Leaving the Comfort Cafe (4 page)

“I knew I hadn’t seen you around. I’m Blythe,” she said. “Blythe Shelley.” She extended her hand to him. Those long fingernails again.

“Oh, um, I’m Austin,” he said. “Austin Parker. Blythe. Nice name.” He struggled for conversation. Inside, his stomach began to churn.

“Distantly related to the poet.”

“The what?”

“Poet. Percy Shelley. Don’t you read?”

“No. Not much.” He laughed.

“Well surely you read one book while you were at Scoffield University.”

“How did you know I went there?”

“Class ring, sugar.” She playfully tapped his hand, her long fingernails using just enough force to remind Austin that he didn’t want to make her angry. “They don’t give those out in gumball machines. Austin’s not a bad name, either. Well, if you don’t mind being named after a city.”

“I guess it could be worse. Could be name named Topeka.”

“Or Madrid,” she added.

“Or Savannah.”

“Or Reykjavik.”

“What?”

“Capital of Iceland. Got all these volcanoes. You know, that’s where all the supermodels come from. Iceland. You think it’s all ice, but they got these outdoor hot springs. It’s like having a hot tub in the middle of a snowstorm.”

“You been to Iceland?”

“The houses have these really bright red roofs on them, like they can be seen from space. And everyone is so beautiful and tall and blonde and gorgeous. It’s like all the best DNA in the world gathered in Iceland to live.”

“You’ve been there?”

“The most beautiful country in the world. The Vikings only called it Iceland to fool the white people. Or…maybe the Vikings were the white people…anyway, it’s the most beautiful country in the world. Yessir. In. The. World.”

“When did you go there?”

“You know how they say ‘good-bye’ in Icelandic? Bliss-bliss. Isn’t that cool? Bliss-bliss.” Her glance fell to the floor. “Or so I’ve been told.” She refilled his coffee even though he had only taken one sip.

“This pie is great,” he said.

“Blythe!” The cantaloupe kitchen matriarch beckoned. “Get your big lily-white butt out there and bring in the mayor’s plates before he breaks them or something.”

“Yeah.” She scribbled Austin’s order on her notepad. “Let me know if you want refills. I took the liberty of adding in the tip. Plus an extra fifty cents for a pretty smile.” She grinned and slapped the bill face down on the table and headed outside to collect the plates.

Austin dreaded what kind of tip she had charged him, but when he turned the ticket over there was nothing but a smiley face and On the house, courtesy of the mayor scrawled in awkward cursive on the back. He realized it was the same handwriting that declared Best Pecan Pie in the World in the front window and the same handwriting that declared Cat on a Hot Tin Cans as Tennessee Williams’ masterpiece.

Before Austin realized it, he was taking spoonfuls of ice cream. Maybe the pie was better a la mode after all.

“You can’t keep calling me every time you get a rejection,” Kerry moaned, almost without any fluctuation in her voice. Despite living in the middle of nowhere, Austin usually got perfect cell phone reception when he called her in New York. But this was the first time her voice sounded crackly and distant. Austin debated calling her back from his landline, but decided against it, lest having better reception would prove that her voice actually was crackly and distant and had nothing to do with the placement of cell towers. “What makes you think it’s a rejection? Is it large?”

Austin held a bubble wrap mailer, tattered and abused by the post office’s declaration of first class mail and a misguided postmark from St. Louis.

“Yeah, it’s large,” he muttered.

“Then it’s a rejection. You know it’s a rejection. Why do we have to do this each time?”

She was right. Had it been an acceptance letter, it would have fit neatly within a Number Ten envelope. But the package was heavy and awkward, meaning someone was returning Austin’s drawings. Again. And again.

“Well, you’ve got it, you might as well read it,” Kerry said.

Austin hated that he had not finished unpacking. His living room was a strange array of outdated shag carpet and cardboard boxes. It was as if he were afraid that unpacking would mean that he would have to stay a while. Unpacking meant personal objects on display. Personal objects on display made you vulnerable.

“Maybe if I had you hand-deliver it, maybe that would make a difference, you know. It did get to New York via St. Louis and God knows where else. Maybe it made me look like an amateur because I didn’t use a courier service. Maybe I should have come up there and hand-delivered it myself. You know, we could –“

“Just open it. Like a Band-Aid. Rip it off. Don’t pick at it.”

“Dear God, I hate this part. How did you do this every other week at graduate school?”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s been that long ago, does it?”

Austin tore into the envelope from the agency of Stevens & Stephens & Kent.

Dear Mr. Parker:

We reviewed your graphic novel proposal “Falling Apart—Introducing the Rising Phoenix” with interest. While we find your artistic skills very impressive, we are afraid we are not enthusiastic enough about this project to offer representation.

While the artwork is intriguing, it’s not enough to carry a story. All these heroes have been done before ad infinitum—the mild-mannered man who transforms into a superhero because of a strange accident, the unrepentantly evil genius bent on world domination—and while there is always a good market for superheroes and arch villains, in order to be competitive in the marketplace, you have to bring something to the table that has a different twist than something that’s been repeated before.

However, if you can create a more multifaceted character, then we would like to take a look. We enjoy your artistry;
you just need to work on the story. While comics always have a fanciful element, we need something is a little more rooted in reality.

Sincerely,

William C. Kent

The letter was signed in a hurried scrawl that could have just as easily been signed by his secretary or his three year old.

“Well what does it say?” Kerry asked.

“Just the usual. Don’t want it, blah, blah, blah, cardboard characters, blah, blah, blah.”

“Does it say, ‘cardboard characters,’ or are you saying cardboard characters?”

“Well, I’m saying it, but they asked me for a character that is more ‘multifaceted and alive.’”

“Okay, well, now let’s look at the positives. Did they say anything good about the manuscript?”

“They said they needed something more grounded in reality. This is a comic book! It’s not supposed to be grounded in reality. If readers want something grounded in reality, they’ll go to the biography section.”

“I said anything good. That’s not good.”

Austin paused. Kerry knew he hated to brag about himself. She was this bizarre, yet charming mixture of Gloria Steinem, Donna Reed, and Georgia O’Keefe—a wonderful assortment of contradictions that somehow managed to fuse themselves into a woman, charming enough to be sophisticated, spunky enough to be fun.

“They say they enjoyed my artistry.”

“Okay, that’s a plus.”

“I wish you were here.”

“Austin, do you remember when I got rejected from the Savannah Fellowship for the Arts? Do you remember how I cried for something like three days?”

“I remember.”

“Remember you came over with a bottle of champagne? You said even a rejection was a celebration because it was just the universe’s way of telling me it was one place where I didn’t belong, a way of honing me in on the right path, even though I may know nothing about it at the time.”

“Gosh, I was really Zen back then.”

“Back then was only two years ago, Austin. And what’s happened to all your Zen? Maybe you need to take your own advice.”

“I don’t know…” Austin folded the letter carefully; as if it were laced with razor blades anxious to give him the worst paper cut in history.

“Austin, you’ve got to get back in the game. Remember what you told me?”

“But things are so much different now. I’ve got an entire town to look after. And the manager guy, the one who said he’d ease the transition, he just went AWOL. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Three times.”

“I can’t do this job.” Austin flopped onto his faded, secondhand sofa, careful to keep the cell phone at a steady angle so he wouldn’t lose the signal and unwittingly cause Kerry’s voice to crackle even more.

“Austin, it’s just Conyers. It’s not like you’re managing Miami or Chicago.”

“I think it’s controlled by the redneck Mafia.”

“There is no such thing as a redneck Mafia…is there?”

“I don’t want to find out.”

“You can handle this.” Kerry tried to sound sympathetic. But Austin sensed her voice was tinged with annoyance.

“I should have come to New York City with you. Then it would be different, then—”

“Then you would have had the same issues, only with more snow and traffic.”

“I signed a three-year contract, but I can get out of it. I’d have to hire a lawyer, and maybe pay a penalty, but it can be done.”

“We said we’d give each other time.”

“Hm.” The last sliver of evening sunlight was etching illuminated patterns that angled from Austin’s living room blinds to the wall behind his sofa. Small slivers of gold streaked across the eggshell wall. That’s where he would put it. That’s where he’d place the painting Kerry did for him.

It was a piece called “Cello Hell,” a dissonant symphony of scarlet swirls and deep tangerine trims. It reminded Austin of what would happen if rabid instruments took over the orchestra and conducted the musicians. It wasn’t her best work, but it was the one that meant the most to Austin—not because she gave it to him, but because he was one of the few who knew the inspiration behind the painting.

Kerry didn’t want to be like her parents. Her mother was an amazing cellist. Her father owned an independent pharmacy in Raymond’s Ridge, Georgia. Her mother had several audition call-backs for orchestras across the country—not an easy feat when her career path was so saturated with talent that any audition was a cattle call of some of the best musicians in the country. Kerry always felt her mom could have made it, eventually, in New York, or Boston, or Chicago—in any of the cities that had renowned orchestras. But while her mother could pack up her cello and move to the best opportunity, her father couldn’t neatly package his Raymond Ridge Pharmacy and Gifts in a suitcase. Other than Atlanta, three hours south, and Asheville, three hours north, they existed in a cultural vacuum. Raising a family, she didn’t want to be out at all hours with evening concerts, especially when Dad had to close the stores. Dad’s job was a family legacy. Dad’s job paid the bills. Dad’s job was security. Mom’s dreams were a luxury, right along with swimming pools, BMWs and private schools. She seemed to channel all that artistic ambition within Kerry, who had more talent with canvas than cello.

Where is that painting? What box did I pack it in? Did I use enough packing popcorn? What if it was ruined?

“Austin, did you hear me?”

That’s why Kerry had to go to New York City. Get involved in the arts scene. What she didn’t want was for her to compromise and for Austin to compromise. Then they’d live someplace neither of them liked that could nurture neither of their dreams. At least that’s what she told him when she gave him the painting. They would grow old and stale and hateful. They would resent each other for stealing away the very ambitions that drew them to each other in the first place. At least that’s what she said. Or what he remembered she said.

Or did she say anything at all?

Austin had neither the experience, nor the chutzpa to make it in the monstrous labyrinth that was the City of New York. He even considered putting in for positions in other areas, like Hackensack or White Plains…but while Conyers was far from a step up the career ladder, he reasoned it would give him three things: a place to cut his teeth, a low-cost of living to help pay back his student loans and the small-town pace of life that would give him time to put together an impressive portfolio of comic book artistry. When opportunity knocked, he would not only be able to open the door, he would be ready to invite it in for wine and cheese.

Less than one week into the job and he already had to scratch number three off the list. He was wondering how much longer before items one and two disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Austin, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“This is a part of it. I got fifteen rejections before I got my first gallery show, and even then I only got it because I promised to donate part of the proceeds to some charity.”

“But you’re there. You’re living your dream.”

“Austin, in New York, everyone’s a starving artist. It’s nothing special.”

“You’re special.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it after waiting tables all day and combing websites for grants.”

“Still….”

“And what about you, Austin?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s your parents.”

“It’s not my parents.”

“For God’s sake, just let it go. You are not your father; you can’t be your father. He’s not trying to get you into politics, is he?”

Austin said no, though he wasn’t really sure. For that matter, he wasn’t really sure why he never followed Kerry to New York. Sure, he could spout a million practical reasons—a lousy job market, no experience, the high cost of living—but the practical reasons sounded like a thousand loud and blaring excuses to take his mind off the real reason, the silent, whispering reason why he didn’t follow her to New York in the first place…

…she didn’t ask.

The next morning, Austin finally placed his personal items into his Town Hall office. He had been reluctant to establish any type of personal connection with the workspace, as if Kerry would suddenly call and tell him she was wrong and she wanted him to come with her to New York instantly, and because he had nothing personally invested in the town, he could drop everything and fly to the city, where their life would be jokes about overpriced coffee, subway crowds and wine tastings that coincided with her gallery shows. He wanted to be perpetually on call for her, awaiting her call to duty as if it were some type of superhero spotlight, beaming in a request from the mayor of the metropolitan area. But the call didn’t come, and Austin felt forced to make Conyers more palatable by bringing his personal items gently, deliberately, out of the cardboard box.