene went on tour, giving “Bohemian Gold” the extra oomph it needed to make it to the charts. Unlike with the Big Apple Tarts success, I didn’t tell anybody I wrote “Bohemian Gold.” I bought a gigantic map of the United States for the living room and put pins in all the cities where Marlene was touring while I enjoyed Chicago’s first beautiful days of weather in many months. Whenever somebody asked what I did for a living, I lied, telling them I was still a Python programmer downtown. I even went back to the songwriting circle twice, but they never looked at me the same again.

  Without a real job, without Marlene, without Silas, and without Jesse, I found myself in one of the loneliest times of my life, yet one of the proudest. I should have spent that time writing more songs, but I lacked the motivation. I spent a lot of time reading The Onion in coffeehouses, playing video games, eating pizza delivery, and jerking off way too much. I considered getting a cat and fought like hell the urge to call Jesse.

  Our apartment felt empty. The day after Marlene left, I gave the bathroom a good scrub down. I picked up long strands of hair in various colors. Today when I woke up, the bathroom felt sterile. Not only were the hairs gone, but there were also no hair curlers, hair straighteners, or hair brushes. What was I supposed to do with one hundred fake eyelashes? We texted almost every day, but I still missed her.

  I left my toothbrush on the sink counter and didn’t get chastised for it. In fact, I even played Bob Dylan, with the bedroom door open, without her telling me to “shut that shit off.” I didn’t tell Marlene that I moved her piano into her bedroom and replaced it with a sleek, stained-silver mini-bar with cobalt blue paneling. We’d squabble over that if she ever returned.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” I said one morning when I called her. She was in Seattle and had a show the night before. She picked up sounding hazy and hung over. “Late night?”

  “Yeah, and my vocal cords are fried. I’m so glad to be coming home to you. I want to get into sweatpants and eat pancakes.”

  “Remember what Naomi said. You’re a celebrity now. You have to dress the part all the time. Did you check the charts?” I asked.

  “No. I was at number nine last week. Do we get to cheer over number eight?”

  “Nope. You’d never believe me if I told you, so get online.”

  I drummed my feet on the floor while she boot up her laptop. A moment later, she shrieked in the background. Then she squealed into the phone making my ears ring.

  “Number one in America. You’re on top.”

  “We’re on top,” she said.

  “And I’m proud of being on top this time. Not like that Big Apple Tarts song.”

  “You’ll be the next Diane Warren,” she said. Hopefully she was right.

  Marlene received an invitation to perform at the Chicago Music Awards despite the naysayers who criticized the choice to include her. It was a show
for local artists only, but Marlene had now gone national. She was invited two months before recording “Bohemian Gold,” but her career had taken flight since then. Many of the local artists despised Marlene for her musical style. Pop was not respected among Chicago’s alternative, punk, blues, and house artists.

  But Marlene didn’t care. She arrived at the show in a lime-green limo that matched her dress, of course. I took the bus. The folks who ran the Chicago Music Awards weren’t used to dealing with megastars, reporters, and screaming fans. After all, this wasn’t the Grammys. The way Marlene’s screaming fans were acting as she traipsed up to the front of the Aragon Ballroom, rather than the back of the building. disgusted the other artists and their followers. I was proud to know somebody famous while thankful to remain anonymous. Paparazzi recognized me from a photo taken a week earlier with Marlene in front of Pancake Heaven. The tabloids labeled me as her latest beau, and when the reporter asked if I was her new boyfriend, she said, “Yeah, he fucks me hard every night.” I blushed and ducked my head as I walked past the crowd. It was easy. Marlene’s presence consumed everybody around her. I was so glad I’d never been a performer.

  The Aragon Ballroom was a long walk or a short bus ride from Andersonville. It boasted a beautiful exterior, with its intricate Moorish mosaic tiles. I walked inside through the Spanish courtyard that dazzled me. The circus surrounding Marlene was oblivious to the sweeping arches and terra-cotta ceiling that made this place unlike any other in Chicago. Immense crystal chandeliers highlighted the room. Nobody else seemed to be is in awe of the spectacle as I was.

  The lights went down, and I sat in the audience by myself, toward the back. Robin, who was touring with Marlene—it was still questionable if they were dating or not—was in the back with her preparing to perform.

  As the ceremony started, the song “You’re the Inspiration” by the band named Chicago played, and the crowd cheered. A black woman in a yellow dress walked on and spoke with a raspy voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, let us take a walk down memory lane through Chicago’s rich musical history.” A giant screen came down from the ceiling behind the presenter. Slides showed famous musicians, starting with blues artists Louis Armstrong and Muddy Waters. It played clips of Chance the Rapper and Kanye West, Jennifer Hudson and Richard Marx, and rock bands such as Earth, Wind & Fire; Wilco; and The Smashing Pumpkins.

  The slides moved to famous Chicago venues like the Metro and the Pilgrim Baptist Church famous for gospel music. Then it showed The Warehouse where house music originated and shots of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and festivals like Lollapalooza, the Chicago Blues Festival, and Riot Fest.

  A few talented musicians performed and when it was Countess Marlene’s turn, “Bohemian Gold” opened with a single guitar riff. When Robin played, some people in the crowd recognized it and booed. The booing increased as soon as Marlene walked onstage wearing fewer clothes than anybody should wear outside of a nude beach. There were some opposing cheers in favor of Marlene. Either way, Marlene looked like she was enjoying the controversy. It was par for the course for her to be a pop singer in a rock town.

  The final award was for Most Influential Song by a Chicago Songwriter and “Bohemian Gold” was up for it. I was nervous, not about winning or losing the award, but about walking onstage to accept it. I didn’t feel at home onstage the way Marlene did. When I won, I was thankful that I wore the vest that Christopher picked out for me on our little shopping trip. The world felt surreal as I walked onstage.

  “First, I want to thank Countess Marlene,” I said breathing too hard into the mike. The stage was far enough from the audience, that I could barely make out the faces of the people in the audience which helped my nerves. “I’m thanking her not only for singing my song but for being my best friend for the past four years.” I coughed. “Also, I want to thank Robin Paul for his killer guitar lick.” The heat from the lights was making me sweat and my mouth dry. “Also, Silas Evans. I miss you and thank you for inspiring this song.” I stuttered. “And also, thank you to Jesse. Wait! Not Jesse, Shit! I mean, I don’t want to thank him. Um, thank you all and have a good rest of the night.”

  As I walked offstage and down a half-flight of stairs, I tripped on the third stair and tumbled to the ground. There was an audible gasp from the audience near the front row. When I lifted my mortified head, the show had already gone on with another performer. Thank God their camera had more interesting things to focus on than my humiliation as the show ended. My chest still thumping, I clutched the award and searched around for Marlene with as much grace as I could muster. A crowd huddled around her. A few people came up to congratulate me, but mostly, fans only wanted to talk to the performing musicians. My phone vibrated. It was Jesse.

  We need to talk.

  I hadn’t heard from him in months since the night he walked out on me while I was talking to Christopher.

  Why? Did you suddenly remember who I was?

  I would not let him get to me. I just won an award, for Jesus-Allah-Buddha’s sake.

  No. We should do this in person.

  U’ve come in and out of my life, and I will not let u come back after all this time of not hearing from u. u’ve had plenty of chances.

  Marlene’s album. She included ‘Touch My Soul’ on it

  So?

  U wrote that song using my emails as inspiration. Doesn’t that tell u something?

  Nope

  My cell rang, and it was Jesse.

  “What?” I huffed. I moved into a corner of the backstage reception area to find silence, away from the crowd fawning over Countess Marlene. I stood next to an empty bar table. “Are you afraid I’ll write a song about another guy? Because I already did.” That felt good.

  “You’re up for an award for a song you wrote about me. That means we were meant to be,” he said.

  “My ass.” I couldn’t wait to tell Marlene about this so we could laugh both our asses off.

  He breathed heavily through the phone. My blood boiled, but I had to be strong. I waited for him to speak first. Everybody else in the Aragon Ballroom was so carefree, sipping on champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres.

  “I care about you.”

  “Is that why you haven’t talked to me in months? Is that why you broke up with me so many times?”

  “I didn’t know what I wanted. I was scared. I was unsure of myself. Now I’m sure.”

  Here it was: Jesse’s signature one-eighty. He can never figure out what he wants, and I get caught in the crossfire. I never forgot that day in Kona where he couldn’t tell me he wanted me, but he also couldn’t tell me he didn’t want me either.

  “I’ve seen this movie before. They break up in the end.”

  “Can we just meet? To talk.”

  “Whatever question you have, the answer is no. Goodbye.”

  Little did I know that Countess Marlene and her entourage had come up behind me and they had all overheard my phone conversation. She clapped and bowing towards me. Her devoted fans followed although I am sure it did not concern them how many times Jesse broke up with me. I put my phone back in my pocket and gave her a big hug. The phone buzzed again, and despite my best judgment, I checked it. Sure enough, it was Jesse.

  I want you to know I am proud of you tonight. I hope you win that award.

  My heart sank. I dropped my phone to my side. It meant so much to hear that from him. Why did he still affect me so much? I decided against texting him back to tell him I already won the award.

  It was awkward mingling with local industry movers and shakers while I waited for Marlene to be free. I’d never make it in L.A. A few people asked me about other songwriting projects. A cute, shy-looking, blond-haired guy wme. I wished we were in a bar, so he’d flirt with me.

  “Are you Duncan, the songwriter for ‘Bohemian Gold?” he asked with the most adorable doe-eyed look.

  “Yes, I am. And you are?” I extended my hand for him to shake it.

  “Ethan.” We shook hands, and as we r
eleased our grips, our fingers rubbed up against each other, one by one. My heart raced as his magnet drew me in. This quick attraction shocked me. Well, not really. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.

  “I’m amazed by ‘Bohemian Gold.’ The song means so much. It embodies everything I needed to hear in my life, at this exact time. I’m a screenwriter and felt pretty discouraged and run-down by my day job. Your song has given me a new wind to start working on my film again.”

  In my stomach, caterpillars morphed into butterflies. “And that’s what I needed to hear in my life, at this exact time.”

  “Really?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Sometimes I need to take my own advice,” I said. I looked him in the eyes. “Sometimes you just have to write. Not because your best friend will make it a hit song, but for yourself. I started out trying to write like Bob Dylan, but discovered I like writing pop now.”

  “I like your version of pop,” Ethan said.

  “This is crazy, but would you like to have dinner sometime?” I asked. “I know we just met but–”

  “Yes!” He was bouncing from foot to foot.

  “Do you like pancakes?” I asked, giving him a knowing look.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Because I know this place,” I said.

  “Do they have blueberry?”

  About the Author

  Anton Lee Richards is a queer writer from Chicago. In a previous life, he worked in IT. In a previous life before that, he was a songwriter. He lives in Chicago with his partner and his Instagram-star bunny.

  P.S. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Amazon. A review will help more people discover this book and get the word out about me.

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  www.AntonLeeRichards.com

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