Jakob Bailey
Jakob Bailey is a fiction writer from Nashville, Tennessee. While home he spends time working in multiple writing groups, studying wine, and hosting large dinner parties. In the morning, with coffee, Jakob reads the classics and unpublished work.
Pancakes and Smoke
The second roommate I had wasn’t all there. Not that he was slow, or dimwitted, he had a charming demeanor and an infectious attitude that livened any stale/boring conversation. He could quote Marxist theories and on one occasion when asked the capital of a midwestern state he piped in with the correct answer. In the morning, he followed step by step routines and his bed was always made because of this. At 9am he had coffee (black) and toast with jam (strawberry) along with two eggs and a slice of cheese. He preferred silence with breakfast and read work from authors who died only from suicide which supplied him with an endless amount of reading (sadly). In all intents and purposes, he was a sophisticated intellectual with a keen eye for opportunity and a clear path towards success. Where he failed was his complete disconnect from anything beyond himself. It wasn’t that he was self-absorbed, or even egotistical, it was as if the universe didn’t exist beyond him. For example: if he was in a room with no clock or window and I asked him the time his answer would be so far off I’d nearly think he was joking. This test could be done even if he just came from outside and the sun was directly in the sky; as soon as he was away he couldn’t tell me if it was night or day. But if I asked him what he thought about the destructive nature of Beyers buyout of Monsanto he’d give me a detailed argument, along with sources and website data to back his findings. His, for lack of a better word, “disability” was brought about from his obsessive mother named Roberta.
Roberta was an odd bird. She cared for her son more than anything else. Sal would talk about his mother daily, and the stories he would tell cast her in a dazzling spotlight. He’d describe how she once was a great opera singer, and about her love affair with Fidel Castro‘s brother. Plus the time she spent in France and Italy, walking along old railroad tracks searching for the meaning of suffering and the plight of the people. Sal only had one photo of her which he kept in a nice golden frame by his bedside table. She was a powerful looking woman with a deep chin and molded arms. In the end, he’d explain how she “gave it all up,” (his words, not mine) to raise a family, giving birth to a healthy boy named Salvador. Sal grew into a skinny, jointed man, with a large square head and dark hair that reached out in every direction. Upon Sal, she placed the burden of carrying all her regrets. And Sal believed that his mother’s dreams were the lifeblood of creation. He pined for her approval and put her plans for him above all else; in return, he was given constant attention.
In the morning Sal would start talking. It was always some quick sentence, like “It bothers me how underrated grasshoppers are,” and I’d be left to fend for myself on what the hell he meant. Other times he’d give a detailed argument and talk until I left for work and he’d follow me to the door waving his arms, talking the entire way. For the first few weeks of Sal’s stay, he wasn’t home in the evenings. I’d only see him in the morning, and we’d talk, or not, then he’d be gone as if he never existed until the next morning where I’d find his skinny frame hunched over his suicide fiction mentally digesting something that would spring forth the moment he finished his last sip of coffee.
His nightly disappearances began to change while I was eating a strawberry pop tart over the kitchen sink. I cupped one of my hands underneath my chin to catch any spare crumbs but I wasn’t overly concerned and let bits and pieces fall into an empty cup. Sal was in the living room finishing his coffee. I remember thinking about work or more particular not working and for some strange reason our apartment smelled of sulfur. Sal sighed, then started: “The moon is something that gives me hope for the human race.”
I was still in the kitchen finishing the last of my pop tart when Sal cast his voice out. Which wasn’t unusual. He’d start talking regardless if I was in the same room as him, on the phone, or the toilet. I’d often have to shout if I couldn’t hear him, but it wouldn’t make a difference. If Sal was going to talk he was going to talk.
“Think about it,” Sal said, or at least his voice did, I still couldn’t see him. “The moon is slowly moving away from our planet, and millions of years ago it was a lot closer, and many millions of years from now it will be further away. What’s amazing is that humans, the first form of this planet's higher intelligence, happened to evolve when the moon was the perfect distance away to appear the same size as the sun. Making it possible for solar eclipses. If we evolved two billion years earlier, or two billion years later, the magnificent spectacle of the solar eclipse would be wasted on eukaryotic cells and water.”
I wiped the crumbs from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand before turning towards the living room. Sal was sitting on the couch in his large puffy pajamas causing him to look like a cross-legged sultan. His book was on the table next to an empty coffee cup. A half-eaten egg sat on a plate.
I licked my lips and asked, “Do you think it’s divine intervention that caused it?”
Sal looked up surprised and seemed to bounce out of his seat. He was restless and full of energy. “Of course not,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the idea. “Just mere coincidence. But I do think we need to appreciate how rare it is to be here on Earth now. Of all times. Simply life existing at all is amazing but to be around during all this,” he spread his arms out taking in everything, “it’s incredible. Unimaginable.” He picked up his fork and attacked the last of the egg with a vengeance. “You know,” he said with his mouth full, his cheeks swelled. “It’s hard to take into account all that’s happened to put us here, but maybe the moon’s played a larger part in it. Maybe it’s more than a chance that all things are in line,” he said twirling the last bit of egg around on his fork like it was a sparkler on the 4th of July. “Oh,” he swallowed. “I’m having someone over later.”
“Tonight?” I asked.
Sal shrugged like he didn’t understand the question. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Fine,” I said and checked the time. “I have to get to work.”
“Be sure to take a look at the moon while you’re out there,” Sal said.
I left, it was a little past 9am and the moon was nowhere to be found.
It was nine days before Sal’s friend came over. This was towards the end of the year and work was busy so I hadn’t put much thought towards it. Nor had I brought it up to Sal. The effort of trying to get him to remember his declaration of someone coming over or trying to get him to pin down an actual time was pointless, if not impossible. Instead I got to work. The weather had gotten cold and I’d started wearing a long jacket. Sal still had coffee every morning and ate his eggs, and cheese, and kept his bed made. He moved from one dead author to the next and continued long discussions in the morning and talked about his mother. (“My mother Roberta, have I told you about her? Surely I have. She used to wrestle lions back when she traveled with the circus. This was during her days in Austria. She lived an incredible life before she gave it all up.”) This was our set pattern and I’d come to rely on Sal’s routine as if it were my own. Wake up, make bed, prepare coffee, heat eggs, eat at nine; all rather impressive for someone who never checked a clock or asked for the time. I recalled reading in National Geographic about birds using their trigeminal nerve to sense the changes in the Earth's magnetic field as they flew closer to the equator and further from the poles, watching Sal I came to a sneaking suspicion that he used some similar nerve to navigate time and he broke it down into different fragments from the rest of us. His whole presence took on an animalistic nature to me, a simpler way of life. Everyone else seemed to evolve to the result of pointlessness except for Sal. He wouldn’t question his nature any more than a field mouse would question its day to day habits digging around in scrapes of hay before settling in for the night.
I remember the day Sal’s friend showed up was unusually warm in the evening but started cold. I’d worn my long dark jacket to work and regretted it by the time I left. I’d even worn a scarf. That’s how cold it was in the morning. Walking home, which I did most nights, I grew hot and sticky and the fabric of the scarf stuck to my neck before I took it off and carried it. When I got back to our apartment I was surprised to see our lights were on. This was the first time Sal had ever been home when I returned from work. Underneath a street light, a young boy who lived around the complex blew kisses to a girl taking advantage of the strange heat. I unlocked my front door and stepped inside and was greeted with the most incredible laugh I’d ever heard. It was long and deep like a tuba with a poor performer. It was strangely familiar and uninhibited by any form of embarrassment. The type of laugh you forgot existed in the world and disappeared along with western saloons and WWI. I was shocked by the sudden realization that it was Sal laughing and that it was the first time I heard him laugh, and how much I wanted to hear him laugh again. It was like the world was reborn and rebuilt and I felt an instant companionship with whoever was making Sal laugh that way. I could hear him in the kitchen talking in between each chuckle, along with the clatter of dishes and a female voice I didn’t recognize. The apartment smelled sweet, like bourbon or mild cologne. I walked towards the kitchen drawn towards Sal’s laugh and found myself smiling, his joy was contagious and fluttered through the apartment. My scarf was tightly gripped in my hand and I hadn’t taken my coat off. In the kitchen I found Sal leaning over the stove cooking pancakes on a griddle. He was distracted and talking about applying aloe vera to burn wounds, he cast his head back laughing in a carefree way. He reminded me of a horse whinnying. His teeth stuck out and I had never seen him so relaxed. He was talking to a woman holding a cigarette in a tight black dress who I recognized immediately to be his mother. She was laughing too and her arm holding the cigarette was resting on her hip while her other arm wrapped around her stomach and gripped her elbow. Her eyes wrinkled in rehearsed lines like players in a Broadway act. Her irises shone like spotlights. She was portly and carried her weight well, like she just finished performing in a 1920’s vaudeville act. Her hair was even done the same. Primped and curled. I couldn’t help but start laughing along with them just from the sight of the two and they turned to look at me and Sal stretched out his arms. In one hand he was holding a spatula.
“Welcome!” he said. “We’re making breakfast. My mother was just telling me a joke about Otto von Bismarck but you arrived at the perfect time. The topic was about to change.” Try as I might I couldn’t think of anything funny enough about Bismarck to make them laugh the way they were.
“Topics are always changing, my dear,” Sal’s mother said ashing her cigarette into the sink. “That’s what gives beauty to the dance of conversation.”
It was quick and sudden. Immediately I realized I wasn’t dramatic enough for either of these two. A cloud of smoke hovered against the ceiling and mixed with the smell of maple syrup.
“My word! Forgive my manners,” Sal said setting down the spatula and shaking my hand, he gripped my elbow and ushered me into the kitchen right up against his mother. “This is my Mom, Roberta.”
Roberta looked me up and down disappointed like I failed to impress her. She offered her hand the way a duchess would and turned her head to the side, I shook it and took a step back. “I understand you live with my son,” she said. I was still wearing my coat and twisted my scarf in my hand and wondered if my face was shiny from the hot walk home, it was warm in the kitchen. Sticky even. Sal went right back to his pancakes and hummed a tune. “Now, now, Mother,” Sal said. “I live here. Jonas is the one who found the place.”
Roberta exhaled a large cloud of smoke. Even though she wasn’t much taller than me her presence felt huge and towering. Like the top of her head was lost in the clouds. “My dear Sal,” she said. “You live with no one. The world only lives with you.”
Sal laughed again, casting his head back into a whinny showing his teeth. He flipped a pancake and it popped against the griddle. Roberta ashed her cigarette again. The ashes fell into the sink and stuck to a ceramic plate. “Tell me, young man,” she said. “What do you do for work?”
Sal said, “Jonas works as a data analyst for a—“
“Sal,” Roberta cut in with a soft motherly tone, “I asked your friend.”
Sal stayed smiling and went back to the tune he was humming and poked at his pancakes.
“It’s like Sal said,” I chimed in.
“Data analyst,” she repeated projecting each syllable with the tip of her tongue. She smiled and laughed and her eyes wrinkled. “We all have to do something,” she said.
“You got that right, Momma,” Sal said shaking his hips to the tune in his head flipping a pancake along the way.
The kitchen kept getting hotter and I was certain my face was shiny now. All I wanted was to dunk myself in a pool of fresh ice water and let my pores explode from the shock. Anything to remove me from the sweet smoke that hung in my apartment. I excused myself by saying I needed to use the restroom and took off my jacket and hung up my scarf. In the bathroom, I splashed water on my face and pressed a towel against it. Going back out Sal and his mother had set the table. In the center a large stack of pancakes stood like an obelisk in the Egyptian desert. A place was set for me, I slid my chair out and sat down without saying a word. I felt like an unwanted guest in my own home. Sal was excited to have us both there. He grabbed pancakes and loaded them on our plates and got out butter and syrup, passing them to each of us. He bounced up and down radiating energy.
“You know Jonas, my mother can tell the most incredible stories,” Sal stated. “Why don’t you tell us one?”
“Perhaps after dinner,” Roberta said with fainted interest, applying butter to her pancakes.
This quieted Sal for a moment then he burst forth. “Oh Jonas. You’re in for a real treat. A real treat,” he said slapping his knee.
I nodded. Roberta had her eye on me like I might misbehave; I thought it best not to speak. It was late and I was getting tired. The heaviness of the pancakes didn’t help. They landed dully on my stomach coaxing me into a slumber, the warm apartment and the sugary smell of syrup was overpowering. We ate in silence (Sal wouldn’t stop smiling, laughing on occasion) but Roberta was quiet and took very small bites and after each one dabbed her lips with a napkin. Once we’d finished Sal cleared the table. I moved to the living room and Roberta went to Sal’s room and got a bottle of Armenian plum brandy. She poured us each a cup and lit another cigarette. The brandy was sweet, at first, then burnt on the way down. Sal dimmed the lights and the faint bulb caught in tobacco smoke covering the living room in a dim motion-filled shadow. The room swayed like an old boat and I grew sleepier by the moment.
“What would you like to hear, my son?” Roberta asked.
Sal was sitting on the edge of his seat. “Anything. They’re all good.”
Roberta thought on this and inhaled her cigarette blowing out more smoke. I was sinking ever lower into the couch like tar mixed with quicksand.
“Should we talk about Indiana?” Roberta asked.
“With all the mud?” Sal said. He was resting his head on his hands reminiscent of a child listening to their favorite teacher. “It’s unfitting on such a peaceful night. Tell us something with suspense.”
Roberta twisted in her seat. “How about David?”
Sal lit up. “Yes! David’s good.”
“Would you like to start?” Roberta asked.
Sal shook his head.
Roberta took a sip of brandy before starting. I was lost in the couch.
“When Sal was in his early years he spent a lot of time with a boy named David. David was the same age as Sal and they’d take long bike rides together stopping to catch lizards and snakes, scraping up their clothes and getting grass stains. Typical boy stuff. David was bigger than Sal, he’d yet to lose any baby fat and had round puffy cheeks that turned red with minimal effort. Sal was always skinny. They were inseparable. I’d watch them from the living room window playing in the yard, making toy soldiers fight. Sal would be smiling and laughing. He was full of energy and bounced around and spent long hours talking. David was quiet. He’d listen and inject his opinion. He’d not always agree with Sal, which I thought was good. Challenging a growing boy is necessary for his development, but David sometimes grew angry.” Roberta stopped. She spoke plainly in a matter-of-fact voice that added a sense of casualness to her story. Sal was quiet. She smoked a bit then continued, “His anger wasn’t stimulated by anything beyond the frustration of Sal’s endless energy. Sal talked and talked, slapping his belly and David turned redder and redder, his puffy cheeks turning into large red apples. When David had had enough his face knotted together and he’d stomp his feet telling Sal to be quiet and Sal would laugh and shake his head slapping his stomach some more. Poor Sal didn’t understand that not everyone was like him, that not everyone questioned everything and wanted to talk about it. That to some people not-thinking was even possible. David was simple. His parents were simple, his life was simple, Sal was the only thing out of the ordinary so David clung to him. I’m certain that’s what brought him back day after day. It was a break from the mundane. A short relieve from normality. Sal has a way of causing reality to become distorted,” Roberta said proudly. Sal smiled. I was so far gone. “As the weeks passed, David became more and more obsessive with Sal. He wanted him to think a certain way, to focus on one task, he tried training him. He soon found out that Sal was unmalleable. He’d laugh during David’s outrage, he’d smile when David was serious. I let it continue for the sake of them both. It wasn’t harming Sal, and it was good for David to learn that some people in life you can’t control. But David tried and tried again. He’d come over red in the face, his round plump body; so different from Sal’s, he’d instruct while Sal sang or slapped his stomach, he’d talk about the circle of life while Sal tapped his feet on the ground and danced. David saw a genius in Sal and wanted to nurture it. Coaching it out of him.” Roberta became pensive and poured herself more brandy. Her cigarette was finished and she fished another one out of her purse. Sal yawned. I seeped lower into the couch. Roberta’s words turned into an inky blackness that threatened my ability to take the world on. I was helpless, locked into the couch and could feel the frustration of David’s endless plight to instruct Sal. Roberta found a match and with a crackle and pop, she lit her cigarette. “When Sal wound up missing I knew who was responsible. David took him away in the morning and by evening I started to worry. I called David’s parents but they said they hadn’t seen either of the boys. Worry took me. My poor Sal. I quickly got ready and went looking for them both. Just as the sun was starting to set I spotted David walking home. He was alone. I ran up to him and grabbed his arms and asked him where Sal was. At first, he acted like he didn’t know, but I pleaded with him, begged, and David sheepishly kicked the ground. Finally he said he’d take me to Sal. He led me by the hand to an old church and around back opened the basement door. It was completely dark in the basement, and I looked down in the void and my heart broke. The thought of my Sal down in there alone destroyed me. How scared he must’ve been. David found a flashlight and he turned it on leading me down the steps. In the center of the room, Sal sat underneath a little light drawing in a notebook. Stacks of peanut butter sandwiches and bottles of water formed a circle around him. I ran to Sal and hugged him, and he laughed. He wasn’t scared, nor frightened. When he saw me he simply said, ‘Have you ever thought how beautiful the stars must’ve been during the ice age?’ And I hugged him and laughed. David said he’d been down there for a few hours but to my sweet Sal time hadn’t existed at all.” Roberta stopped talking. Sal was asleep and I was somewhere in between.
“What did you do to David?” I asked startling myself.
Roberta remained motionless. It was dark and her expression was hidden. A thin trail of smoke rose from her cigarette traveling upwards until hitting the ceiling and dispersing in a thousand directions. “I took him home,” she said. “I explained to his parents what had happened and they were frightened, they couldn’t understand what came over their son. David explained he wasn’t trying to harm Sal, which I believe, just that he wanted to help him, but David was forbidden to see Sal again. I’m not sure what became of him after that. Sal and I moved shortly after. The story is never truly over. We only convince ourselves that what we’re seeing is the end. That our time in each act is infinite, and we can play it back as many times as we wish, but eventually, it all moves on.” I was too tired to figure out what this meant so I didn’t say anything. Roberta finished her brandy and dropped a lit match into the cup, it snapped and popped once then went out. Smoke rose from the cup and the smell of burnt plums drifted over me. “I’ve often wondered what it was like for Sal down in that basement,” Roberta said, looking at Sal asleep in his chair. “In the dark wet cold, with little light and no one around. To us, it seems frightening and trapped. But Sal didn’t mind it, I could see it on his face. David hadn’t locked the basement door, Sal could’ve left at any moment but instead, he sat there, alone. Maybe when he got hungry he would’ve left, or when he had to use the restroom. Maybe once it turned to night and bugs crawled out of the ground and it grew cold he would’ve stood up, dusted off his pants, and walked home. But part of me wonders if he would’ve stayed there forever. Maybe he wouldn’t have missed me. My poor boy, at the bottom of a basement. In Sal’s head, it’s all the same.” She studied Sal’s face with a pained expression. I could feel her love for her son. As if she tried willing a safety blanket into existence and tucked it around him, protecting his body from any harm. Sal had a soft smile and was at peace. Radiating from Roberta I could feel a connection so powerful that can only be shared between a mother and son. And in that dark, smoke-filled room I loved them both. I wanted to climb down into that basement, sit down next to young Sal and put my arm around him, whispering in his ear how much his mother loves him. Try to get him to understand that by spending each second inside his head he’s missing everything. Maybe that’s what David was after, maybe it all went back to Roberta and Sal and how much David wanted Sal to understand. It was late and I was tired. Soon I fell asleep.
I awoke to a spoon scraping against ceramic. It was 9am and the sun was shining. Sal was at the table reading. He had a plate of eggs in front of him and toast and cheese. His legs were crossed and he was scratching the back of his head. I was where I was the night before and Roberta was gone. Outside a bird chirped and I sat up and yawned. Sal sighed, stretched his arms upwards, marked a page in his book then tossed it on the table.
“I’m envious of frogs,” he said. “Their ability to freeze and thaw during the winter is incredible. I often wonder if they remember their time spent frozen. Or if it’s all the same. Or if they even have memory. I’d spend a winter frozen if I could.” I rubbed my eyes trying to shake the grogginess out of them. “Of course I wonder if it’s possible to stay frozen for years and years,” Sal pondered. “If that’s the case, I’d sink to the bottom of a small pond and freeze myself for a thousand years then I’d break free and walk out on land, a man of the past. A forgotten relic.” Sal was smiling envisioning this scene unfolding.
“Did Roberta leave this morning?” I asked looking around.
Sal didn’t seem to hear me at first, his mind was filled with frogs and small ponds and his mother was gone; removed from his mind like she hadn’t existed at all. Sal looked at me, tapped his fingers on the table, then shrugged like he didn’t understand the question.