Poetry & Blueberry Pancakes

SHORT FICTION

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sleeping in, although I really need it after waiting until the last minute to write an article. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back to sleep, but the aroma of freshly brewed Colombian coffee and blueberry pancakes tickles my nostrils. I smile, feeling content. I love blueberry pancakes so much that it’s almost criminal. If I were on death row, my last meal would definitely be blueberry pancakes and chewy chocolate chip cookies. I’d wash it down with a satisfying mug of Colombian coffee. Just thinking about it makes me want to moan with delight.

Then it hit me: I live alone. Who the heck is in my house? So, I armed myself. My bed linen had swallowed my sidearm, so I grabbed a whiffle ball bat. You may wonder why a grown man would have a whiffle ball bat in a word: grandkids. You may also be wondering how a plastic bat would do any damage. It will, I assure you. Let me explain.

I concede that you may not have heard of anyone getting the beatdown with a whiffle ball bat. Simply put, no one would ever admit to this happening to them. Imagine the shame and ridicule they would receive from peers and family. The victims would go to extreme lengths to come up with a backstory to explain their faces being covered in welts. They could even enlist the genius of their cousin, who spun ridiculously plausible stories to get them out of troublesome situations. However, when the cousin looks at them blankly for a moment, they state, “I got nothing.” The victims respond, “Really?” Their cousin hands them a beer and says, “Looks like you need this.” They nod and take a swig.

I walked into the kitchen, ready to do damage, thinking of all the houses on the block and how dare they pick mine. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Ursula. Ursula was my muse, who had seen me since the illness. She seemed to disappear without any explanation.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked.

She shot me a puzzled look. “You’re writing again; you need me.”

I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. “Really? I do. It’s not like you’ve been around to know,” I replied.

She paused momentarily before answering; her expression hurt. “Hun, you got sick and started babbling about quitting the game. I didn’t know how to handle it. With Aunt Harry covering the bar, I figured it was a good time to take a holiday.”

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the skillet.

She smiled. “Your favorite,” she said, lifting a plate of blueberry pancakes. I took the plate and headed towards the office, but then stopped as I realized something.

“Why do you have a beard?” I asked.

“Hun, you know beards are in fashion now. Don’t be silly,” she remarked.

I stared at her, considering her logic. “But you’re a girl, so go shave,” I demanded, pointing my finger toward the bathroom.

She scoffed as she turned off the skillet, then stormed towards the bathroom, yelling, “Fine…go put some pants on!” over her shoulder as she closed the door.

I stood puzzled momentarily, then realized I was standing in my boxers. I poured myself a cup of coffee and then put the coffee and the pancakes in the office. I slipped on a pair of shorts and began eating my breakfast. I was on my second helping of pancakes when Ursula finally emerged from the bathroom. She was freshly showered, sporting a blank tank top and khaki shorts. Though it had been a while since I had seen her, she still had a banging body and would be considered attractive by most men. However, she had a minor setback. Ursula had lime green skin and crimson eyes that sparkled when her ideas flowed. They were on fire now.

Ursula began explaining her ideas on how we could succeed with the magazine. As she spoke, I stopped eating and started taking notes. I don’t particularly appreciate taking notes on a story but I haven’t found a way to avoid it yet. The more I wrote, the more she spoke. Ursula was typically a pain in the butt and a bit of a slave driver, but it felt good to be working again. So, I groaned inwardly. We were almost done with the layout for the next few months when there was a knock at the door.

I opened the door to find my cousin standing there. Like most family members, he assumed he had an open invitation to my home, arriving unannounced and expecting to be welcomed. He lifted his head, sniffed the air, smacked his lips as if tasting the air, and headed to the kitchen without saying a word. Then, he fixed himself a plate and returned to the front porch, where we typically sit when the weather permits. I brought him a cup of coffee and placed it beside him. As he ate, he occasionally mumbled about how delicious the pancakes were. Ursula sat on the railing and lit a Cohiba, her preferred cigar. Eventually, my cousin finished his pancakes, and we began our usual banter, reminiscing about our mothers and the good old days.

Right on cue, my cousin starts reciting some Don L. Lee. He hits me with, “But He Has Cool,” or “He even stopped for green lights.” My cousin’s rhythm and cadence are second to none. I found myself leaning back in the chair, swaying as he went straight into his rendition of “Big Momma,” another Don L. Lee standard. Ursula also felt him and nearly fell off the banister; I chuckled. I hit him with a medley consisting of “The Poet” by Dunbar and a bit of “The Backlash Blues” by Hughes, capping it off with a dash of “I Know My Soul” by Mckay.

My cousin responds, “Boy, you think you’re bad, don’t you.” “I learned from you; I ought to be!” I remark.

He smiles and hits me with Hayden’s “The Ballad of Nat Turner.” I’m floored; I wasn’t expecting that one. Though Ursula is smiling, she taps her wrist, signaling that we must return to work. I pretend not to notice. My cousin starts reciting “Black Jam for Dr. Negro” by Mari Evans. I wave my hands in defeat but deliver Jean Toomer’s “Georgia Dusk” to make it sting. He’s on fire today, and I need to do something. I think for a moment; then it hits me. I hit him with a double dose of Rilke, starting with “Going Blind” and following up with the prose piece “Faces.” And just for good measure, I slide into the opening sequence of the prologue of Ellison’s “Invisible Man.”

He sat back in the chair and shot me a stern look. “There you go cheating… you know this is poetry only!”

I chuckled with a wide grin. “Oops, my bad.” We burst into laughter.

“Hun, we really need to get back to work!” Ursula exclaims.

I lift my arms in surrender. “Okay… okay, we’re finished, girl… hold on a minute.”

My cousin shoots me a strange look after he looks around the porch. “Cuz, who are you talking to?”

“Ursula, that lime green pain in the butt sitting on the banister,” I state as I point in her direction.

My cousin slowly turns around and looks back at me. “Lime green, huh?”

“Uh-huh… yep.”

His eyes dart in that direction, then back to me. “I don’t see anybody… and you don’t either! What do you have in that cup?”

With a shy smile, I lift my cup. “Colombian,” and take a sip.

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~thank you for reading~