Where All Things Flatten

By John Mauk

In the heart of the Midwest, Lead Belly's, a rowdy Toledo bar, becomes an unlikely sanctuary for a group of wayward servers, cooks, and carousers, as they grapple with their own desires for stability and purpose amidst a backdrop of hardcore revelry, secrecy, and struggle. "Where All Things Flatten" is a gripping novel-in-stories that spans twen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tea, but with Coffee Media
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781957893556

Book preview

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Where All Things Flatten Copyright © 2024 by John Mauk

Cover and Internal Design © 2024 by Tea With Coffee Media

Cover Design by Kelsey Anne Lovelady/Tea With Coffee Media via Adobe Photoshop, Canva,

Drawings © 2024 Benjamin Busch

Formatting by Kelsey Anne Lovelady via Canva and Atticus

Tea With Coffee Media and the colophon are trademarks of Tea With Coffee Media

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by Tea With Coffee Media

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Contents

Bat Vision

Hula, Hula, Hula

Where All Things Flatten

The Angel of Lead Belly's

Driving the Messiah

They All Came Running

Sounding For Mercy

Nowhere Is Far Enough

Never a Middle

The Treaty of Blakeslee

Scholarly Acclaim

Her Only Monster

Panda's Wishes

Whisper Them Now

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Nedra stands in a cloud of dumpster stench, the moon hanging orange and low. Fans moan from the roof, their steady note mixing with the far-off sizzle of Airport Highway. A cool breeze palms her face. With a foot on the pavement, another flat against the wall, she keeps her shoulder blades pressed onto the cinderblock, her head yawing. No matter the stink, it’d be easy to stand here and dissolve, to come apart piece by piece and let the tender hand of nighttime carry her away. Nobody would know. One minute she was bussing a booth, the next slithering moonward.

She takes a last drag, flings her butt to the ground, and twists her ankle like a washing machine. Inside, the cooks are calling each other names. Gimp. Stalinist. The fryer crackles like a fierce gunfight. Grill smoke has thickened into a fog. She goes to the bubble, which is flatly prohibited, looks anyway, and sure enough, Justin is still there taking a whole booth for nothing but a Beer of the Month.

In the office, she hangs her jacket. Britney Spears pouts from the back wall, her schoolgirl uniform stressed. Someone gave her a yellow highlighter mustache, curlicues on both sides. Next to Britney is the hygiene guide, then the Success photo with seven luxury cars slant-parked on a sandy beach, then an oblong hole in the paneling that shows a powdery gray block, the skeleton of Lead Belly’s.

Lana powers through the doors and says B2’s sitting empty. Nedra could explain why B2 should sit empty, stay empty, and get relegated to a dark corner where he can’t drain the beauty from anyone else’s life, but she says nothing while Lana rockets for the walk-in and starts slamming cambros, thuds radiating for anyone currently employed. The cooks are now debating chicken, whether or not it’s meat, and it’s getting personal. Nedra reties her hair, pulls it so tight she can feel the invincibility of a stretching scalp. She inhales through her nose, counts to three, then to five, and stiff-arms the doors. The Pretenders, the one where the singer meows at the end, is pumping out good and loud. She gets past the pool table and stops dead. The sound comes in waves, long swooning vowels rising and trailing like the whole room is buckled onto a roller coaster. All eyes track a fluttering dark object, a maniac Kleenex flapping beneath the lights. Someone screams. People are putting place mats on their heads. A few bargoyles move to the floor and cover their beers with flattened hands. Others swat with hats or menus. A man up front barks like a dog.

The cooks come out and the jukebox fades. Lana shows up by the server station, raises her arms, and pats the air. She tells everyone to sit tight, just settle in while they take care of it. There’s no need to worry, no need to swat the thing. Then she corrals servers and cooks to the pool table where she makes two points: First, keep it out of the kitchen. Second, ignore it. Marianne asks how they’re supposed to do both. April says it’ll get in someone’s hair and then what? Simon says orders are up.

Everyone funnels through and crowds the shelf. Arms brush cheeks and ears. Talk stays on the bat, if it’ll drive people out before they eat, before they pay, and you couldn’t blame anyone for bolting at a time like this. Last year a hawk got into the Ponderosa, the one up by Westgate, and crashed into a woman’s forehead. She sued and won a big settlement. Simon says that’s bullshit lore. Nobody sued because of a hawk. April says it’s true even if he didn’t hear about it. He says he heard, and it wasn’t a hawk but an owl. Speaking of birds, chicken is officially 86’d for the night, and if anyone’s wondering, it’s poultry, not meat.

With a full tray, Nedra pauses to get her balance. She keeps her back straight, her knees bent while the bat makes mad circles around an invisible pole beyond the lights. T2 hardly knows she’s there as she announces each plate in rhythm: medium rare with steak fries, medium rare with Swiss and fries, medium with cheddar and fries, one barbecue chicken with extra sauce, no fries. The big-shouldered guy on the outside takes his eyes off the bat and gives her a quick nod. She avoids B2 because fuck that for now, stops by B3 who want battered shrooms and a round of kamikazes in honor of the bat. AC/DC comes from the jukebox, which is loud again, louder than before. The big-haired women at T3 hoist beers and sing, All…night…long! A weekend regular, Jimmy Something, at T1 stands and plays air guitar while his thick-armed buddy raises a fist. Nobody is on the floor unless they’re hiding under a table, and for whatever reason, the bat is now gone. Just like that. Some heads are still angled and scanning, but it’s not in the rafters, by the skylight, or fluttering in a corner. It settled somewhere or slid through a crack in the Lead Belly universe.

Back in the kitchen, shrooms are dropped, their earthy funk blooming. Colin turns and asks if they still have winged visitors. Nedra says maybe, maybe not. He says it’d be great if a whole flock showed up out of nowhere. Simon brandishes his spatula and says it’s called a colony, not a fucking flock. Colin makes a cartoony face, flaps with his elbows out, then shakes the shroom basket like it’s done something wrong. Staring into the grease, he says it’ll be another few minutes because the fryer is giving up its ghost. Nedra rests her chin on the shelf and stares along with him. One nugget bobbles up, the color of root beer, froth fizzling around it, and here she is breaking another rule—watching the cooks, watching the fryer, watching anything but her tables—and so goddamn everything forever, it's time to check on B2. She could go to Lana and say, look, do me a favor, but that’d end only one way. It’d be different if Justin weren’t a regular, but he’s been smearing his germy presence around for a full year. Regulars are the lifeblood, should be treated as such. She knows the mantras and decides she’ll act normal, like a nameless woman, a nobody with no history or future who brings patrons whatever beverage or burger they desire.

She swings the door wide, lets the Rolling Stones come at her full force, all those children’s ceremonious voices washing through the room, Friday night cackling going strong, especially at the back tables, which have congealed into a bleating herd. She comes around the turn, readies for the gauntlet, and there between the Coors and Corona mirrors, smack dab in the middle, is a gravy-colored lump. She stops, gets close. A twiggy limb slides out and back in. The body shivers and readjusts.

Holy crap, April says. Is that it?

I think so.

It’s like a mouse. Or part of a mouse.

Get me one of those plastic containers, the ones for green onions.

What are you thinking?

I don’t know.

You think you can just grab it?

I don’t know.

How does it stay on the wall?

Just get me the thing.

Nedra leans in and squints, trying to distinguish head, tail, the microscopic claws or suckers that hold it fast. It’s tucked and wrapped tight like a fuzzy shell, probably winded, hoping for its friends or family, its whole colony, to come with aid.

April’s back. Nedra takes the container in both hands and squeezes. Before the bat can bullet away or into her face, she thrusts the plastic forward. It smacks the wall. Attention turns toward her. Voices feel close. She’s got it, that waitress by the wall. The chick with the long ponytail. She pushes harder because maybe bats have crazed strength, like monkeys or ants, and can bash themselves free. I need the lid, she says.

I didn’t bring a lid.

Get me one. She puts her shoulder into it, keeps pressing, and feels the pressure running down her back, into her butt muscles. She is, by God, the chick with the long ponytail. Last winter, the short goth chick, Paulina, who went by Pollyanna or Princess, went full-on berserk in the middle of rush, called everyone a bunch of stupid assholes, and threw her apron down. There was a collective gasp, then laughter. The goth had officially flipped out. A few beers got hoisted. People liked it. Nedra liked it. All humans with souls liked it. Still, that was Paulina’s last night.

Simon shows up behind her. Is that it?

I think so.

That little brown spot?

Yes.

And then Lana’s voice. Is that it?

Yes, she says. That’s it.

Here’s the lid, April says.

How are you going to do it?

Those things carry rabies.

Shut up, Ape.

Hey, it’s a fact.

I thought it was black.

Yeah, I didn’t think they were brown.

Count Chocula’s brown.

Um. Who’s watching the grill?

God.

Don’t let it out.

It’ll be irritated now.

Oh, man.

Do they bite?

Everything bites.

Love bites.

Everyone shut the hell up and let her concentrate.

This is so cool. I love this night.

Let her fucking concentrate.

Nedra scrapes the lid against the wall, sees her own ear and cheek in the Coors mirror, Lana’s curtain of hair behind her, Simon’s mopey face, and then a soup of bodies and colored light. This job wasn’t supposed to be forever. It was a transition, a way to refresh before trying college again. Earn some money. Get your self-esteem back, her mom said. But self-esteem doesn’t hang out in a bar and doesn’t somehow regenerate at night, especially when you live at home, sleep in your childhood bedroom, greet your mom’s new boyfriend every morning in the kitchen, divert your eyes from his hairy gut, act nice but decline his eggs.

When the lid makes full contact, there’s a punky resistance, like Jell-O. She waits for a flutter or screech. There’s neither. She scoops harder, imagines calling for a spatula, something that’d wedge itself between the body and paint. Shushes come from all directions, and then for no good reason the bat comes unstuck and plunks down like a turd. She presses the lid tight, the tiny creature in there no more weighty than a butterfly. The wings pry away from its torso, and it sways like it’s crawling wounded and woozy from a rollover accident. The eyes open. Creamy-black beads. Some teacher or professor once said bats can see fine, no worse than a finch or sparrow, and if so, this little guy is witness to heavy stuff—rows of huge meaty faces blurred by plastic, a hundred eyeballs freakish and wide. He’ll have nightmares or whatever bats have when they remember the worst. It blinks at her. Hello, Mr. Bat. Hello, Nedra. And if it weren’t for the Rolling Stones going strong, they’d whisper, just the two of them. She’d say everything will be okay. He’d say thank you. She’d apologize for people screaming like ninnies, swatting as if he were nothing but a bug. He’d ask, hey, where am I? She’d laugh and say, that’s one hell of a good question. He’d laugh back because he’d understand. They’d commune, agree on a million things. Then he’d ask, after taking a good look around, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a rotten place like this? Well, Mr. Bat, it’s a long and stupid story that starts with my dad smashing himself against a semi, leaving us with nothing but debt and sorrow, then my own failed attempt at college because I didn’t understand rebellion and how it’s a short-term deal with no reward. Mr. Bat would say something true and consoling, something about learning from your mistakes or rising up from your own ashes, and if it weren’t for the plastic between them and everyone watching, she’d offer him a kiss—not a romantic movie kiss but a tender human-meets-Muppet moment that makes kids and parents and bar managers think, well, at least there’s that. Her lips would meet his tiny puppy-like face and pug nose. His beady eyes would close, and things would indeed be okay.

Applause comes and the bat bristles. She runs for the kitchen while Lana flings all forms of commandment behind her. Nedra keeps running, curves around the prep table, twists the knob with two fingers, shoulders her way out, gets past the dumpster, and wades into this darkened field, the unfurled sky and distance all around—a great yawning night. Others are behind. Someone yells to leave it, just leave it on the ground! She kneels, parts a swath of hard stems, and rests the container as flat as possible. She pops the lid on one side. The bat doesn’t move. It’s a still glob, not much different than a grease stain or lump of mold. She peels the lid toward her, then backs away.

She kneels again in the cool dirt, can half-hear shuffling, a conversation. Someone, April probably, says to get away because it’ll fly straight into your hair. But it won’t. He definitely won’t. The two of them have an understanding. Anyway, you don’t escape from something like that only to flap around in someone’s hair. You take the opportunity. You launch yourself into open sky while the moon lights your way. You look down on the building, its flat tarry roof, the raucous cave beneath filled with strange creatures who’ll sit and watch you suffer, who’ll scream and yell and drink their drinks while your heart nearly explodes.

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Hula went back for ones. She curved around clumps of standup drinkers, made it to the office, and noticed the door ajar. Light seeped through the crack. Just she and Grant had a key, and neither was apt to leave it unlocked, especially on a Saturday. She looked back at the crowd, thickets in the underlit room, the faraway bar, a weekend smog blurring everything. She angled her right foot against the door and pressed hard. It whipped open, banged the paneling, and turned the heads of a couple, man and woman, his arm across the filing cabinet, her butt propped on the desk.

She thinks I perved her friend! the guy said.

That’s because he did, the woman said.

They waited as if Hula had a gavel. She’d seen them before, not often. He was one of those hard drinkers with fish-belly skin and piggy eyes. She was low to the ground, about even with Hula but top-heavy, and she wore a ring. The guy turned back to his wife—or someone else’s wife—and got in another point. You’re imagining things.

You grabbed a whole cheek and squeezed! I saw it with my own eyes!

Come on, Mel, he said.

Come on, Sammy. Beth saw it too!

Beth’s a nutjob.

Hey! Hula said.

They turned.

This is an office. You can’t be in here.

The woman took up her drink, sweating on top of the delivery sheets, and they marched out like obedient schoolchildren, his eyes locking with Hula’s for a long second.

After they bled into the crowd, Hula stood wondering how in the hell and what dingbats people are and what kind of crazy world it is. A stack of cash sat an arm’s length from the woman’s drink spot. Maybe they’d skimmed from it, maybe not.

On the drive, fifteen or so unlit miles of shoulderless road, she told Grant. If they’d stolen from the stack, it wasn’t much, maybe a hundred, not more. Jesus Christ was all he said, his head swiveling and shoulders down from the heft of it. He didn’t blame her and vice versa, but they drove in silence, their tires smacking the warm backroad tar, milky night air sluicing in.

Home was stuffy. They opened windows, propped them with old paint sticks, and left their clothes in a fumy pile. They washed their hands, arms, and faces, then brushed their teeth in turn. Both spent and heavy-limbed, they lie breathing at the speckled ceiling, mildew aroma dense from this ongoing heat wave. Hula said they needed security. She’d been feeling it for weeks, the notion they were sitting ducks. Grant put his arms up and cupped the back of his head. Hula kept at it. The money was flowing now, and people weren’t stupid. Even half-blitzed, somebody could look around the room, note the bodies, beers, cocktails, and do some math. It was a cash business. There was plenty to grab, especially on weekends. Grant lay silent, his eyes wide, then turned out the light and said okay. She was right. Tomorrow they’d get serious.

While he drifted off, Hula tried to let it all go, the mean worry that always stands grinning between you and