Blue Flame

By MC Schmidt

Wade Capp is a twenty-year-old college student who has sworn never to return to Carvel Ohio or to Arthur, the father he hasn’t seen since his mother’s fatal car accident. When Arthur’s attempted suicide leaves him in a coma, Wade learns that he has the sole legal authority to remove his father’s life support. Wade returns to Ohio with Jeanine, his closest friend and occasional lover, where they encounter Matilda, the only person in Carvel who cares if Arthur lives or dies. Intercut with Arthur’s own chilling memories, Blue Flame is a hopeful tale of forgiveness and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781938101502

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Blue Flame

By

M.C. Schmidt

Cut Above Books

Published by Second Wind Publishing, LLC.

Kernersville

Cut Above Books

Second Wind Publishing, LLC

931-B South Main Street, Box 145

Kernersville, NC 27284

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by M.C. Schmidt

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

First Cut Above Books edition published

January, 2014

Cut Above Books, Running Angel, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.

For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com

Cover design by Stacy Castanedo

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-938101-50-2

To Carrie, Hadley, Elliott, and Amelia, with love.

Thank you to Kelly Cuvar, Guardian of the Oxford Comma

Chapter 1

How could Arthur not have seen that the Mexican was on fire? It was Dennis who was asking, only he didn’t say the Mexican, he said Roberto, which was, apparently, the Mexican’s name. Arthur hadn’t known his name, but it didn’t surprise him. All of the line cooks were Juan or Roberto or Jesus, all of them but Arthur.

Dennis had called Arthur to the office at the start of his shift, and now he sat, amidst the clutter of spreadsheets and banker’s boxes, in a chair beside the management desk. So, tell me what happened, Dennis was saying.

Arthur took his hands off of his knees and raised his upturned palms to show he didn’t know.

Dennis helped him: Roberto ran out the back doors with his shirt and gloves on fire. Staff followed, pulled him to the ground. They smothered him with wet towels. Here Dennis paused and provided the opportunity for Arthur to tell the rest, but he remained stone-faced. Art, you were in the back lot. You saw everything that happened, but you didn’t even get out of your car. Several witnesses have told me.

What witnesses?

I’m not going to—

The other cooks?

The men who helped him, Dennis said implicitly. And when I came out, I saw you turn on your headlights and drive away.

So, what you’re saying, Dennis, is that you didn’t help him either.

My whereabouts aren’t at issue, Art. It was crucial for management to maintain the company expectation of civility even when dealing with problem employees. Just to be clear, though, I was counting the bar till, so I didn’t immediately know of the problem. As soon as I did, I ran to help. Ran, Art. While you sat in your car and watched a man burn.

Experience had taught Arthur the theater of these reprimands. Corporate culture had robbed management of the plain language of their frustrations, the teeth of their authority. Nothing was said to an employee that couldn’t be reproduced on standardized evaluation forms, copies of which were sent to H.R. headquarters and filed away somewhere in Dennis’ collection of manila folders. There were bad actions, the culture suggested, but no bad people.

Arthur had been in this office, and in that chair, and in talks with this manager, several times in the last ten months, and a transcript of those encounters would reveal nothing but gentlemanly restraint. The real conversation, however, was being had in the faces. Even now, they only expressed what they truly thought of one another with their eyes, a thought which was, in both cases, a single word: ‘Cocksucker.’ Arthur was sixty-one and being schooled by a thirty-six year old who was, by some illogical and perverse accident of fate, his superior. He was a line-cook at a chain restaurant and he was about to be fired over a Mexican.

Yeah, I was in the lot, but I didn’t see what was goin’ on. Arthur said. I heard a commotion, but I didn’t know. I figured they were just rough-housing out back. They do that.

They?

You know what I mean, the other cooks. When they take out the trash or empty the grease traps or whatever—Man, I don’t know what you’re accusing me of, but I’m not responsible for the fryers here. That fire wasn’t my fault. I was on my way home. This shit’s got nothing to do with me and you know it. He was nearly a straight diagonal line in the chair. His shoulders hugged the back; his buttocks barely touched the lip of the seat. His legs were stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankles. The posture was meant to suggest an unimpressed, too-cool-to-care disposition. It was something he’d developed long-enough ago that he’d forgotten that it had ever been part of a deliberate image, such that he now regarded it as a genuine reflection of his God-given swagger.

Dennis leaned in. Art, I’m not accusing you of having anything to do with the fire. It appears to have been a thermostat issue and there’s a tech here to fix it. Fact is, though, I’ve been aware of a personality issue between you and the other cooks for some time. I hoped it would work itself out, but after last night…. I mean, it was one o’clock in the morning and the man was on fire. Don’t tell me you didn’t see what was happening.

Arthur felt caged, watched from behind. He turned to look through the Plexiglas window that management used to monitor the employee break area. Two cooks stared back at him from the entryway to the kitchen, one with a tray of steaming silverware, the other holding a sealed bag of milkshake syrup. They’re out there watchin’ me! he said. Look at ’em! Those goddamn…. Look at ’em!

Art. I’m done, Dennis continued soberly. We work in close quarters back here and I’m not going to devote another ounce of my attention to babysitting your prejudice.

Arthur turned away from the window. His arms tightened over his chest.

I had a long talk with Corporate this morning and they agree that, given your history, we went well out of our way even to give you this job. He spoke slowly as one might to a child who doesn’t fully understand the gravity of their misbehavior. I hate to say it, Art, but I have no choice but to let you go. Under the circumstances, I’ve been authorized to tell you that your presence will no longer be permitted on these premises. Don’t come to the bar. Don’t come for dinner. I know you’re close with Matilda, but you’ll have to conduct your relationship with her, or any other current employee, outside of this restaurant. Do you understand? Arthur nodded and cocked his jaw. His head faced Dennis, but his eyes were fixed on the floor opposite him. If you’re seen in this building or even in the parking lot, the police will be called. I know you don’t want that.

And this week’s pay?

The check will be cut at Corporate today and mailed to your home address. Is the address we have on file still accurate? Arthur nodded. Then, I think we’re done here. I wish you the best.

Arthur remained in the chair. He shook his head absently, as if the action settled something inside of him, something that might otherwise overwhelm him. Eventually, he stood and opened the office door. He finally turned to look Dennis in the eye. I’ll find somewhere better than this, he said.

All things considered, I hope that you may.

His anger radiated. Through the break area and the back hall, even past the line cooks, he didn’t so much walk as mechanically and habitually move. He was through a door and there was further movement, keys and another door opened and he was in his car. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and stung his eye and he reached for a cigarette. Two, three flicks of the lighter and it was lit. He inhaled deeply and blew it out, calming but long past satisfying. Arthur rolled the cigarette between his fingers and examined the burning cherry, hands shaky from his dressing-down. His thoughts turned and he bared his teeth and beat the steering wheel mercilessly with his palm. He grabbed and shook it with both hands. The cigarette snapped and wilted and smoke escaped around the tendril of paper that still held it together. He fell back against the seat, his pulse pounding in his temples. There was a moment of quiet and then his hand found the door handle. In an abrupt motion, he pushed the door open and leaned far out of it and he vomited violently onto the parking lot.

***

A drive through Carvel Ohio could act as convenient shorthand for the nation’s recent mismanagement and political neglect. House after abandoned house, lawns overgrown with brittle, seeding stalks of grass, doors plastered with the familiar orange legal notices, these were modern neighborhoods. In the historic district sat the oldest homes, grand in size, a reminder of a time when the city was populated with Money, though their age did them no favors in the present state of affairs. There were shuttered flower shops and jewelry stores, windows secured with poorly sized planks of plywood. For Sale, For Lease, This Space for Rent on signs secured to the fronts. The bookstores had failed, but two miles out of the city, the traveler could patronize a thriving adult novelty shop or NASCAR memorabilia store, depending on the direction of their travel. Even the mall sat two thirds dark and empty, the future setting of news stories about abduction and rape. What the city had in spades, however, were franchise restaurants, self-storage facilities, gas stations and bars; these are the cockroaches of American industry, able to survive in post-apocalyptic conditions. That the city wasn’t littered with strip clubs was a testament to an ancestral Midwestern value system to which precious few still adhered. Had Arthur had the option, he’d have been in such an establishment at that moment. As it happened, he’d settled on Roosevelt Pub.

You know what I am, Wally?

What’s that, Art?

I’m the stone from that kid’s story.

I don’t get it. What’s the reference?

You know, that old story. It’s like, I don’t know, old-old.

The Sword in the Stone?

No! Come on! You got to know that story! The stone in the desert. It’s uncovered after, like, all time, but the desert’s real big and no one sees it? You don’t know that story?

No, you got me. Sounds like a Chinese fable or something.

Arthur struck the bar with the side of his fist. That’s it! That’s what it is, a Chinese fable. You know that one?

Not a clue, Wally said, shaking his head. How does it relate to you?

Arthur took a drink from his beer. The cardboard coaster stuck to his mug when he raised it. I don’t know how to explain it, he muttered. He turned his pack of cigarettes mindlessly from end to end. After a moment, he said, No, if you don’t know it I couldn’t make you understand. Right now I’m not in a…position to think through it. If you knew it you’d see, though.

Well, you’ll have to tell me sometime. Wally smacked the edge of the bar as a sort of punctuation, an end to the conversation, and moved on to its various remote corners to chat with other customers.

This wasn’t a bad place, all things considered. There was a time, Arthur recalled, when the city’s bars were truly bars in the traditional sense: country bars that were dark and smoky, catering to steel workers, amphetamine dealers and particularly bold off-duty policemen. Jukeboxes held physical 45 records that were unchanged since 45 records were in style, which is to say, when country music was worth a good goddamn. In those days, your choice of establishment had often come down to whether you’d come with someone or whether you were trying to leave with someone. It wasn’t worth the hassle of taking a lady to a dive, not when she’d likely cause some tight redneck to say something ignorant, something foolish that would lead you to a fight in the parking lot. On the other hand, if you were walking in alone, the roughest joints had the loosest women and you’d better your odds by taking your chances.

The Roosevelt wasn’t like the old places. It was part of the new trend of safe and sterile taverns, though it had enough carefully placed dirt under its nails to almost feel authentic. The floor plan was irregular, with narrow offshoots of the main room that projected on either side of the two single-occupant bathrooms. The floor leading to these areas dropped by about two inches from the barroom, a persistent hindrance to those en route from the back patio