Leaving the Comfort Cafe (2 page)

Queen then added that Conyers, North Carolina, hadn’t seen a virgin in quite some time.

Maybe somewhere inside—so deep inside Austin was embarrassed to admit it was there—he thought Conyers could be like the worlds he drew during art electives and drawing classes. A world where the good guys still came out on top and where he actually was immortalized in marble, saved the day, and didn’t have to worry about snakes.

When Austin returned to Town Hall, the air conditioning kissed his face with gentle, cool breezes, and his lungs found they could stretch freely without strain or stifle. Town Hall was located in the sleepily deteriorating Conyers downtown business district, beside a public accountant’s office that only seemed to be busy during the first week of April. On the other side of Town Hall was a vacant store for rent that had been, at different times in its less-than-illustrious career, a sandwich shop, a ceramics studio, a thrift store, a bingo parlor, and, most recently, a discount shoe store. The large front window of Town Hall seemed to mysteriously attract the morning, noon, evening and afternoon light, as if by some conspiracy of nature, the sun believed it vital to flood the small lobby with an uncomfortable glare that caused visitors to squint, and employees to mercilessly overwork the air conditioner.

“Well, all hail the conquering hero,” Queen said from behind the receptionist’s counter, which was little more than a long, lopsided desk skillfully spruced up with a thick coat of cherry wood varnish. “Coulda told you that was a fool’s errand. ‘Hey,’ Robert says, ‘let’s pull a fast one on the new guy. Let’s send him to Snake Lady.’ I told him not to do it. But he said someone did it to him when he first came on board and someone did it to that to the town manager before him, and it was like a tradition or something. Dear God, just how old is that snake woman anyway?”

Austin walked across the fading light green carpet to the LeBleu water cooler in the corner of the lobby. He filled a small paper cup and drank it greedily.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Queen continued, “there are no snakes. There never have been. There probably never will be.”

“Yes, that does make me feel better.” Austin refilled his cup. “Of course, it would have made me feel much better if you had told me that before I left.”

Queen was the only one who had shown him any sympathy as he maneuvered through the political process of applying for the town manager position. She was the one who Googled directions for him and sent the text message to his cell phone when he took a wrong turn and actually crossed into Virginia. She was the one who told him that the mayor felt ties were pretentious and he should take his off before the interview. She was even gracious enough to arrange a short orientation period where Robert, the “old” town manager, could get him up to speed on the budget shortfall, the reservoir woes, the downtown renovation plans—and the “snake situation” on First and James Streets.

Austin was on his third cup. Surviving in Conyers would depend upon Queen. Most everyone called her Queen, though it wasn’t her name. Robert told Austin her name was actually Swahili for “lovely blessing.” It was a long, beautiful and rhythmic name that white people were not meant to be able to pronounce. Way back when, someone started calling her Queen, and the name stuck.

Her accent was distinct, yet refined. Her mocha complexion was smooth, like polished bronze. She wore her hair in traditional braids that were discretely tamed by a jeweled hair clasp. Austin wanted to comment on how beautiful her hair was, but was afraid his attempt at a compliment would somehow present itself as a politically incorrect comment, as if he expected her to leap from the pages of a Toni Morrison or Alice Walker novel as the proud, defiant and strong African woman rising above the insanity of her circumstances.

Instead, Austin shyly smiled and kept his mouth shut.

Queen’s deep Conyers connections of relatives, rich uncles and a slew of half-cousins five-times removed were the only things that could ensure good grace with the locals—a connection that she said had saved Robert from many a tar-and-feathering. How else would Robert have known you didn’t turn off Miss Inez’s water even if she was three months late? She always paid, didn’t she? Besides, Miss Inez had no family left and everyone in the town had to look out for her. Miss Inez lost her father in World War II, her brother in Korea and a son in Vietnam. She had a grandson in Iraq. You just don’t snap off someone’s water when they get a little behind after they’ve been through all that. You just don’t. It’s not Christian.

In the South, Tradition never dies. You can choke it and poison it and cuss it all you like—but it never really dies. Tradition had dated every one’s sister. Tradition had grown up with you in that old brick house across the street. Tradition delivered your morning paper on time and went to all the PTA meetings, unless, of course, they were on Wednesday. Wednesday was church night, and Tradition had to go to choir practice and take the kids to the GA and RA classes, where they made Popsicle stick puppets of Paul and Silas and learned about the church’s mission work, sharing the good news of Jesus with the heathens in the far curves of the world.

“Is Robert in his office?” Austin wanted to ask if orientation could be put on hold, giving him time to go home and change out of sweaty, mosquito-bombarded clothes.

“Is he supposed to be?”

“What?”

“Robert left.”

“When will he be back?”

“No, I mean, he left left.”

“But…we were going to go over the budget stuff this afternoon…that was the plan.”

Queen glanced at him with a stare that was half-pity, half-apology. “Well, that was the plan. But you know what a plan is, don’t you?”

“What?”

“A piece of paper.” She went to the fax machine, between the reception desk and the town manager’s office. “If you want to be a successful manager, you can forget about plans. Plans mean nothing. Robert got some call from the mayor and walked out, all in a tizzy. ‘Screw y’all!’ he said—you couldn’t help but hear him all the way down the hall because he was shouting. ‘Screw all of y’all.’ He slammed down the phone and came out of here carrying a cardboard box with all his personal office stuff.”

“Do you know where he went?” Austin investigated Robert’s vacant desk. What was earlier a mass of schedules, town budget shortfalls, and a schedule to brief Austin on the ins and outs of Conyers had somehow vanished into an invisible stratosphere, almost as if it never even existed to begin with, like it just kind of hovered in the same frequency as unicorns, vampires and Roswell aliens. The room was so clear and clean, it almost made Austin wonder if he had dreamed the entire event, as if he had never even arrived in Conyers, and everything—the Snake Lady, the slow, sweaty, steamy plodding through the field—was just a nightmare born from having too much pepperoni pizza before bed.

Everything that had identified the office as Robert’s had vanished—the photo with his wife at some tropical island, the silver letter opener engraved with his initials and the colorful Post-It notes with his name printed on the bottom. The office remainders—the shelves filled with books on the principles of effective management, innovative solutions for planning dilemmas, and a well-worn copy of Robert’s Rules of Order,

On the computer keyboard was a piece of paper with a message scrawled in hurried cursive:

Hey Austin: Welcome to hell.

Austin turned the paper over, halfway hoping that there would be a large “just kidding” plastered across the backside of the note, and it would be, like the Snake Lady, another sophomoric initiation stunt. No such luck. Austin held it up to the light, just in case there was a secret message for him written in invisible ink…invisible ink? Austin bit his lip and chastised himself.
Stop acting like you’re living in a comic book.

“I told him not to leave until you got back,” Queen entered the office and offered him conciliatory cup of freshly brewed coffee. Austin accepted it even though it was late August and 98 degrees outside. “Robert probably just headed home to salvage what’s left of his marriage and help his wife finish packing for the move. She accepted a job at some university in Ohio. She’s got a PhD in…something or other…geography, I think.”

“His wife is a college professor?” The nearest reputable university was over three hours away. “How did he ever convince her to move to Conyers?”

“You know, I’m not sure he ever actually did. Oh sure, her body moved here. But her mind and heart…well, that’s another matter. Didn’t help that he was here twenty-four/seven. Like he had to prove he was bringing home the bacon or something. Control freak.”

Austin sat in the desk chair. Suddenly he realized it was his chair. His desk. His job. His responsibility. His woeful lack of experience. His master’s degree so fresh off the presses he hadn’t had a chance to frame it. The chair had dark, vinyl upholstery that someone could possibly mistake for leather—if that someone was drunk. Austin found that the chair offered very little back support, and he wondered how long before chronic pain from muscle strain would set in.

“Queen, what am I doing here?”

“Do you think you got this job because you are the most qualified? Do you know why they hired some graduate school thirty-something? Oh, and by the way, that six-year stint in your resume where you were drawing children’s cartoons? That didn’t go over very well, either.”

“It was this animated series about—” Austin suddenly found his own voice whiny and childish. “Never mind. Look, I know that I’m green but—”

“Do you know why Conyers hasn’t kept a town manager for more than three years? This crazy little town has wrecked marriages, burned people out. As a matter of fact, one town manager even hanged himself right here in your office. Used the desk to step off of.”

“Dear Lord, are you serious?”

“No, but you should have seen your face.”

Austin had to laugh at himself.

“You just got this town management gig because you’re gunning for experience. You got no wife, you got no kids, you got no girl—”

“What makes you think I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you did. Everyone knows you’ll work your butt off for less money, and they can run you into the ground. Any decent candidate with experience wouldn’t touch this town—at least not for what they’re paying you.”

“How do you know what they’re paying me?”

“I know everything. So unless you want a heart attack before you’re forty, you’ll have to realize the sooner you stop depending upon plans and schedules and the way things should go, the longer you’ll keep your sanity.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Don’t worry.” She smiled. “Three years will go by faster than you realize. Oh, and here, just to make your day brighter, this fax came in from the state. She handed him a sheet of paper. “They turned down that community development grant you applied for. There was something wrong with your application.”

“You mean Robert’s application. I didn’t apply for this.”

“You did now.” As she left, she gave her half-pity, half-apology smile that Austin had a feeling was going to be a familiar sight.

Austin reviewed the document, trying to steady his racing mind enough to get up to speed on the issue. He took a pen from the desk and reviewed it carefully, making notes in the margin to remind him to ask the mayor and Alderman about the community renovation issues—a major project which Robert had somehow failed to mention in the preliminary interviews. But somehow, his marginal notes transformed into long, wavy doodles that formed a wavy Medusa-inspired snake beehive…like what the snake lady would sport if she were an actual Snake Lady.

Austin paused.

First day on the job and already defacing town documents. His eyes desperately searched for a shredder. The only one was by the fax machine. To get to the fax machine, he would have to walk near the reception desk, and Queen. And leaving his office meant the risk that Queen would discover his artistic antics. He quickly transposed any information he needed into his Palm Pilot and ripped the paper into microscopic fragments.

What happened to the small town Southern charm that was supposed to let him be free to indulge his hobbies? What happened to weekends of fishing on the reservoir and enjoying a slice of pecan pie advertised as the “best in the world” on a scrawled sign in the window of the local mom-and-pop restaurant? What about the long speech the mayor gave him in the job interview: “Conyers is a sleepy small town, free from the hectic pace of city traffic and urban crime. We like it that way.”

Austin gave himself permission to go home and change out of his sweaty clothes. After telling Queen to hold all his calls until he got back—or until he could get a prescription for Prozac—he decided, perhaps if he sampled the best pecan pie in the world, today would not be a complete loss.

At the Comfort Café, the only thing louder than the clattering silverware was the tacky Formica tables and wood paneling left over from the seventies. There was a large, accordion-fold divider where rooms could be partitioned off into smaller spaces for special events. A flier tacked on the wall announced Lion’s Club and Kiwanis meetings. Country bacon sizzled the patrons to a higher cholesterol level. Eggs were almost always served scrambled (no matter how they were ordered).

The farmers stopped in for their coffee and claimed it was the only place able to make biscuits the way their mamas made them. Teenagers who recently earned their driver’s licenses stopped to show off their wheels in the parking lot, despite the fact it was littered with poorly patched potholes. The teens always ordered jam and biscuits to go—so the owners of the café wouldn’t accuse them of taking prime parking areas away from paying customers. Migrant workers frequented the area on their breaks, dabbling Texas Pete sauce on what seemed like every menu item, and gathering outside at the payphone with their tarjetas de teléfono to speak with relatives in Mexico. Even the waitresses added their tune to the noisy dishware-clatter symphony, registering complaints in between orders about how the Democrats were ruining the country (or the Republicans, depending upon who was working). Dissected sections of the Raleigh News and Observer decorated the dining area. Patrons smoked fearlessly in front of the sign that read “Thank You for Not Smoking.”