Leaving the Comfort Cafe (25 page)

“Alright then, you won’t get one. I quit.”

“You what?”

“I quit.” Queen stood up. “I would like to take this moment to announce for next year, in the general election, my candidacy for Mayor of Conyers.”

“But you can’t. The mayor said. You’re, you’re—”

Oh dear God. He’s going to say you’re black…it’s a coup. They’re giving the mayor the rope to hang himself.

“I’m what?” Queen glared at him strong enough to melt brick.

“You’re…a woman.”

“Yeah. I’m an African American woman, too.”

“Really? I—I didn’t notice. I—I don’t see color.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of things you didn’t notice.”

Alderman Jane interrupted, “Is there a point to these proceedings? Surely, Mr. Mayor, you didn’t call us all in here just because you were bothered by some silly drawings.”

“Jane, in case you didn’t notice, that tie-dyed hippie, airhead character kind of looks a bit like you.”

“Yeah, I did notice it. I think it’s cute. I mean, how many of us would like to be immortalized in some work of literature? Good grief, we could all go on Oprah or some talk show. We could have our fifteen minutes of fame. Let’s take it. In fact, if Mr. Parker would like, I’d like to offer him the first artist residency at my bed and breakfast place so he can finish his outstanding work.”

“I don’t believe this,” the mayor barked.

“Look at Thomas Wolfe,” Blythe said. “Folks in Asheville didn’t like him at first, because he wasn’t too flattering to them in his books. But now what do you see? Every year, a Thomas Wolfe festival, tours of the Thomas Wolfe house and Look Homeward Angel being presented in the community theatre.”

“If there’s no business to be conducted here, I make a motion to adjourn,” Jane said.

“So be it,” the other councilmen chimed in.

“And for the record,” another said, “I think it would be wonderful to have the voice of the African-American community represented in the mayor’s office.”

The gavel wasn’t pounded, but rather tapped, as if the mayor was breaking the top off of a hard-boiled egg. Blythe approached the council table. Austin took her into his arms and kissed her.

No one remembers the winter.

As soon as the leaves snap off their lavish colors and fall leisurely into brittle pieces of leaf meal, everyone starts looking toward the spring. Spring with all it’s stereotypes of new-found love and dogwood blossoms, spring with anxious amateur horticulturists invading the seed supply store, searching for that special combination of beautiful blooms and easy maintenance—spring with everyone looking for a new beginning.

Spring that meant Easter, and Easter that meant Resurrection, and Resurrection that meant forgiveness.

And forgiveness is strange.

Instead of begging and borrowing grace from every member of the town who was offended or parodied in his comic chronicle, Austin found the only ones truly offended were those who were not included, thus missing out on their fifteen minutes of fame. The local newspaper reporter wanted to do an article on how the town inspired him, packaging it with a headline that declared “The Heroes of Conyers—the town larger than life itself.” Some people didn’t mind they were portrayed as villains, and some even preferred it. Too hard to try to be good all the time. Who wants that kind of pressure? After all, you can’t save everybody.

Ever so often, though, someone did get saved. Not by defeating speeding bullets or fighting alien goo from Mars, but just by going home. Returning somewhere they’d forgotten. Maybe that’s why everyone was in such a hurry for the spring. They wanted to return to something they remembered.

But Austin wasn’t in a hurry for spring. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t in a hurry for anything. The cool chill of early sunsets invited lingering cups of coffee, regular this time, always regular, at the café. Chilly evenings were for hiding under blankets with Blythe while wondering if elusive snowfall would bring a white Christmas.

Sentimental, maybe. Stereotypical, of course. Trite, definitely.

But they were truths.

Winter meant off-season condo specials at the Outer Banks, particularly Ocracoke and Hatteras islands. Winter meant he and Blythe would be able to explore how the wild ponies fared the cool breeze, when meager grazing and grain scarcity forced them to rely on their wits and their instincts, and maybe therefore imparting some silent advice to Blythe and Austin on how they, too, could best entertain the waiting until spring. It was going to be their winter artist’s retreat. Blythe had bought an old clunker SLR camera at the pawnshop. Austin had put the finishing touches on his comic characters. No one really ever understood how beautiful the beach was in winter. When the crowds and humidity dispersed, all that was left was a lonely, echoing seashore, just repeating its voice over and over, drawing closer and closer to the sandy shore, but never quite overtaking it completely.

Nate and his family would join them halfway through their winter vacation. Blythe promised Chas she’d take him to see the ponies. Austin would help him write an extra credit report for school about the animals in their natural habitat. Blythe promised Chas she would buy him the tackiest souvenir t-shirt she could find, if she could ever convince him to part with his Superman costume, which he had worn constantly since his debut at the town board meeting.

In a few weeks, when the winter came, they would leave for the island. But today, he was mowing the town property directly across from Snake Lady’s house. Some of the higher brush was tamed and subdued by the curling chill and dry air. Austin carefully waved his weed whacker across the small field, searching for snakes, although he knew he wouldn’t find any. But he still searched. Maybe that was the point.

“You know, you could hire one of your boys over at the town to do that.” The Snake Lady—whose name he later learned was Martha—called from her supervisory position on the front porch.

“I know. But I just wanted to take care of this myself.”

“Besides, it’s too cold for snakes now. They don’t come out when it’s cold. You’re not going to find any out there.”

“I didn’t want you to worry about snakes this winter.”

“Well, Blythe gave me this here rock. I’ll know it if a snake came through here because of the rock. But snakes don’t go out in the cold. Don’t you know anything? Don’t they have snakes up North?”

“No. No they don’t.”

“You’re not going to find any. They aren’t out there.”

Austin looked at her and smiled. “I know. But I want to search the yard one last time, just to be sure.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Originally from a small town near Asheville, North Carolina, Dawn DeAnna Wilson had her first poem published when she was in 8th grade and her first short story published when she was 16 years old. In 1986, the publication of her short story, “Dreaming into Action,” led to an appearance on CBS Morning News to discuss publication opportunities for young authors. Her articles and stories have appeared in such publications as Writer’s Digest, The Lutheran Journal, Sunshine, Evangel and Byline. She is also featured in William Jawitz’ 1995 high school textbook, Understanding Mass Media.

She received her bachelor’s degree in journalism from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and her master’s degree in English / Creative Writing from East Carolina University.

Her first novel, Saint Jude, chronicles a young adult with bipolar disorder. This novel was selected as one of the “best of” in a listing of teen reads by Nancy Keene. Originally published in 2001 by Tudor Publishers, it is now available on Kindle.

One of her short stories, “The Shangri-La Chamber of Commerce Welcomes You,” was a semi-finalist for the Doris Betts Fiction Prize. This short story is featured in her collection, Welcome to Shangri-La, North Carolina, and it is available on Kindle.

She resides in eastern North Carolina.

For contact information, please visit her website at www.dawndeannawilson.com

By Dawn DeAnna Wilson

Cure: Don’t need one. Eventually he’ll do something ridiculous and mess everything up—like pull your skirt over your head in front of the class, steal your Barbie doll, break your crayons, or tattle on you. You’ll lose interest. Either way, it takes care of itself.

The first one you actually realize is a crush is a different matter. You’re old enough to realize there’s competition, and girls who have better boobs, better butts, better blonde highlights, better everything, are the ones who are going to get his attention. What could he possibly see in you? He doesn’t know you exist.

Cure: Fortunately, adolescent hormones make you so ragingly stupid that you’d probably ruin it if given half a chance. Picture him at the 20-year class reunion bald and fat. Better fish are out there.

You decide to go to a college near a large city---maybe getting out of your hometown will make you forget your stupid crushes. But then you’re in Psychology 101 and your professor has a wild mane of curly blonde hair and hypnotically green eyes. You sit in front—you tell yourself—to see better because there’s a horrible glare from the afternoon sun that comes through the windows and dances on the chalkboard. He talks of Freud and sex and Pavlov’s damn dog experiments and what it must be like to go absolutely, completely crazy. You Google him. Read every paper he has published, including “The Transcendental State of the Ego as Opposed to Degeneration of the Id in South American Men During 1976 to 1978.” You’ve never been more turned on.

The biggest weakness is not for their kind eyes or salt and pepper hair. It is always the curve of their hands—the gentle tender area between the thumb and forefinger, cleft there, so vulnerable, yet so hidden, it makes you think the whole world would allow you this one indiscretion if you could just get a little closer.

Cure: Do the math. If you’re 20 and he’s 50, by the time you’re 30, he’ll be dragging—everything will be dragging—and he’ll be popping little blue pills while your other friends are married to young bucks who are still in their 30s.

If that doesn’t work, just remember that it could get him fired.

If that doesn’t work, eat raw eggs until you throw up. Repeat if necessary.

You’re so messed up over the professor that you head to a shrink. He talks about how you never felt unconditionally loved by your Daddy and this has caused a fixation on authority figures. All that transference (a term you ironically learned from the professor) causes you transfer your crush to the shrink. At first you tell yourself that any man that good-looking and still single just has to be gay. It gets you off the hook for a few sessions, then one week he shows up with a Carribbean tan and a wedding ring. Now when you think of him, it’s almost like adultery. But maybe he’s miserable, you tell yourself. Maybe he got her pregnant.

Maybe he found the woman of his dreams.

Cure: You go to confession and unfold all your lusty desires before the priest. Then he points out that you haven’t really done anything, just thought about it. Then you realize how your confession pales in comparison to the tales of lust and wild abandon he must have heard all week. He gives you some half-hearted penance, but then you remind him that Jesus said if we look at someone with lust, we have committed adultery with them in our hearts. He adds a few more Hail Marys. You think—or maybe imagine—that he whispers “give it a rest, already” as you slink from the confessional booth.

If you’re Protestant, see the raw egg comments above.

You notice the guy in the cubicle across from you. He’s Asian, and all of a sudden you’re thinking of the sheer exoticness of it all, some ancient Chinese sexual wisdom--- even though he was born in upstate New York. He’s an associate supervisor. It’s all so taboo and that makes you want him even more. You’re sure the shrink would have something to say about this one.

Cure: You’re lucky this one took care of itself. They found him downloading porn and instead of firing him, they quietly transferred him to Sacramento, where he is scheduled to undergo some kind of porn counseling session.

You wonder if your shrink offers porn counseling.

Lest you be tempted to go back to the shrink, take a look at your checkbook balance and remember how much you shelled out because you exceeded your insurance company’s allotted 20 visits per year.

You want to meet someone who shares your interests. So you take a lit class at the local college. You’re relieved that your professor is a woman. Until she’s out for maternity leave. Then you get this beatnik grad assistant working on his PhD on Nabokov. He has black hair in a ponytail and some kind of tattoo on his back. You can tell because you see edges of it creeping around his upper shoulder when he wears a loose fitting shirt. You imagine going to his place for wine and cheese and finding that he has 100 copies of Lolita. Everywhere. Lo- li- ta.

Cure: This one’s probably okay because he’s just a substitute. At least that’s what you tell yourself. You wait until after the semester. Then you go to his place for wine and cheese and see that he really does have 100 copies of Lolita everywhere. Okay, maybe only seven—10 if you count the ones in French, Spanish and Italian. But it feels like 100. It feels like a million.

You’re feeling nauseated. He takes you home. Probably all those raw eggs.

Then one day, when you least expect it, there’s one who responds. He may be the professor, the boss, the shrink, the substitute. You linger after class asking questions until he gets the message. You schedule appointments even though you’ve reached your insurance max. You know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know his favorite novel. Then one day, he asks you for some help on a project. You type, file, whatever for hours. You take a walk for a study break, ergonomic break---just fill in the blank here. You walk down a wooded trail. You feel perfectly safe with him. You halfway expect squirrels and birds to hop out of the bushes and sing to you like some kind of sappy Disney cartoon. He touches your shoulder. Then rubs it.