A Work in Progress

Hi, people. I present to you two chapters of a book that I'm working on. This all came about because I was in the shower one day . . . Okay, just so you don't start to doubt my personal hygiene habits, I'm in the shower EVERYDAY, but on this particular day, some interesting characters popped into my head. This happens from time to time. People show up in my head. Sometimes they're half-formed, sometimes they're almost fully developed, and they're usually composites of people whom I've actually known at one point or another. More often than not, these patchwork people are so mixed up in their bits that they're barely recognizable as being actual people who really exist. No, they take on looks and "lives" of their own. They get all unique on me, and they've all got stories to tell. Sometimes I listen, and sometimes I don't. Well, when Mike and Jen showed up, I listened because I could tell right away that theirs was a story that shouldn't be missed.
Now, keep in mind that this is a work in progress. It's too purple right now. I'm gonna have to go through and weed out the pansies. And, please forgive my abuse of the German language as well as my ineptness with dates and geography.

The Ballad of Mike and Jen: An American Love Story

By Amy Kari

There is a little house on a little street somewhere north of here and south of there. The little street is called Fascination Street, and it was named thus by the people who live in the little house, and these people are called Kadeezler, and it says as much on the purple mailbox with the yellow daisies painted on it that stands at the end of the little gravel driveway that leads from the little house to the little street. Purple crocuses line this driveway in the spring. Mrs. Kadeezler likes purple.
The Kadeezler house is painted white with black shutters. There is an upstairs and a downstairs, and the chimney is done up in purple to match the mailbox. Mr. Kadeezler paints the mailbox every year on the anniversary of his marriage to Mrs. Kadeezler. There are window boxes where violets grow when they are in season. A white picket fence encloses the small front yard that Mr. Kadeezler mows every Saturday afternoon when the weather is warm. He employs a pushing lawnmower that he labors behind in good humor, going at a leisurely pace while smoking his pipe and wondering what dinner will be. Mr. Kadeezler always wears blue jean overalls when called to this particular task, with a supply of tobacco tucked into the bib pocket. He never wears a shirt with his overalls, and he seldom wears underwear, in spite of Mrs. Kadeezler’s continuing vexation over this point. His slightly graying hair is, as usual, caught in a ponytail that reaches nearly to his waist.
On these days of outdoor exertion on the part of Mr. Kadeezler, Mrs. Kadeezler very often appears on the front porch, bearing a tray topped with Tupperware tumblers of fresh lemonade. Her leopard-print apron is always present and always tidy, and her dyed black hair is swept into a bun at her neck--the skull tattoo, her memento mori, just being visible between it and her starched white collar.
On these very regular occasions, Mrs. Kadeezler calls Mr. Kadeezler away from his efforts, and the two of them proceed to share the liquid refreshment from the wonderful vantage of their front porch swing, soaking in the sheer magic of the day and all of the luxuries that such a view as this one affords. “Mama K.,” Mr. Kadeezler says with a sigh, “there is truly, truly joy to be had.” “Indeed there is, Papa K.,” Mrs. Kadeezler answers with absolute contentment, “Indeed there is.”
But, as it may be guessed by you, dear reader, it was not always so. No, indeed. It was not always so. There was a time when things looked rather bleak for the future Mrs. K. It was a dark time for the human race in general because the universe knows when its fibers are out of whack, and it colors itself accordingly. And, for it ever to have been the case that this pair was split asunder is proof enough that there is something wrong with this world. At the very least, it may be reasonably argued that there exists in the world a kind of chronic tendency towards universal wonkiness. But, in proper defense of the world and the universe, there exists also a gorgeous potential for glorious rightness, because, as you will see, dear reader, (if the present author might be excused for compromising what might have been a suspenseful element) this story has a happy ending.

Chapter One: Fairy Tea Kicks Ass

Jennifer Lynn Quick first met Michael Norbert Kadeezler on the fifteenth of March, in the year of nineteen-hundred and ninety-four, at approximately two forty-five PM on a Tuesday in downtown Asheville, North Carolina. Because she was neither a Caesar nor an English Major, the date, at the time, held no particular significance for her.
Jen was at work behind the counter of Vincent’s Ear, a coffee shop that stood in all of its deconstructed, Bauhaus-y glory on South Lexington Avenue. It was a slow afternoon, and Jen was staring at a random page in a Botany textbook when Mike came in and ordered a cup of chamomile tea with lots of honey and just a touch of strawberry syrup. Jen barely noticed the tall young man. He was simply a blur of hair, corduroy, and flannel, just like half of the figures who ever entered the establishment. The other half were blurs of black vinyl, velvet, and metal (herself being a kind of hybrid of the two). She did observe that the drink she was making seemed fit for any given fairy or member of the pixie family, and she smiled, but the beverage was made and conveyed with little ado, and boredom and Botany were all that remained.
It was a different story for Mike. Indeed, the girl behind the counter was more than his tired mind wanted to grapple with on this particular afternoon, but grapple he must, because she was a vision to behold. She had black, straight hair that reached down to her waist, with Bettie Page bangs. She was small and slender, and her skin had an unearthly paleness seldom achieved by members of the non-embalmed community. Her garment was a gauzy, strappy, flowing prairie dress of sorts, pure white embellished with little black embroidered flowers all over. Reaching down to her ankles, (Mike noticed when the girl had walked far enough away from the counter as to allow him a full view of her person) the dress just barely reveled a tiny pair of purple velvet Doc Martens. Bare arms displayed a bounty of graceful, black-inked tattoos, and a leather, spike-studded choker completed the look of this pretty and diminutive hippy-goth who looked like she could have easily followed The Dead: both kinds.
Mike was smitten. The girl had barely spoken to him, but a small animal was still turning somersaults in his chest as he took his tea from the counter and turned to select a chair on which to rest his weary person. After he had taken a seat--at the most obscure table in the farthest corner of the room--he made a concerted effort to not look at the girl, but to his dismay he soon discovered that an image of her seemed to have been burned into his brain, possibly even into his soul. He wasn’t even entirely certain that he had a soul, but if he did, he was reasonably sure that this girl had managed to somehow trespass onto it. This was weird. Mike wasn’t used to feeling very strongly about anything, and especially not so quickly and so out of the blue. Apparently twelve hour shifts were doing bad things to his mental wellness. He turned his focus to the book that he had brought with him, and when Leonard Cohen failed to coax him back to sanity, he focused his thoughts on his girlfriend of five wonderful and glorious years. Lisa. Yes, Lisa, beautiful Lisa . . . Lisa would be coming back soon and all would once again be right with the world. By the time he managed to finish his tea and take his leave of the coffee shop, he had very nearly convinced himself of as much.
Mike visited the coffee shop again the very next day at very nearly the very same time . . . Because the tea was so good. This, he had told himself and told himself again, 100,000 times . . . Because the tea was so good. The tea was so very good . . . The tea was so very damned, freakin’ good, for the love of God, and for no other damned freakin’ reason was he coming back to this damned, freakin’ coffee shop. The girl was there again.
Jen noticed him this time. Mike was wearing his bright orange “Orange Crush” t-shirt, and the sight of it made Jen smile.
“Yeah, but have you got your spine?”
Mike was startled, amazed even. She had spoken. She had apparently spoken to him. Now, what the hell was she . . . “What? Um. I’m sorry . . . What?”
Jen laughed, and a little nervously. The boy was cute. The boy was very cute. “Your shirt. I like your shirt. It’s got the whole REM thing going on, right? I’ve got my spine, I’ve got my . . .” She gestured towards Mike’s chest.
He smiled. He made eye contact. “Oh. Right. Nice one. Yeah. Um, so . . . You like REM?”
“In excess.”
Fortunately for both of them, Mike was able to instantaneously translate the intended pun. INXS. The band, of course. Clever. He managed to respond appropriately.
“U2?”
It only took a split second to resister. Jen grinned with something very nearly like pure delight. “Yes. Well-played, sir. You rock. And, who would you be.” She reached a tiny, white, black-nailed hand over the counter. “I’m Jen.”
Completely charmed and a little dazed, Mike took the little hand that was offered. It was warm and soft. A current of electricity shot through his arm and exploded somewhere near the mitrol valve. He nearly wept for the pleasure of the sensation, and a snippet of a sonnet echoed somewhere in his brain . . . Shakespeare . . . “This told, I joy.” . . . So this is what it feels like to joy, he thought, as far as he dared to or was able to think. “Mike. I’m Mike.” Lisa. Beautiful Lisa. Beautiful, beautiful Lisa. Jen. Her name is Jen.
“Mike. Groovy..” Jen released his hand with a smile and a nod. “You actually do look a little familiar. Have you been in here before?”
“Um. Yeah . . . Yesterday, actually. I ordered a, uh, chamomile tea . . .”
“Right!” The fairy tea! Wait. That was you?”
“Fairy tea . . . ?”
Jen looked a little embarrassed. “Well, you know, with the honey and the strawberry . . .”
Mike laughed. “Okay. Granted . . . Fairy tea. Do I not look the fairy tea type?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m just surprised that I wouldn’t have thoroughly remembered you. I must have been really distracted.”
“Well, in your defense, I’m just not that memorable.”
The boy’s eyes sparkled. They glittered. Jen had never guessed that brown eyes could be so dazzling. These were. These were eyes to swear by and make promises to.
“So you say, sir, but I have my doubts.” Jen audibly cleared her throat, looked down, and tried not to be nervous, and, of course, in doing so, looked about as nervous as one might possibly look . . . Ever. For the first time in her life, she sincerely wished that she knew how to flirt. She glanced around the counter in order to see if anyone else had entered the shop and needed waiting on. There was no one. There was absolutely nothing within sight that might reasonably redirect her attention, and she was utterly torn between being happy or being horrified by this reality. Luckily, Mike soon came to her rescue.
“Those are some very impressive tattoos. Did Cain do those, by any chance?”
“Yeah, actually . . . Most of them. Do you know Cain?”
“Absolutely. I’m a fellow connoisseur of dude man’s work.” Mike turned around and lifted up his t-shirt and ponytail just enough to reveal a portion of what looked like a phoenix done in a sort of “tribal” style. It was an extremely well-planned and well-executed design, obviously the work of Cain Crispin.
Mike was turning back around. “The Mark of Cain, right?”
Jen smiled, happy to have something to talk about besides Mike’s extreme memorable-ness. “Yeah, that’s got to be the best name ever for a tattoo artist. Who wouldn’t want to score some ink at The Mark of Cain tattoo parlor? That’s a really nice one, by the way. It’s a . . . phoenix rising out of the ashes?”
“Yeah. It’s a little pretentious, I know, but it’s a symbol that I’ve always connected with for whatever reason.”
“Well, you know, a symbol of rebirth and renewal ain’t quite a heart that says “mom,” with a dagger pierced through it, but I guess it’s okay.”
Mike returned her smile. “You are clearly a woman of taste.”
“Hey, I try. Anyway, I’m clearly taking up your time. You came for more tea, right?”
“It is good tea.”
“That’s chamomile with honey and just a touch of strawberry syrup?”
“You know it. Fairy tea.”
“Hey. Fairy tea rocks.”
“Fairy tea kicks ass.”
Jen giggled, while being painfully aware of the fact that she giggled. She turned to make Mike’s tea, and Mike watched her appreciatively. She was cute, funny, and sweet, everything that he had feared she would be. That was okay. Sure. Why couldn’t he have a cute, funny, and sweet friend who happened to be a girl who made acute electrical explosions happen in his heart and his head all fuzzy? That was clearly a question for another day, and Lisa, beautiful Lisa, would be home soon, so everything would be absolutely and completely okay, and was it his fault anyway that this was the only coffee shop where he could get his tea just the way he liked it?
Jen finished making the drink, put the cup on the counter, and went to the cash register to ring up eight-five cents, plus tax. Mike paid with a dollar bill, told Jen to keep the change, than very casually dropped another dollar into the tip jar.
“Hey, wow . . . Thanks.”
Mike turned, winked, smiled, and pantomimed tipping a hat in Jen’s direction. “Much obliged, mamn.”
He turned and left Jen grinning helplessly from her place behind the counter. She noticed that he was wearing olive-colored corduroy pants and bright green Docs. It was definitely love.

Chapter Two: The World According to Dorf

The sun was in the sky, the yuppies were filing in to get their fixes at the other coffee shop, and the Warren Wilson kids were out panhandling for kicks. All was right with the world. Another day. Another dollar. In addition to school and her job at The Ear, Jen was working two shifts a week at the public library. Dorf was the tech guru and her immediate supervisor at the library. Dorf was a fifty-seven-year-old, all black-wearing nihilist who drove a souped-up, cherry-red mustang and fronted his own death metal band on the weekends. Dorf sported a long, gray ponytail and a limp in his left leg due to some lingering Korean shrapnel that he unwittingly received into himself on an otherwise perfect day in May of 1952. Dorf was the freakin’ man. Jen and Dorf took smoke breaks together, one every hour and on the hour if possible. Jen didn’t smoke, but Dorf, who was a man of very few words, smoked more than enough for two people. Jen talked. Dorf smoked.
Another Camel non-filtered was pinched, packed, and placed. The old Zippo said click, and honest relief was had by one.
“Hey, Dorf, do you believe in love at first sight?”
Exhale. “No.”
“Do you believe in love, period?”
Exhale. “No.”
“Why not?”
Exhale. Shrug. Inhale. Exhale.
“Yeah, well, I haven’t given up yet on the whole thing. I’m as inclined to be as cynical as the next person, but I think it’s actually more interesting to believe in something, you know? And, you know, if you’re actually going to believe in something, you might as well believe in the big one, right? The really crazy one. I mean, why waste your time with the tooth fairy or Sasquatch, right?”
Tap ash. Pause. “Who is he?”
“Mike.”
Dorf breathed out heavily, tossed a butt in the general direction of the ash can, and drew another fag from the pocket of his trench coat. He glared at Jen over his very dark sunglasses. “Mike?”
“Yes. Mike . . . Probably Michael, I’m guessing . . . You know, as in The Archangel? I don’t know his last name because I’ve only seen him twice, and I don’t even clearly remember one of those times. He’s beautiful, he likes REM, and he drinks chamomile tea with honey and strawberry syrup.”
Exhale. “That’s disgusting.”
“Well, it is kind of an unusual drink.”
“Not the drink, the band. Stupid Stipe pansy.” Dorf snarled his revulsion into an acrid cloud.
“Oh, come on. Those guys are doing some really interesting things. They might even be fronting a whole new movement . . . And the way they incorporate poetry and philosophy into their lyrics is totally impressive. Whether their particular style suits your fancy or not, you at least have to admit that the band has some talent, right?”
“Stupid Stipe pansy.”
And, so it went. Life went on, but everything was, by turns, a little and a lot different for Jen now. Without warning, her heart would soar out of her chest and to lofty heights. Melancholy would occasionally seize her with threats of Mike walking out of her world just as suddenly as he had ambled into it, or even of “Mike” simply being a realistic and reoccurring figment of her imagination. Sometimes she just felt a pleasantly mild and all-over tingle, as if her soul were being tickled by butterfly antennae. Often, very often, actually, she was realistically aware of the fact that she had only seen the guy twice, and that she might be feeling feelings a wee bit prematurely to say the least. She might very well be out of her mind. Bonkers. Looney. Touched in the head. It didn’t matter, though. Her heart had been breached, her calm had been compromised, and she was all atwitter. Objective reality be damned.
She wondered when she would see him again. What would she say? What could she say? The idea of pursuing small talk now with her very own, personal Chosen One seemed, well, rather small. Had he been taken with her as she had been taken with him? It was possible. Anything was possible. Was he thinking about her right now? Maybe. Would he think she was crazy? Probably.
“Hey. You ever been bit by a dead bee?”
Jen started and gave a little yelp. “Huh?!”
Dorf twisted a corner of his mouth up. “Hey. Quiet, lady. This is a freakin’ library, you know.” And, before Jen could get her bearings back enough to respond, he was on his way again, hobbling efficiently towards his office.
Jen was embarrassed. She couldn’t even remember what she was supposed to have been doing. She would probably have been judged unfit for service of any kind that day. As she was chastising herself for acting like a lovesick twelve-year-old for the one-hundred and eleventh time that day, she had a vague recollection of being asked to relieve Helga at the checkout desk. She moved with some celerity in that direction, and an interesting idea occurred to her. She thought that she might have seen a book in Mike’s possession when he was at The Ear. That might mean that he was a reader, and if he was a reader, he might have need to visit a library from time to time. He might visit her library. Stranger things had happened. Now, with the thought in mind that every single library guest had the potential to be him, she moved with actual alacrity to where Helga, the Rhine maiden, was waiting a bit impatiently for her.
“Ja vol, vhere vere you?”
“I was on my way.”
“Ja vol, you are like das turtle, ach! Here is note for you from Herr Dorf. I go, for plans I am having!”
Helga went, her impossibly huge breasts leading the way. Jen looked down at her “note,” a scrap of torn off notebook paper on which was scrawled with a tell-tale lefty lean, “REM sucks my big, hairy balls. Love, Dorf.”
“Lovely, you big crass yard ape. Just lovely.” Jen spoke to no one in particular. Dorf might have heard her, and he might not have. He was notorious for kind of being everywhere at once in the library, and he was always where he was least expected to be. Business was apparently going to be slow today. It was extremely quiet, even for a library, and there were even vacant and completely available study carols. If he walked in now, she would have plenty of time to chat and be as utterly charming as possible. She was wearing her purple velvet “Juliet” dress with the truly impressive sleeves and black leather Frankenstein boots, so she was about as pleased as she ever was about her appearance.
Jen was thoroughly convinced that he would come . . . Any minute, he would walk through the front entrance and be there, right there, and entirely at her service. It would be poetically just, and it fell in perfectly with Jen’s own personal logic about how the universe worked. Jen believed that everything that happened in the world was plotted out by A Master Storyteller who generally favored happy endings. She was unquestionably devoted to optimism in all things, and tended towards the gothic in her tastes and dress because she trusted the dark as much as the light in its potential to produce and harbor good things, and she had an unconquerable sense of humor about herself that allowed her to see clothes as costume, and she truly loved the drama that came with velvet and leather.
A woman with a harried look approached her with a wry smile and an apology. She carried and armful of “Berenstain Bear” books and a screaming, writhing two-year-old. That was little Hannah, and she apparently had not had her nap that day. Not long after Hannah and her mom left, Patty came in to use the phone. Patty was one of the homeless people who made use of the library’s amenities on a daily basis. Jen thought that she had been looking particularly blighted lately, and worried that she might be using again. After Patty made her phone call and slumped off towards the restrooms, a lull of about half an hour ensued, during which Jen worked at perfecting her technique for making origami flapping birds. Then, Mrs. Teakwood, the gum-snapping ex-smoker who was in charge of the children’s section marched over, double-quick-time, in order to chastise her for not doing a task that actually wasn’t hers to do anyway. Jen nodded and tried to look contrite. She knew that if she continued to not do the thing, Mrs. Teakwood would continue to have something to complain about, and that would make her whatever the equivalent of “happy” was in Mrs. Teakwood World.
“Tiki” had been gone for about ten minutes when a young woman whom Jen reckoned to be about her own age wandered up to the checkout counter. She looked vaguely familiar and might only be described as ethereally beautiful . . . Blonde, glowing with confidence and perfect health, and completely bereft of physical blemish, she was both Galadriel and Gwenyvyre combined.
“Hi. Are you ready?” Jen greeted the pink-clad princess cheerfully and tried to place exactly where she had seen her before.
“Yes. Thank you.” A copy of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park was placed delicately on the solid surface that separated the two women.
“Ah. Mansfield Park. I thought that this was her most difficult one to get through. Maybe that’s just me, I don’t know.”
“No, that’s what I’ve generally heard, actually. This is the only one of hers that I haven’t read, so I definitely want to give it a try.”
Jen shrugged and smiled. “Well, it certainly ain’t “P and P,” but it’s still Jane Austen, and that’s all that it needs to be.” Jen took the library card that was offered for inspection, reading: Lisa Svenson. That didn’t ring any bells, but the truth was that she didn’t know the names of most of the people who regularly or semi-regularly visited either the library or Vincent’s Ear. She quickly completed the “checkout” procedure, and put the book back into the manicured hands that readily claimed it. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“Thank you. Have a good day.” Lisa Svenson turned and began to make her way towards wherever it is that earthbound angels go to read Jane Austen novels, leaving the slightest hint of vanilla-cinnamon scent behind her.
Jen made a mental note to take a copy of Pride and Prejudice with her when she left today. It had been a while since she had read the novel, and she suddenly felt an acute urge to revisit it. She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. It was 2pm, so Dorf would be soon calling on her for their smoke break. Steve could easily watch the counter for five minutes or so. After she got back from said break, she would have less than one hour remaining on her shift, so dream boy had better hustle if he was going to figure neatly into her story.
Dorf showed up, punctual as ever, and the smoking ritual went as it usually went, with the possible exception being that Dorf was a bit more vocal than usual in his endeavors to further abuse the lead singer of REM. After Jen had reassumed her post, only more three people came to check out books before three o’clock happened, all three of these folks were decidedly Not Mike, so the afternoon ended in a whimper, and Jen went off to her 3:30 class quite certain that the Great Storyteller in the sky had at least temporarily lost the thread of her narrative.