Leaving the Comfort Cafe (11 page)

“Now, let’s get you some fancy underwear,” Blythe said.

“No really, I—”

“Oh come on. Everything about you screams tightie whitey. It’s just pathetic.”

Austin wanted to tell her that he wore boxers, thank you very much, just to prove she was wrong about him. Just to prove there was much more to him underneath the surface.

“Now, the thing that most people don’t get is that going to the store before a hurricane isn’t about getting supplies like extra batteries or a case of beer to help you pass the time.” Blythe’s voice delicately rose and sang as if she were giving a college lecture on economics. “It’s all about socializing. It’s seeing what’s going on, measuring the political climate, visiting with cousins you haven’t seen in a while—learning who’s sleeping with who.”

“What?”

“Take that couple.” Blythe pointed out an older man with a cane and glasses hobbling down the medicine aisle to get some stool softener, Austin was sure. A blonde woman, appearing to be in her mid-forties, walked steadily behind him.

“What about them?” he asked.

“He’s sleeping with her. He’s eighty and she’s forty, and he’s sleeping with her.”

“How can you tell? That might be his daughter for all you know.”

“He’s getting Viagra, you know,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I used to date the pharmacist.”

Dating the pharmacist? I don’t even want to know what kind of drug discounts she got.

“If you see them in the Shoppe together, it’s pretty much a sure thing that they’ve hunkered down for the storm together,” Blythe continued. “You’ll see someone whose wife is out of town with someone whose husband is out of town. They’ll be buying breakfast food, coffee, doughnuts and wine. Doughnuts and wine. Ever had that? Doughnuts and wine? I mean, come on. Who do they think they’re kidding? Then the day after a storm, all you have to do is wander down to the deli and see who is sitting together drinking a large cup of coffee, saving a few last seconds before their spouse returns to town.”

He scanned the shopping area for familiar faces. The last thing he needed was to be accused of going on a shopping expedition during a town crisis. “I’ve got to get back to Town Hall.”

“I’m not sending you back to town hall without some decent underwear.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to be looking at it.”

“That’s what they always say, hon. That’s what they always say.” She rubbed her velvety hand on his cheek, which, thanks to skipping his shaving routine this morning, was peppering pieces of stubble around his chin, indicating where his beard would grow if just given a chance.

She thrust Austin into the men’s department and held up a novelty pair of boxers up to his crotch. They had some cartoon character on it that he did not recognize, and he recognized about all the cartoon characters. Austin stepped back slightly, figuring the farther his testicles were away from Blythe, the better.

“Nah, these are much better.” She handed him a silk pair with blue and green hearts on it. They were fifty percent off, and Austin suspected they were originally meant for Valentine’s Day sales but were never purchased. No wonder. They were ugly as sin. Blythe tossed them into the cart.

“Now don’t wait for a special occasion to wear them,” Blythe snapped. “If you wait for a special occasion to wear them, then you just end up waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. And then you’re old and ugly, and no one wants to see you in them anyway. Waiting never did anybody any good.”

“I, uh—”

“They’re half off and they’re silk. End of discussion.”

What is this girl on?

Then she dragged Austin to the kitchen utensils where she picked up a large, twelve-inch copper-bottomed skillet.

“This is perfect.” She almost let slip a schoolgirl chuckle. “This is exactly what I need for today.”

“What are you planning to cook?”

“Cook? Hell, no. This is what you could use to kill somebody.”

Austin’s stomach wanted to find someplace to hide.

“Just kidding, hon. Actually, I wanted a skillet like those professional chefs you see on TV fixing Coq au Vin. It’s from some little village in France. I think.”

“Coq au Vin?”

“No. It’s pronounced coke-a-vaaaan. The long ‘aaahhh.’ You know, rounded lips,” and she pursed her soft pink mouth and made a long ‘aaahhh’ sound, loud enough to draw the attention of people the next aisle over. “Don’t you watch the cooking shows?”

Why would I watch one of those cooking shows?
“No, actually, I don’t.” Maybe this is what she uses to battle snakes, evildoers and corrupt politicians…

“Now…ooo—looky!” She bee-lined directly to the toy department. “Was there ever a toy you wanted to have as a child that your mom would never let you have?”

“Well, I always wanted a moped.”

“Child, I said child. Children don’t drive mopeds. Thank God. Hate to see that. Hm. Maybe your mom wouldn’t let you have a GI Joe.”

“Actually, I had three—”

“Let’s see…” She scurried down the toy lane, paying no heed to a stray child who was trying to open a toy cap gun. “Here you go,” she picked up the first GI Joe action figure she saw. “Wait, here’s one with kung fu grip!” she sputtered, dropping the other GI Joe carelessly to the floor, where the stray child immediately pounced upon it like a hungry wolf.

“Where are the heroes?”

“I know, Austin. There aren’t any heroes any more. Well, other than firefighters and cops, and of course, we don’t pay them enough for—”

“No, I mean, the superheroes. Don’t they carry any of the comic characters?” The words jumped from his mouth before he had a chance to wrestle them into submission. He feared a glance of surprise in Blythe’s hazel gaze, but instead, she showed a brief flicker of admiration.

“That’s the spirit. Get into the superheroes. Definitely. Though I don’t know why any of the guys would wear tights. I can’t get past that.”

“Actually, you’d be surprised at the market for graphic novels now. They’re like a …a…” He realized his voice was revving up the speed, fueled by enthusiasm he had tried to keep hidden away from the quiet town of Conyers.

“You’re an artist. I knew it.”

“What do you mean, you knew it?”

“Fingernails.” She held up Austin’s right hand, folding his fingers gingerly into hers. “You see, there’s nothing new about guys with fingernails that are less than perfect. No metrosexuals in Conyers—but yours have this small, slight crease of gray right around the edge where the less-than-particular can miss in washing hands. Right there, it’s from pencil smudges. From drawing.”

“Well, you’ve got me pegged. Failed artist. Living right here in Conyers. If the mayor finds out, he’ll think I’m with Jane, arranging a coup de ètat for the residency program.”

“No, there’s something else. What are you working on?”

“Nothing right now.”

“No, you’re working on something. Artists are always working on something. That’s why they’re artists.”

“Well, I must not be an artist, because I’m not working on anything right now.”

“No, you are, even if you don’t realize it yet. You’re working on something. You’re just afraid to let the idea settle in.”

“I don’t have time for ideas. There’s a storm ahead.”

“But storms are the perfect place for ideas!” She balanced herself with one foot on the bottom of the cart and used her other foot to gently push her down the aisle, her hair cascading around her, evoking an image of—not exactly flight—but of an effortless careening through water, the kind that previously only mermaids and dolphins and otters have known.

“My mom said she thought—”

“Your mom? Dear God, how old are you? Parents always think. That’s their problem. They think all the time. Think, think, think, think and leave nothing left but crumbs for everyone else. I can’t say I blame them. I mean, they’ve got to think because that’s their job. You can’t expect the kids to think, because, well, they’re kids. And even if we’re adults without children, we find that the thinking…well, the thinking has somehow rubbed off on us. It’s rubbed hard on our brain, and now we just sit there and scratch our head and say, ‘remember when it was fun just to play? When it was fun just to be?’”

With one motion of her arms, she collected a waterfall of action figures: science fiction, superhero, military, fuzzy pony (Blythe got those for herself), pirate ship and football star.

“What are you doing with all those?” Austin was afraid to hear the answer, but he knew he had to ask the question.

“We’re having a play date. The Town Hall. Tonight. You and me. I’ll be your muse. We’ll set the stage and you can draw or scribble or whatever you do.”

“I’ve got a town to run.”

“And I’ve got tables to wait on.” She turned and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think you’re better than anyone else, ever, just because of what you do. What we do is just seconds to pass the time and buy the bread. Nothing more.”

She scurried to the check out line, as if by running a little faster she could escape the hoards of people that had been there for hours ahead of her. There were at least fourteen checkout lines, but only seven of them were open. Crowds bottlenecked. Parents tried to keep children out of the candy bars and other assorted goodies strategically placed by the cashiers. Bored customers picked up the latest edition of the celebrity magazines, passing the time by finding out just who exactly were the best and worst dressed people at the latest Hollywood award show. Workaholics whose schedule had been interrupted by the weather alert were checking voice mail via their cell phones. All in all, it erupted into an annoying type of rattling jukebox that could overwhelm even the most patient patrons.

Blythe was not patient. She also had the skillet.

“You know what’s wrong with this line? It’s that sixteen-year-old they made a cashier. Popping her gum. Paying no mind. Like she’s somehow above all of us,” Blythe said.

“Maybe another line will move quicker.”

“No. I’m a customer, and I demand good customer service. I’m a high-maintenance gal.”

“I believe that,” he said.

“Well, this is stupid. Why don’t they open up the other lines? We’re not exactly splitting the atom here.”

As the line edged closer, they noticed the cashier was talking over her shoulder to her co-worker and halfheartedly scanning the items while the other bagged them. They were laughing back and forth about someone’s boyfriend and who they had a crush on and why the guy she dated last weekend had never called her.

Blythe erupted. “Hey, sweetheart, no one cares about your boyfriend.”

The cashier merely raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. She scanned the items even slower out of spite. “I might have to get a price check on this one,” she leveled her eyes at Blythe. “This might take a while.”

Austin tried to distract her by talking about bread and milk and eggs and if they should get some, but her machine-gun glare was focused solely on the cashier. Blythe’s palms grew sweaty, and she shifted her fingers on the hand that was holding the skillet.

The cashier leaned over into the small microphone that controlled the public address system, and in her most brassy voice cried out, “Price check on line two.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Blythe squealed.

The checkout girl, like something out of a John Updike A&P nightmare, slowly put down her scanning gun.

“Sweetheart,” the cashier cocked her head to one side. “If you think you can do a better job, be my guest.”

Austin did not like her tone in the word “sweetheart.”

With a smooth, cat-like pounce, Blythe jumped behind the counter and forcefully—yet not violently—moved the cashier aside.

“Now,” Blythe called to the crowd. “Let’s buy this stuff and get out of here.”

Even the jaded cashier had to take notice of Blythe’s nimble fingers and natural smile. She scanned everything quickly, and even double-checked the price on the register’s digital screen. She managed double coupons like she was on a mission from God, and she even had the chance for friendly, customer-service-oriented small talk: “Well, how are the twins this week? They still sick? You’ve got to see that new Richard Gere movie...”

The loudspeakers blared, “Manager to checkout line two. Manager to checkout line two,” in a manner reminiscent of all the descriptions of communist propaganda broadcasts. Austin looked around for security guards whom he was afraid would judge him guilty by association.

“I love this thing,” Blythe said, holding up a paraffin wax treatment spa someone was buying. “Hey Austin! Have you ever had these done? These are awesome. You’ll love this.”

Then, the hustling crabbiness of the crowd transformed into one of those magical moments you think only exist in black-and-white Christmas movies. The customers were not griping. Some were laughing at Blythe’s moxie. Austin thought he even heard a few sighs of “A-men” and “It’s about time” Blythe had an innate sense of people. She asked the man with the fishing lures if he had ever been fly-fishing. She told the folks with bread and milk that they didn’t need to panic about the storm, that she was there with the town manager and he assured her that everything was perfectly under control.

When the manager arrived, the teenage cashier had pulled him aside and was shaking a disgruntled finger at Blythe, who by now was cracking some jokes and keeping customers entertained while they waited.

When Austin got to his turn to check out, he paid for the boxers and Blythe dropped them, along with his change, in the plastic bag.

“Let’s go.” She took the action figures, and, as if her eyes contained some type of cyborg bionic scanning implant, calculated the total plus the sales tax, and left what she determined to be the exact amount on the black conveyor belt without even ringing the items up. She left the skillet behind.

“You don’t want the skillet?”

“Nah, I got what I need,” she said.

“Toys are more important than a skillet you could kill a man with?”

“Sometimes, yes, sometimes they are.”

As they headed for the automatic doors, the manager called behind them, “Miss. I just witnessed your little hostile takeover.”