I paced the hallway for what felt like an hour, while she dressed and told me about her day, but I wasn’t listening. I had been so enamored with him, writing romantic love songs and everything, that I didn’t see this coming. All Marlene could do was fancy herself up like she was going out for a night on the town. She felt her shiny lime green dress—which she made me zip up—would be the perfect outfit for this occasion. There were some things I’d never understand about her.
“I’m thinking of going blond again,” she said.
“But—”
“Maybe you’re better off without him,” she said as she put mascara on one side only. “Besides, you were always uptight around him, like you were watching your back.” She blinked her eyes twice and turned toward me. “What do you think? Left side or right side?”
“What do you mean by—”
“Left side it is.” She finished up her makeup and grabbed my hand and whisked me toward the front door. We strode down Clark Street, with people staring at us the whole time. I was too upset to be embarrassed as she winked and blew kisses to passersby giving her the once-over. Some of them laughed, and others turned their heads. I often stood on the sidelines while Marlene got the attention, good or bad. She stopped at a storefront window and looked at her reflection. “Damn, I look good,” she said. I shuffled my feet and hung my head down low as all I wanted was to eat.
Clark Street was the main drag in Andersonville, Chicago’s quirkiest neighborhood. Residents prided themselves on featuring independently owned businesses, despite the recent infiltration of a McDonald’s, Starbucks, and a few Chicago chains. It had everything from unique bars to one-of-a-kind boutiques and ethnic eateries. There was even a store for specialty olive oils. Every time I walked down the street I didn’t understand why the olive oil from the grocery store wasn’t good enough. It was just olive oil, right?
We soaked up October’s Indian summer as we passed storefront after storefront, staring at the antiques, collectibles, and accessories. I was all about the furniture. My eye would get caught on some odd piece of furniture—maybe a relic from the ’60s—and I would picture how it would fit inside my current apartment and how it would fit in a possible future apartment with Jesse. He’d be sitting on our new couch with his signature cheesy grin, waiting for me to come home from work. Marlene would always catch me and shake her head, but this time I was only thinking about Jesse’s comment, wishing I had told him I wanted to move in with him. Normally, I would pet one of the many Paris Hilton dogs trotting past me on the sidewalk. She reveled in the limelight until people stopped paying attention.
Once she saw a scene garnering more attention than her, she had to go check it out. She grabbed my hand, and I followed, still feeling sorry for myself and already knowing what all the hurly burly was about. I followed her to the corner across the street where a few families had gathered.
The most infamous citizen of Andersonville was Puppet Bike Guy. On warm days, Puppet Bike Guy would take out his theater—which was nothing more than a homemade box on the back of what looked like a pushcart-and-rickshaw hybrid—and entertain people at a busy intersection with puppets dancing to jazzy music. The best part of the show was when the puppets interacted with the audience, dancing and accepting tips. He was beloved by the homeless, lesbians, and gay boys, aside from those who had been dumped. I loved this guy and would give him tips by placing the dollar bill in the puppet’s mouth, but the show didn’t make me happy this time.
Marlene wanted to steal attention away from the puppets. She danced next to the bike like she was the next Marilyn Monroe when the next song started. She got a little risqué, and it was clear the parents in the audience didn’t appreciate it, but I didn’t care. I wanted to get to the restaurant. Frustrated after two minutes, I grabbed her arm and pulled her away. We had one block to go, past the well-dressed beggar and the store that only sold stylish men’s underwear. An elderly Asian lady on a kid’s scooter almost swerved into me as she passed on the sidewalk. Her face glowed, and she sported a short bob with auburn highlights and wore a t-shirt with anime characters on it. The sun had not yet set. It was still three hours until the drunken bar patrons peed in the street. I loved Andersonville.
Pancake Heaven was our home away from home. It was the one place where Marlene and I could be ourselves, our portal for gossip and petty conversation. It was a member of our family. It was where Marlene and I went to give each other advice on essential subjects such as whether to let go of that guy who hadn’t called in three weeks or how to finish the blowjob when your jaw was extra sore. It was where we went to cry.
The layout was open, with tables in the middle and booths on the perimeter. Our usual booth was in the corner on the left. The wall artifacts looked straight out of Andersonville’s eclectic antique stores. One corner had a Madonna poster from the early ’80s in a black frame with jagged edges; one I couldn’t recognize. Flashy women’s high-heels—the kind Marlene would wear to the DMV—were plastered all over the walls. Some were solid gold, and others had sequins. One was ruby red with Wizard of Oz paraphernalia hovering around it.
They served breakfast all day and night. There were lunch and dinner menus, but we never looked at them. I’d seen other patrons have works of culinary art delivered to their table, but I couldn’t fathom going there and not ordering pancakes. The aroma of frying pancakes comforted us.
We walked into the sound of chirping queens, sat down at our usual booth below a giant Swedish flag, and picked up the menus, though we already knew it inside and out. Eighteen dollars for pancakes topped with organic strawberries from a small farm in Michigan? Fuck yeah. Totally worth it. Seven bucks for a side of bacon? No, seven bucks for a side of candied applewood bacon fried in duck fat. I’m not a fancy guy, but pancakes are serious business. Pancakes helped us when we were down and rewarded us for any significant or insignificant achievement. For me it was strawberry, peach, or cherry when life was good; blackberry, raspberry, or blueberry when the drama ensued.
“I rarely eat blueberries, so I will get blueberry pancakes,” I said, burying my face in the menu.
“Why?” Marlene asked.
“Now, every time I eat blueberry pancakes, I’ll think of my big breakup. I’ll be glad I chose a flavor I don’t like.”
“You’re such a drama queen. Besides, wouldn’t you link pancakes in general to the big breakup?”
“No, it doesn’t work that way. It’s only the fruit on top that gives it meaning.”
“Good God.” She rolled her eyes.
A lesbian couple walked in a moment later. One black, one white. They had trouble maneuvering a stroller carrying an Asian baby I assumed was theirs. In any other neighborhood, this would have caused a scene, but Andersonville was different. The sight reminded me of how cool it was. Then I grew jealous because they were making it work. Why couldn’t Jesse and I make it work?
Marlene picked up her fork and shook it at me. “Are you surprised? He’s done this before, and he’ll do it again if you keep letting him.”
“If he comes back, then I’ll take him back. If not, then I’ll move on. In the meantime, I’ve got songs to write.” I wanted to believe I could put this aside and work towards my goals, but how could I write love songs without the love?
Marlene smacked the table. “Take him back? No way, kick him to the curb for good this time.”
“You know I’ll take him back. We’re perfect for each other. Yes, We lift each other up. We’re both going places in this world, and we act as a conduit to keep each other on track. Plus, I love that way he does that thing with his nose when he’s laughing. You know what I’m talking about?”
She snorted and gave me a condescending smile. “Yeah, that annoying thing you find cute. I know what you’re talking about.”
“Can you believe he worries I’m cheating on him whenever I’m working on music with you? Two years, and he still has jealousy issues.” I tapped my fingers on the table.
She c
ocked her head toward me. “Then why do you keep taking him back?”
“Hello? Have you seen him?” I shook my head like a cartoon character. “Do you have any idea how tight his ass is?”
Marlene shirked back. “Whoa… too much info, babe!”
“And those beautiful lips… yummy.” I threw my hands in the air as if I were grabbing them right there in the restaurant. “It should worry me that other guys will take him away, not the other way around.” I gave out a self-deprecating laugh. “But I’m not shallow. He’s a good person, etcetera, etcetera.”
Marlene laughed too. “I’ll give you that. Jesse’s pretty damn hot.” She looked down at me. “But so are you, sweetie.”
I giggled and tried to change the subject. “Two weeks ago someone invited us to a barbecue at my friend Marc’s house. When we got there his friend, Alan, wouldn’t stop hitting on me. I mean, he was relentless.”
“Yeah, yeah. I overheard your argument.” Marlene motioned her hand in a circle to move on with the story.
“I was courteous at first, and I introduced him to Jesse, but he wouldn’t stop. He was drunk and embarrassing himself. Of course, Jesse blamed me for leading him on. On the train ride home, he accused me of not wanting him, of wanting to sleep with other guys. He claimed it was the reason for my, you know, problem down there.”
“What problem down there?”
“I can’t get it up,” I said. “Sometimes. Like that one time in San Francisco. We had the perfect evening, but then that night I couldn’t perform.”
She winced. “Sorry I asked. Did you see a doctor?”
“I got a pill.”
“Is that why he hit your bull’s eye last night?”
“Star!” My thoughts soon turned dark. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Jesse give up after two good years? Our trip last year to San Francisco kept popping up in my thoughts. The weather was perfect and the sights fantastic. It was the best trip of my life. We partied all night and watched the boats come into the bay at sunset.
Our favorite waitress, Char, came to the table a moment later. She had Dolly Parton hair and Dolly Parton boobs and was as bubbly as humanly possible. People came to the restaurant to see Char more than to eat the food. She put on a performance for every table. She glided from one table to the next during the busy brunch, carrying six orders on her arms and always remembering who ordered what.
“Girlfriends,” she cackled as she held her arms open. “Wait. What’s going on?” She gave me a silly frown. “I can’t bear to see you frowning.”
I said nothing. Marlene mouthed the word breakup.
“So, there’s some new meat on the market, eh?” She crouched down to look me in the eye. “Them boys on Halsted Street are gonna have something good to eat tonight.” She stood up and smiled. “Come on, Duncan, I’m sorry. I know how good you and what’s-his-face looked together. Sure, you seemed happy, but you’ll find happiness with someone else.”
“He was my muse.”
“Pfft. Shut up, dumbass,” Marlene said. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”
She was right. She’s was always right. That’s why I needed her so much.
“It’s the erection,” I said to no one. “It has to be the erection. Do you think he broke up with me because I couldn’t get an erection last week after that horror flick freaked me out?” I flushed red when I realized that I blurted that out in front of Char.
Char arched her eyebrows and backpedaled from the table. “Should I come back later?”
“No, just give us both blueberry pancakes,” Marlene said. She waved her hand to shoo Char away. Char continued backpedaling while Marlene turned back. “He didn’t dump you over one floppy willy.”
I lowered my head down. “It’s the stress that is preventing my, you know…”
“Obviously songwriting is your strong point and doing the deed is not.” She laughed and gave me a sympathetic look. “Stick with what you’re good at. I want that song by Friday.”
I flashed her a dirty look. We had to leave the restaurant soon and go home where I would have to drudge through the rest of my life. I didn’t know if I could do it.
“You’re probably thinking how hard this will be and that you can’t live without him, blah, blah, blah. I’ll be there every step of the way. Call me, text me, email me, or send me singing telegrams. Whatev, okay?” She softened her demeanor and placed her hand on my forearm. “You’re my BFF and I would do anything for you.” She always had my back. “It’s almost midnight so probably hold off on the coffee. And I see you eyeing that custard cake in the pastry counter.”
“I need more comfort food.”
“No offense, but you can’t afford another five hundred calories.”
“How dare you!” I crossed my arms and turned my head away.
Marlene shook her head. “You’re going back on the market again and them boys are gonna want some lean meat.”
I grabbed my stomach and realized she was right, again. I had a quick flashback to all the times Jesse, and I had dinner out or pizza delivery. Not only did I have to live my life without Jesse, but now I had to eat salad.
Chapter Three
DOUBLE CRISIS
It was difficult to get out of bed the next morning. Jesse didn’t seriously think I’d cheat on him, did he? Our sex life had been faltering, sure, and I hadn’t been in the mood lately. But it wasn’t about him, and he understood that. Or was it the seven pounds I’d put on since we started dating?
The ride to work was grueling. The train crowded with people who had been dumped the night before. They pushed each other aside to escape the guy who peed in the train’s back car. Nobody acted surprised when this happened, just did their best to stand as far away from it as possible. The guy who peed was probably upset at the lame explanation he got when he was dumped. All the passersby on my walk to the West Loop whispered to each other and pointed at me. How did they know I had been dumped?
My company’s culture was bleak. We were all labeled with numbers, and we kept to ourselves. The office space was drab and utilitarian. It comprised miles and miles of gray cubicle partitions. Reaching mine was a trek. Those gray walls gave each employee privacy, but also isolation. I couldn’t put a picture of Jesse in my cubicle when we were dating, out of fear of coworker homophobia, and they instructed me to take down a poster of Bob Dylan after only three days.
My boss Greg and I never exchanged a hello. He was always there before me, even when I was an hour early. He would stare at his computer screen when we talked, typing away while I stared at the hair loss on the crown of his head. This led me to imagine the hairs on my head falling out one at a time. Carrot-top Carol warned me he had conservative viewpoints, but I didn’t feel like he treated me any different from anybody else. He didn’t turn around to talk to anybody. And everybody needed to speak with him at some point.
I booted up my computer while I walked into the office kitchen. Somebody on the floor always brought treats, so I grabbed a sympathy-donut and headed back to my desk. Then I remembered Marlene’s comment about my weight and threw it in the trash bin. That hurt.
I drew a blank as I sat down. What was I working on the day before? I opened an email from Beth, my partner for the Springfield project. I had never met her. She was only a signature on an email. Her email reminded me we had a web meeting the day before. She wasn’t happy with my programming changes and gave me a laundry list of demands. I fired off a quick email to remind her that those requests were not part of the original project. She shot back a prompt reply to voice her discontent.
And what about Jesse? How could Beth go on as if Jesse hadn’t dumped me? She must not have heard the oh-so-devastating news. Okay, so she never met Jesse, or me or knew I was dating him. Somehow, people went on. While I was dating Jesse, I could concentrate on work because I knew I’d see him that evening after a dreadful day in the dreadful office of dreadfully militia-gray cubicle walls. At home, I could tell him about my dreams of making it as
a songwriter, and he’d talk about going to seminary. This wretched job was only bearable because it wouldn’t last long if I made something out of my songs. I avoided the folder labeled Jesse as I scrolled through my email inbox, but soon gave into temptation and went through our correspondences. There were sub-folders based on time periods, subject, and even my emotional reaction to his email. I could’ve gotten so much more work done if I hadn’t spent so much time emailing him. My Facebook Messenger box showed I had a message. It was Marlene.
Hello, handsome! How are you holding up?
I typed back, glancing over my shoulder once to see if anyone was watching.
My insides are falling out all over the office, and people are tripping over my intestines. I’m getting my coffee mixed up with my keyboard, and my project has fallen apart, but I don’t care.
I knew Marlene would complain that I sounded pathetic. She didn’t answer right away, perhaps because she had a life outside of my fallen relationship. My coworkers forged ahead with their conference calls and systems development, despite Jesse leaving me.
My inbox had fifteen new emails. Beth and Greg had gone back and forth. They spent an hour discussing whether I screwed up. My palms should have been sweating, but I didn’t care. At first, the only word I could make out of her emails was blah. I read accusations about my lack of listening skills and even laziness—blah, blah, blah. If Greg believed our company divisions were unhappy with my work, it could’ve affected my performance review. But I didn’t care.
A moment later another Facebook message from Marlene came up.
Everyone feels this way after a breakup. You won’t like this, but have you ever thought this is for the best? It wasn’t as perfect as you’re making it out to be. You forgot all the bad times, all the times he broke up with you and you begged him to take you back. Don’t call him back this time. Remember that guy Eric I introduced you to at the coffee shop two weeks ago? He’s into you. I have his number. It’s not a life-time commitment. Keep your options open.
Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel Page 2
