The First Pancake

Treanna and Zelman Ostermann were an average couple of middle-aged empty nesters. With their children Sandra and Kurt living their own lives far away from their old home town, the Ostermanns had settled into a quiet, casual existence.

A once fiery passion had succumbed to a comfortable love. Zelman had what amounted to tenure at the high school were he taught, and Treanna had always maintained part time employment at the local library.

She had always loved books and stories, so Zelman was not surprised when she began taking a creative writing course at the Continuing Ed Center. Every Tuesday night for months she would go and write a story based on her current class assignment, but now she was coming to her final assignment. She was to write her first longer story, a novella.

Once she had finished it, she ran to have Zelman read it, as she had all her short stories prior to this one. Zelman dutifully read the piece, and had been ducking, dodging, and otherwise avoiding this moment since then. But now Treanna had Zelman cornered in their nicely appointed living room to finally get his opine on her story: Spooky Corners.

So? What did you think?” Treanna asked with anticipation etched on her face.

“Perhaps I'm not the right person to ask? I mean this is the first novella to... To... Flow out of you.” Zelman replied, bringing new dimension to the word: uneasy.

“Why not? You're a teacher.”

“Yeah, but high school Geometry is hardly English Composition.”

“After thrity-two years of marriage, I think I've earned the right to your opinion.”

“But, Honey, look... Uh... Remember when you took that pottery class when Sandra was little, and I made fun of your bowl?”

“It wasn't a bowl, it was an ashtray.”

“Exactly my point. Who uses ashtrays anymore. Who smokes anymore?”

“Millennials. And quit trying to change the subject.”

“I wasn't. I just wanted to know... If your first novella was as bad as your first foray at the pottery wheel? Uh... Do you want me to be brutally honest?

“How brutal do you plan to get?”

“Uh...”

“I mean are we talking Law and Order SVU kind of brutal or something less bloodletting?”

“Uuuuuh...”

“Zelman!”

“Well... Perhaps it just wasn't my cup of tea? Speaking of, would you like one? Nothing like a little after dinner tea.” Zelman said as he began to get up from his comfy wing back chair.

“Don't you dare get up out of that chair and try to escape into the kitchen.”

Zelman sunk back into his seat as though it were the electric chair. He looked up at Treanna and swallowed hard.

“Look, Honey, I don't really feel qualified to... To... To...”

“Burst my creative bubble? Throw daggers at my literary soul?!”

“No one's throwing daggers. No one's throwing anything. At your creative or literary whatever.”

“So, you're saying it wasn't that bad?”

“No. It was... It was... Yeah, it was that bad.”

“Why? I don't get it. You enjoyed my short stories well enough.”

“They were shorter. They were better. I could read them in an average poop. This was like one-hundred and twenty pages of... Of... Poop.”

“And just what was so wrong with it?”

“Well, first, I wasn't sure who your target audience was supposed to be.”

“It's a Y.A. book.”

“Young adults? And you really think kids and teens are going to openly embrace a story about a hemophiliac vampire, an overly decaying zombie and a neurotic mummy, running a bed and breakfast together?”

“But it's like what my creative writing teacher has been saying. It combines the vampire trope, the zombie trope, and it touches on what kids like most these days: room service.”

“Treanna, it was just... It was... Tough to follow.”

“Why? There weren't enough geometrical equations in it for you?”

“I knew this would happen. It's the ugly red bowl all over again.” Zelman said under his breath as Treanna fumed.

“My writing instructor, Ms. Constance Feddows-Fellows, keeps telling me that I'm one of the best in her class.”

“Has she seen this story yet?”

“No, I wanted to run it by you first.”

“Then, please, let it run no further.”

“Ms. Feddows-Fellows thinks I have a great deal of potential.”

“Hon, she's a Junior College, Night School, writing teacher. She probably sees that in all her students, because they're probably all better than her.”

“But, my God, Zelman! Didn't you see the humor, the drama, the pathos?”

“Uh... No... Can't say I saw any of that?”

“Why do you have to be so damned honest?! A wife wants a husband that's supportive. A man who'll back her up, not poop on her dreams!”

“Treanna, you just started writing four months ago, when you began taking classes with Ms. Fodder-Feeder.”

“Feddows-Fellows!” Treanna screamed in Zelman's face.

“Why don't you hit the F's a little harder, Dear. I adore being spat on.”

Why not?! I spit in your face. You spit on my work!”

“Didn't I say at the outset, maybe I wasn't the right person to ask?”

“I thought I could count on you.”

“For what? Lying to make you feel better?!”

“Exactly! After three decades, two kids, and all those friggin' dogs, you just had to have.”

“I liked the dogs.”

“And while you were at work, who do you think got to potty train all those puppies?! Do you know how long it took to teach Brewster to poo-poo and pee-pee on the paper?!”

“Probably not as long as it took Kurt to learn how to go potty.”

“Don't start in on Kurt. He shares my artistic nature.”

“He's a freelance, photographer in Frisco! If you didn't send him money every month, he'd be homeless and starving.”

“Maybe if ever had a father who believed in him?”

“Or a mother who didn't overly indulge him?”

“Can we get back to why you hated my story?”

“I didn't hate it. I just didn't like it.”

“Oh, so it's like the ashtray?”

“No, I hated the ashtray.”

“What was so wrong with the ashtray?”

Zelman put up a halting hand. He crossed over to the hall closet, rummaged a bit, and finally emerged with Treanna's ashtray. This ruby red monstrosity most closely resembled a kidney with fingers.

“You tell me what's so wrong with this? It looks like your uterus after you had Kurt and that big, fat head of his.”

Treanna looked at Zelman. She touched one of the misshapen fingers of her ceramic carbuncle, and began to laugh. Zelman joined her as they laughed together.

“Kurt did have a huge noggin.” Treanna admitted.

They laughed some more. Zelman dropped back using Treanna's ashtray as the football.

“Go long, Tre!”

Treanna took off, juked a bit and moved past the sofa.

“I'm open!” she shouted.

Zelman threw the ashtray a little high, and it slipped thru Treanna's fingers. It landed on the carpeted floor and bounced, remaining completely intact.

“You can't kill that thing, can you?” Zelman said sadly.

“I don't know. Bring me a ball-peen hammer and we'll test your theory.”

They laughed some more, and fell into each others arms. She rested her head on his chest. She recalled how well they fit together when slow dancing in high school where they first met and started dating. As he held her he talked soothingly to her.

“You know, Treanna... I did like most of your short stories. You know what I'd do? I'd show Spooky Corners to one other person whose opinion you respect. Maybe one that likes Gothic, sci-fi, comedy, or just digs bed and breakfasts? Let them tell you what they think, then decide.”

“And if they agree with you?”

“Well, you can stick to your guns and see what Ms. Ferrel-Fowler thinks. Remembering it's your grade involved, not mine. But if you decide to try again, the assignment's not due for another two weeks. Maybe you could expand on one of the short stories you've already written. I liked that one about the dog.”

“Oh, yes, my homage to training Brewster.”

“That dog was sweet, but stupid as hell.”

“Oh, but starting over, Zel.” she said, as she gently pounded her forehead on Zelman's collar bone.

“Hey, remember, you always throw out the first pancake. Doesn't mean you can't make a really good stack.”

She grabbed a remote from the coffee table and switched on some soothe jazz music. She beckoned Zelman over for a dance. And as they looked into each others eyes and slowly swayed to the beautifully engulfing melody, they remembered why they had stayed married so long: honesty.