by Max Hudson
“So, Simon,” Blanche interrupted, “is that why you’re overly detailed in your novels? Because they’re all lies?”
“Of course it’s all lies! It’s fiction! This,” Simon gestured to me, “is life. It’s reality. Something you could try adding to those dreamy poems of yours.”
Blanche put a hand to her chest and gave a soft gasp of shock. Then, before I could jump in and tell Simon to cool it, the man leaned across the table and kissed her. They broke apart laughing and I heard Simon whisper something about going to her place after dinner. She giggled and nodded.
Even though it hadn’t been me, the kiss made my heart thump against my sternum. I felt like I was on another planet. A good planet, but something very new and very alien.
I had lost my audience to side conversations, but I didn’t mind. Aris caught my attention again and reached across the table to touch my arm. “Thanks.”
“You already thanked me.”
“No,” he said, smiling that shy smile of his, “I mean thank you for being such a thorough detective. You could have easily blamed me for what happened, but you didn’t. You saw it through. I really appreciate you taking this seriously.”
“Actually, that’s kind of my problem.” Aris’ hand was still on my arm. I moved my hand slowly to lay it on top of his. “I’m on hiatus right now so that I can take a break from the cop lifestyle. I was hoping we could—”
“Shh. Listen.” Aris looked up and over my head, then smiled at me. “The music! Finally! You have to hear these guys. They will change your life.”
He jumped up and ran around to my side of the table to open the big French doors. They swung open and nearly hit the patrons of a small, nearby table. They ducked just in time.
There in our little raised space, the restaurant looked like a large painting with a small stage in the background. In the foreground, couples were whispering and kissing and drinking. Behind them, a man drew a bow across a large, weathered cello and a striking redhead played a sad, slow melody on a violin. They were joined by musicians on acoustic guitar, hand drums, and an oboe. A singer climbed onto the stage and sang in a language I had never heard before. It was deep and throaty, like Arabic.
I turned my chair around to take it all in and was floored by the effect of the music. It made me feel like the sort of person who could just stand up, walk to a dance floor, elegantly lift his partner from his chair, and move across the space with grace, without hesitation. Aris saw me sitting with my mouth open and leaned down to whisper in my ear.
“She’s singing in Yiddish. This kind of music is called Klezmer. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
I nodded dumbly. “Yes.” The word came out in a whisper. I never whispered, but the emotion rising into my throat had pushed my normally clear voice into a tiny bundle that I could barely push through my vocal chords.
Clive called Aris away, and he went back to talk to his young date. I tried not to watch him go, but I did for just half a second. Blanche moved over to the chair next to mine and leaned toward me.
“You have nothing to worry about,” she said, watching the crowd.
“What?”
“You don’t need to worry.” She stopped to inhale her cherry-scented smoke. “Clive is asexual. It’s purely emotional between those two. Besides,” she turned to give me a smile, “Aris likes you.”
I moved back to take in this strange woman for a moment. “What are you? Some kind of psychic?”
She shrugged. “Yes, I suppose that’s the best word for it.”
“Well,” I paused, torn between telling her to mind her own business and pumping her for more information. “Just, stay out of my head.” She nodded her defeat and silently took in the performance with me.
In the meantime, I practically itched knowing that she possibly knew how things would turn out between Aris and me.
Unable to take her calm demeanor another moment, I whispered, “How do you know he likes me, anyway? And what on earth is an asexual?”
She chuckled to herself. “I know because I know Aris. He only smiles like that when he’s truly smitten.” She adjusted the shawl around her shoulders and leaned her head against mine. “And an asexual is someone who has no interest in physical love. Some don’t even like the idea of a relationship. Clive wants company, but he’s turned off by the concept of another body being so close to his. Aris doesn’t mind, but he is not asexual.” She looked up at me with huge, innocent eyes. “We can’t live on bread alone.”
It was my turn to let out a little laugh. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because,” she said matter-of-factly, “I like you. I need friends outside of the art and literature scene. They’re all such terrible bores.” I looked at her in surprise.
“You find this crowd boring?”
“None of them are worse than me.” She smiled again. “I have so little personality I might as well be a zombie. Don’t worry, though, I’m not contagious.”
She squeezed my arm and we both laughed as the music and the night unfurled around us and wrapped us up inside it. It was the most magical evening I could remember having, but even the delicious food and the crazy conversation paled in comparison to Aris’ icy blue stare. It was all I could see.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I woke up with a bad headache from all the red wine and several messages from Blanche on my phone.
Hello, Darling! Are you up?
Yoo-hoo… Anyone there?
Hey, I wanted to invite you out for coffee this morning. You should come. You-know-who will be there.
I checked the time on the last one. It had only been about fifteen minutes since she’d sent it. I wrote her back to ask if everyone was still out.
Don’t worry, she responded, everyone is running late. We’re at the Brass Pot on 8th. See you soon!
I rolled out of bed and reached for the headache pills I kept on the side table for just such an occasion. I desperately needed a shower and to get my hair under control, but I didn’t want to be too late and miss Aris.
Rushing to get ready, I laughed at myself a little bit. My desperation to meet up with the group took me back to high school when I would drop everything to go and sit in a park or watch a movie at someone’s house. One day, my friend, Frank, got a cigarette for us all to try and, even though I hated the idea of smoking, I went as fast as possible to be there with my friends and puff away.
Whatever happened to all those guys? I made a quiet resolution to look them up, see how their lives were going, as I grabbed my keys and walked out the door.
The Brass Pot was a place I had noticed many times but never tried. It was another spot no cop would ever allow themselves to be seen in. The front door had a massive beaten copper pot tilted over it as if threatening to spill hot water on anyone who walked below. It was so garish and off-putting that I was genuinely surprised when people seemed to like it. I walked under the monstrosity and into the big dining room.
The place was packed. Sunlight streamed in the big arched windows and the line to the counter went almost all the way to the door. People without anywhere to sit stood and sipped their coffee from paper cups while those lucky enough to have tables ate huge cinnamon rolls with their friends. I spotted Aris and Blanche way back in a corner and they waved me over.
Blanche had on shades almost as big as her cup of coffee and looked even paler than I remembered. Aris looked surprisingly chipper, as if he hadn’t downed about two bottles of wine the night before.
“Mark! Great to see you!” He stood to hug me and I gave him a big squeeze back, happy to see that Clive wasn’t around.
“Hey, you two. Is it just the three of us?”
“Simon is around here somewhere,” Blanche said, touching her forehead. “He spotted an old friend somewhere. He’ll make his way back.”
I hopped up onto the remaining stool at the head of the table, putting me right in the way of restaurant traffic. I sat up straight, praying no hot cups of coffee would
get spilled down my back.
“So, Blanche,” I started, trying to get the conversation going, “you’re a poet?”
“I am. My awful sister got me hooked on the stuff.” She sipped her coffee as I waited for her to continue, but she was done. I tried Aris.
“Blanche is the first poet I’ve met.”
“Really?” He smiled at me and I melted a little. “Not a lot of slam poetry nights at the precinct?” He asked it with a wink, and I laughed at the thought of Captain Diaz and Pinkerton dramatically presenting their writing.
“Afraid not. It would be fun though. I’ll be sure to suggest it.”
A waitress came by and I ordered a latte, and then found myself once again at a quiet table.
“You okay, Blanche? You look a little rough.”
“Give me another half hour,” she said, lowering her glasses at me. “I can’t drink like I used to, but I sure like to try. I have a special herbal remedy I use to bring myself back from the dead. Just waiting for it to kick in.”
“Why can’t you just take aspirin like a normal person?” Aris asked, propping his chin up on his hand.
“Because I lack the capacity to pop cheap pills. You can blame my mother. Oh, Mark, here’s your coffee.” The waitress set down a big, second-hand mug that was a shade of yellow that only existed back in the seventies.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, we’ll take one of those cinnamon rolls.”
She sighed and walked away. I didn’t mind. I had company and hot coffee in front of me. The steam from the cup smelled incredible, like spices and wood smoke. I closed my eyes as I inhaled it.
“So,” Aris asked me, poking me in the ribs, “do you do anything interesting outside of work? You play any sports or music, that sort of thing?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m a pretty boring guy. I was trying to tell you last night. I got so into my daily duties that my boss insisted I take two weeks off. She’s worried I’ll get burned out.” I tentatively sipped my coffee. It was dark and bold. Blanche pointed at my cup.
“You like it?”
“I love it! Now I get why this place is so popular.”
“Best coffee in town.”
I nodded and dove back into my cup. “It’s a shame they put that big ugly pot over the door. It’s such an eyesore.”
To my horror, no one agreed with me. I looked at my two tablemates only to see them looking down, embarrassed. At that moment, Simon walked up and saw how awkward things had gotten.
“Whoa. What happened here?”
“Well,” Aris said, smiling a tight smile, “Mark here was just telling me how much he hates my sculpture for this place.”
I slumped forward, covered my mouth with my hands. What had I done? “No!” I slapped my hands on the table. “You made it? It’s yours?”
He nodded. “One of my first big commissions. I was extremely proud of it until just this moment.”
“Aris, I am so sorry. I feel terrible. I’m just a dumb cop. I don’t know the first thing about art. Please forgive me.”
Simon pulled a face. “Don’t forgive him for telling the truth. Mark, you don’t have to like that thing. Even Aris admitted it was too loud for a front door as he was making it.” Simon put an arm around me. “You and I, my friend, we’re the truth tellers. And that’s a dangerous thing to be, trust me. But it’s important.”
I slipped out of his grasp and went back to Aris. “I’m not a truth teller. I’m an uneducated consumer trying to talk about sculpture. And I am so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s all right. Simon is being honest. I did think it was a bit much for a front door. But, they seem to know what they’re doing.” He indicated the packed dining room with his cup and then raised it to me. “To honest reviews.”
I clinked his with mine. “I’ll drink to that. Cheers.” We each took a tentative sip of our hot drinks. The cinnamon roll arrived all warm and gooey and Simon let out a little gasp at the sight of it.
“No one talk! Let’s devour this thing.”
The rest of the morning was spent with the group transporting me with their wild stories about Amsterdam, eccentric art collectors, and wild days on the road to promote books and attend film festivals. I drank it in. I had no idea people lived such grand lifestyles. I had always been assured that people who chose creative outlets as careers struggled their whole lives, barely ate, and dressed in rags spattered in paint. It was clearly an out-of-date idea. Everyone around me seemed more than financially secure. Even Blanche’s shades, which were off and folded on the table after a while, looked extremely expensive.
“Blanche,” I tried again, “where could I find some of your poetry?”
“Well,” she said fidgeting in her seat, “you could come to A Night Under the Stars this Saturday. I’ve been invited to read for that. Or you could look for my book. It’s called Where Mother Was and it’s available for the very fair price of thirty dollars. A steal for the level of insight on the pages.” She smiled and cuddled up to me a little. “If you buy a copy, I’ll sign it for you.”
“Sure thing.” While I was shocked that anyone would spend more than a couple of dollars on any work of poetry, I was a little excited to know someone who wrote it, and who made a living from it. “What’s the other thing you mentioned? A Night Under the Stars?”
“It’s a literary event,” Aris jumped in. He upended his cup and then set it down once it was completely drained. “Metro Park this Saturday. Clive and I are going if you want to come.”
“You should go,” Simon said decidedly. “It will be good for you.”
“Oh, well, if Simon says I should go. I mean, he is a truth teller.”
Simon straightened up and held his cup right in front of his chest like a proper gentleman. “I know you’re mocking me, and I don’t care. Honesty is something I value and I don’t care who gets hurt. Even if it’s me.” He nodded at me and went back to his coffee.
“I’ll take you up on that,” I nodded to Aris. He smiled again and I died a little at the sight of it.
“Great! Clive liked you the other night. He’ll be thrilled to hear you’re coming. It will be fun to inaugurate you into a night of literature.”
Blanche gave me a little kick under the table and I pretended not to feel it, but of course I knew what it was all about. Clive the asexual, me the smitten man lusting after Aris who seemed to have no idea that I liked him. The whole thing was just ridiculous.
Eventually we settled up and said goodbye.
“So, no work today,” Simon said to me as I put on my jacket. “You sound like a writer avoiding a deadline. What are you up to this afternoon?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’ll have to find something I don’t usually do. Something out of the ordinary.”
“Why don’t you come with me,” Aris said casually, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m doing something a bit odd today.”
“Yes, Mark. Go with Aris. He’s got a fun new project.” Blanche slid her shades back on and smiled at me with her red lips. I smiled back and pretended to be cool and collected. I ignored my heart slamming against the inside of my chest and gave a casual nod.
“I suppose I could. Lead the way.”
Then next thing I knew, I had a date with Aris.
We walked out and I waited for Aris to point me toward his car, but he didn’t head for any vehicle. Instead, we just went out to the sidewalk and headed west toward the more industrial part of town. I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“Something like that.” He clapped a hand to my back and indicated the upcoming warehouses with his chin. “There’s a sculptor here who wants to do a collaborative piece with me. He’s invited me out for a tour of his work space. He blows glass. Have you seen that technique?”
“Oh, yeah. At the fair, they do those little birds and ballet dancers.”
“Well…” Aris rubbed the back of his neck and moved his head from side to
side. “This guy’s stuff isn’t like that.”
We made our way down a long row of warehouses until we got to one with a few people standing around in big, tough overalls. They all had on boots and a pair of goggles either on their heads or hanging around their necks. They nodded at us as we stepped in and I could have sworn I heard one of them whisper, “Was that Aris Kahn?” Once I knew I was walking into a workspace with a celebrity by my side, I straightened up and made eye contact confidently with the man who walked up to shake our hands.
“Hi,” he said jovially. His round cheeks lifted as he smiled and I was instantly taken in by his happy, ruddy face. “My name is Bob. Nice to meet you.”
“Mark Upton. Thanks for letting me tag along. I just had to see this operation in person.”
“Sure thing.” Bob stopped to wipe his forehead and then gestured to the space behind him. “Come in and take a look.”
We stepped into a huge, sprawling space that was filled with large globes of molten glass. The stuff was so hot that each piece looked like a dripping sun on the end of a long, hollow metal tube. The workers blew into the cool end of the tube and turned their glowing spheres little by little so that they spread out evenly. Bob directed us to a walkway up off the main floor so that we could see everything without getting burned.
“So, this is where we make the magic happen. My team makes the base of each piece and then I jump in for the finishing moves. Though, if I’m being honest, a lot of these kids are better sculptors than I could ever hope to be. Some of them just blow my mind.”
One of the workers completed his giant globe and used a hammer to separate it from the tube with a single move. He glanced up to see us and gave a quick wave which Bob eagerly returned. “Come down this way, you’ll see the pieces that are further along.”
