Life After Coffee

by Virginia Franken

  In front of our still-assembled audience Peter has to pull Violet off my back and reattach her to my front so I’m not strangled by her choke hold. She nestles in just like she did when she was a baby. I’ve got to admit, it’s a little delicious. Within the sea of faces, I see one that I recognize.

  “Amber! How are you?” Heavily pregnant for starters. Last time I saw her she was nursing a newborn. I suddenly realize that I haven’t seen Amber in quite a while.

  “Oh, hi, Amy. Yeah, we’re good.” I open my mouth to ask her how old the newborn is now and when the next one is due, but she gets there first. “We’ve actually got to head out now, but it was so good to see you.” Something flat in her eyes tells me she actually doesn’t think it was that great to see me. I manage to shove a party bag her way before she escapes, and like some kind of suburban Pavlovian bell has been sounded, once the first guest gets going, they all follow after. I run out of party bags two kids from the end and dole out two wooden spoons instead. Their moms give me the stink eye. I know what’s going on in their heads: Really, I drop forty bucks at that crafty toy store in Old Town and you serve me a battered Lego cake and then give my kid a wooden spoon? Unacceptable.

  Within ten minutes the house is cleared. Good riddance. This is why I don’t do social. Billy descends upon his gifts. So many, opened in such a blur. I’m barely paying attention and I’ve no idea which is from whom. Looks like we’ll be skipping the thank-you cards this year. But have we ever done them any year? Don’t know, because with a creeping fear I’m starting to realize that I don’t know much about how this day-to-day parenting thing works. At all.

  CHAPTER 4

  While I run Peter through the outline of our impending doom, I keep one eye on Billy as he sits on the couch. He’s yet to properly acknowledge my return. Billy’s a miniature male version of me with his white-blond hair, pink skin, and permanently concerned expression. He’s also a true iChild, always engrossed in any one of the multiple iDevices littered throughout our house. They can go right at the top of the list of things to be sold off. I’m all for restricting screen time to one hour a day. Peter always laughs when I suggest that.

  After I’ve finished telling Peter about the financial Armageddon that’s about to engulf us, he barely looks bothered. I’m a little surprised. Does he not get it? One hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year just walked out the door, possibly never to return. But then Peter always has been a “fuck up now, worry about it later—way later” type of guy.

  “So. What do you think?” I ask. Maybe I need to reiterate the whole “driving our family into the arms of Mistress Poverty” thing again.

  “I think it’s great. Perfect, actually,” he replies.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re tired of traveling all the time, right?”

  “Right.”

  “All you ever talk about is how you’re missing out on the most important time of your kids’ lives and how you’ll never get it back.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, now you get to see them all the time. No more work. The kids are now yours, round the clock.”

  “R-ight . . .” I prepare to launch myself back into Mistress Poverty, the sequel. He obviously didn’t hear me the first time around.

  “So let’s swap. I’ll earn the money and you stay at home with the kids. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Well, yes. But how are you possibly going to replace my salary, Peter?”

  “I’ve all but completed it.”

  “Completed what?”

  “My screenplay.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  “I’m just tidying up the final draft, but I know that this is The One, Amy.”

  The One. We’ve been talking about The One ever since Billy was born. The screenplay that he would write that would be so brilliant, so timely, so awe-inspiring that Hollywood would forget that Peter tried to sue Paramount Pictures for changing a story line on a script he’d already sold to them and welcome him back with open arms and heart. It’s not going to happen. Not because Peter isn’t talented—he is—but because he’s barred from setting foot on the Paramount lot ever again and so by default from every other major studio in Hollywood too. Unless Peter isn’t telling me something, as far as I know the ban has not been lifted.

  “I don’t want to add any additional pressure, but you are aware we’re under something of a time crunch?”

  “You know what they call people like you, Amy?”

  “Hardworking? Helpful?”

  “Dream squashers.”

  “Peter, I’m not trying to squash your dream. Just maybe persuade it to squeeze itself to the side, just a little bit, so you can earn some money doing something else and we can eat some food next month.”

  “I’m going to HushMush and I’m not coming back till this thing’s done.” He’s been working on this screenplay at coffee chains across the city for the last five years. I don’t see him completing it in the next five hours.

  “All right—see you next year, then.”

  Oops. Peter snatches up his keys, practically rips his laptop out of the wall, and heads for the front door.

  “Billy, Violet, this is your mother, who you may remember from such events as both of your birthdays in 2015 or perhaps Christmas Day 2014—oh, wait—you actually weren’t there for those were you, Amy? Never mind, I expect you guys will make your own introductions.”

  And with that he slams the front door and I am alone with both of my children for the first time in months, if not years, if not ever.

  As you’ve seen, my husband can’t take criticism. Not a lick. Not a word. Not even a sentence that seems like it might be going in the direction of very vaguely observational. It’s why he’s unemployable as a writer. Unemployable in general. It’s too hard for him to hear that what he’s done is not perfect the very first time he does it. He won’t play by the Hollywood rules so they won’t even let him on the field. It’s a shame, because he’s a bloody good writer and we could surely use the money. Especially right now.

  Violet, who’s let go of her cat-claw hold on my leg, is standing there staring at me with her huge eyes. In this light they’re deep indigo. And no, we didn’t know that our daughter was going to end up with eyes that were almost purple when we called her Violet. I stare back at her. She is so beautiful that “beating them off with a stick” isn’t going to cut it when she’s older. Peter and I are going to have to keep her in a smooth-sided cloud-high tower surrounded by a team of elite ninjas. She has her father’s looks, my personality. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a perfect person.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mommy,” she says, and holds out her tiny white hand. I give it a formal shake.

  “Nice to meet you too, Violet O’Hara.” I know, I know—at least we didn’t call her Scarlett.

  “It’s O’Rara, actually. Princess O’Rara.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but it’s O’Hara and you’re not a princess.”

  “I am. I’m Sleeping Beauty, Princess O’Rara. Daddy said so.”

  “You mean Princess Aurora.”

  “O’Rara.” She gives me a hard look. “Mommy, you are wasting up my time.”

  Now maybe I’ve been working with guys too long and have completely lost touch with my femininity, but I just can’t get on board with the whole preschooler princess thing. I’ve seen what happens to Violet when she puts that tiara with pink twinkles on her head and starts singing to herself in the mirror. She turns from a minime into a minimonster. Self-worshipping, high-handed. She puts Billy in the role of servant and tells him to tidy up her toys. And he does it! It’s a terrifying transition. Number two on the list of things to disappear after the iDevices—any and all princess paraphernalia. I don’t know why Peter let it go on for this long.

  Well, as of today there’s a new sheriff in town.

  “It’s Violet O’Hara, and to prove it to you, we’re going to put your tiara in the Good-bye Box,” I say.
/>   “What’s the Good-bye Box?”

  I’m thinking on the fly here. “It’s a box . . . that we put things in that we’re going to say good-bye to.”

  As she stops to think that one through, I take my opportunity and make for her bedroom. I grab the tiara. Now what? I had planned on putting it in the trash, but the fact that Violet’s gone even paler than normal means I’m probably not going to get away with that. Violet close at my heels, I go into our bedroom, empty out an old shoe box, plop the tiara inside, and put the box on the top shelf of the closet. At this point I’ve got a definite feeling that this is not going to end well for me. I’m either going to have to back down, thereby demonstrating to Violet that I don’t mean what I say, or I’m going to have to deal with some kind of explosive . . .

  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  And there it is. An hour. The tantrum lasts for a full hour. At the end of it she’s screamed so much that she can’t talk. And then for good measure she throws up all over herself—and incidentally all over the traditional shrug a farmer’s wife in northern Sumatra wove for me—but anywho . . . And did she get the tiara back?

  Yes.

  How else would I have stopped the tantrum? Okay. Beginner’s mistake, I know. But cut me some slack. It’s day one here. After systematically ignoring, coaxing, bargaining with, and threatening Violet for an hour—when it all comes to its anticlimactic close—I realize I have barely even said hello to Billy since I returned. Maybe I’ll have more luck scaling back on his iPad use than Violet’s tiara use. I doubt it. Billy’s the “difficult” one. My looks and his father’s personality. Not the winning combination.

  He’s not in the living room. Or the den. Not the kitchen or the bedrooms. A quick scan of the backyard reveals he’s not there either. Oh fuck. One hour and eleven minutes in and I’ve already lost one child. I run into the backyard and yell, “Billy, Bi-lly!”

  I go back into the house and start yanking open cabinets, the cutlery drawer—anything with a handle. I’ve already descended into blind panic. My breath starts coming in cold, edgy gasps. I stagger outside again and scream from the center of my soul, “BILLY! BI-LLY!”

  “Hi.”

  I look down. And there he is. Safe and sound. A shovel in one hand and a pail in the other.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I disappeared.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “And then I came back again. Just like you, Mommy. It’s a magic trick.”

  “Billy, I always say good-bye before I disappear. You have to tell me next time you’re planning on doing that or it makes Mommy very panicky.”

  “You don’t always say good-bye.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You didn’t this morning. You just left and didn’t say anything.” Oh God. I am a terrible mother. A terrible mother. From inside the house there’s a high-pitched scream. Violet!

  She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, tiara still on, holding a bowl and a spoon.

  “Violet, what is it? Are you hurt?”

  “I want applesauce.”

  “Applesauce?”

  “It’s snack time. I want applesauce.”

  “Violet, you cannot scream like that and expect that—” She belts out another scream. Even louder. I grab the applesauce, rip the lid off, spill it everywhere, manage to smear it over my glasses, dump the rest in her pink bowl, and the noise ceases. I’m going to have to talk to Pe—

  “Mom.”

  “Yes, Billy.”

  “I need the password to download this game.” I look at the iPad I’m being offered. On it is a game icon featuring a bloodlusty-looking Viking.

  “Why don’t you play with one of your new toys, Billy?”

  “More applesauce,” says Violet.

  “Or you and I could just play real Vikings together instead,” he says.

  “Real Vikings?”

  “We could make a ship and swords and some shields and sail the Seven Seas.”

  “We could do that.” I pause. I open another packet of toxic-looking applesauce. Honestly, why does Peter buy this crap? I take stock: I am more mentally and physically exhausted than I have ever been in my life. Plus I have to unpack, cook some kind of edible dinner, straighten this house out, apply for unemployment benefits, and start hunting for another buying job before whatever feeble offers are out there get snatched up. I don’t have it in me to play Viking warriors today. I already hate myself for what I’m about to do and say, but I do and say it anyway.

  “Mommy’s had a very hard day today and I’m really, really tired. Why don’t I download that Viking game now and tomorrow we’ll play real Vikings?”

  “Okay,” says Billy. And from the way he says it, it’s suddenly clear that this was his angle all along.

  By the time I’ve installed the Viking game, Violet is back in her room singing to herself in the mirror, twirling around and admiring her reflection. Billy immediately descends into cyberspace, his tiny mind saturating itself in the blood of a thousand virtual Vikings. The house is thrashed. I still have a smear of applesauce obscuring my view. I have failed. I go to wipe the sauce off my glasses but am interrupted once more by Violet’s shrill tones.

  “Mommy! Come and wipe my butt! Knowing better than to ignore a demand when Violet’s wearing the tiara, I race to the bathroom to find her in downward dog, bottom offered toward the sky. There’s poop on the seat, the sink, her butt, her hands, the floor; I think I even see some on one of the pink twinkly bits of the tiara. I was supposed to be halfway to Addis Ababa by now. Instead, I’m unemployed and slipping around in my daughter’s shit while my husband sulks at a corporate coffee shop.

  Still. This is just day one. Things can only get better from here—right?

  CHAPTER 5

  You’d think it was as difficult as birthing triplets vaginally the way he’s talking about it. Stand back, everyone: Peter has completed a first draft. He has produced. Considering he’s been kicking this thing around for five years and then has managed to pull it all together in less than a week, it actually is something of a minor miracle. I am moderately impressed. Who knows, I might be even more impressed if he’d let me read it. But, of course, that’s not going to happen.

  It’s late. Violet’s already in bed and Billy should be, but he’s not left his dad’s side since Peter swaggered through the door fifteen minutes ago. I pause. He seems so jubilant from completing a first draft, maybe now’s the time to bring up my Portland dream job. In the twenty-three minutes of spare time I’ve had over the past few days—in lieu of scraping the applesauce off my glasses or brushing my hair—I opted to take a look at what buyer jobs might be out there. As far as I can tell there are two jobs in my field right now. In all of the United States: two. One based locally buying for the Penny Bean chain—you know I’m not interested in that one. The other is my dream job, working for Stumptown in Portland. What’s so great about Stumptown? Put simply: because of the collective obsessive desire of the people who work there, their coffee is the best. The best. And they don’t care what they have to pay to get there—they simply pass the cost on to their customers who don’t care either because they want the best too. If I worked for Stumptown, unlike working for Mateo’s, there would be no limits on how many times a year I could fly to and from Ethiopia or how much I could offer to pay a farmer for a pound of beans that I thought was exceptional. Like my Yayu. If it was the best and I had to have it—it would be mine.

  So have I put a call in to the owner? No. Why not? Because I know Peter would never leave LA. Even to suggest it would probably cause the argument of the millennium. For Peter, living in LA is all tied up with the idea that somewhere, somehow, he’s still a successful writer. Never mind that he hasn’t earned anything worth mentioning to the IRS in over five years—in his mind, he’s still in the game. Or perhaps he’s taken a small halftime break, but he’s about to get right back into the game—any moment now.

  If we move away, he k
nows that’s it. The end. He can’t pretend he’s taking a sabbatical anymore. His screenwriting career will have come to the close of its life cycle. It should be plainly obvious to him that it already has. It’s obvious to everybody else. Perhaps he could handle Portland? Don’t writers thrive in murky, depressive weather? Couldn’t he write a bleak-yet-witty crime novel or something? Maybe I’ll take my life in my hands and suggest it. I’m going to go for it.

  “You know, there’s an opening at Stumptown that I saw.”

  “Stumptown? But they’re in Portland, right?” So he does listen to my ramblings about the coffee world.

  “Daddy, can you read me a bedtime story?” Billy asks. That’s the first time he’s voluntarily mentioned bedtime in his entire life. The mere hint of a suggestion of anything to do with bed over the past week has been enough to send Billy into an instantaneous meltdown.

  “Later, Billy,” says Peter. I wish Billy would ask me to read him a bedtime story and look at me that way with his wide-eyed stare. A tinge of “this isn’t fair” flutters up and I squash it down. “I can’t do Portland, Amy. Not now that I’m getting close.”

  “Close? Close to what?”

  “Selling something.” At least he has the good grace to avoid eye contact when he says it.

  “Selling something? You’ve banged out a draft in a week and—”

  “I’ve been planning it for five years!”

  “Remember, you have to let people read the words that you’ve written before you can actually sell something. I’m sure no one’s going to buy it on your good name alone.” Okay. That was a little low. I’m expecting a backlash, but it doesn’t come. Wait, what’s going on?

  He wants something . . .

  “Actually, I was thinking maybe you could ask Matt to take a look at it.” Matt? He wants me to make contact with Matt for the furtherment of his career? My face must be transmitting exactly what I think of his horrific idea, because he quickly starts trying to justify his request. “Amy, I already called Nico—he doesn’t want to know. No one does.” This is bad. If all his contacts are still feeling burned, then Peter hasn’t got a hope of selling this to anyone. He’s back on the outside again. “I’ve got to find another way in.”