2027 Best Small Fictions Nominee: Blueberries and Butter by Michael Czyzniejewski

Blueberries and Butter

by Michael Czyzniejewski

from Issue 21

If you’re going to be pissed about those assholes kicking you out of the band, I’m not going to stop you. I’m going to ask that you not punch the wall again because one hole is already going to be a pain to fix, and besides, your hands are your moneymakers and if you haven’t already broken something, you will do so the second time around. I’ll take you out, away from my kids, buy you as many drinks as you need to either wash this away or drown yourself in it, which I don’t care. I can fetch my gun out of the safe and we can go somewhere and shoot holes in something, or if you prefer, we can get the baseball bat out of the garage and you can beat something to a pulp. You know your skills with the ladies, the uncanny way they flock to you, so maybe you can fuck this out of your system. After seventeen years, this has got to hurt, so I’m not going to stand here and tell you not to be mad. Be mad. Be pissed. Rage. You’ve earned it. If there was any justice in the world, it’d be you kicking those no-talent shits out and they’d be the ones feeling this way instead of you.

But then you need to get over it. Take a day. Take two. Take a week. After that? Move on. You can’t dwell on what you can’t change. You can only learn from your mistakes and work to not make them again. I can’t imagine you would, or that you’d get the chance. If anyone ever decides to work with you again—and let’s face it, they will, as you’re you—you most likely won’t pull the same shit again. You’re not totally to blame, of course, as you didn’t force any of those woman to sleep with you, and certainly, you didn’t orchestrate them all doing it at the same time. No one was holding a gun to their heads—you’ve never had to—and if you ask anyone who’s seen the footage, which is just about everyone, they’ll say it looked like their idea.

Sure, at any point, you could have backed out. You could’ve put up your hands, pulled up your pants, and walked right off that putting green. We wouldn’t be having this conversation right now if you had. You’d be somewhere between Columbus and Cincinnati, celebrating another rollicking performance, in the back of the tour bus instead of at some charity golf event, probably still with three ladies (at least), three ladies who are not your longtime bandmates’ wives. That part was your mistake. You know I’m right. Everyone knows I’m right.

I’m honored that of all the people in the world, all the acquaintances you’ve made, all the people you call friend—who also happen to live in central Ohio—you’ve come to me in your time of need. It’s been, what? Eight years? At your second wedding (if you don’t count that annulment from that duchess that almost got you castrated)? I’m not only honored you chose me but thrilled you remembered where I live and were able to track me down, at this hour, in your state. No, Marcy’s not as happy as I am to see you, especially after what you suggested we all do the night before that wedding, then again the night of. But you know what? She was watching the clips on her phone—blurred, of course—when we heard the knock on the door. And guess what she said when I stood to answer it? “Wouldn’t that be crazy if it was him?” And yeah, she took the kids and disappeared upstairs, and no, she probably won’t be too happy if I go off with you now for god knows how long and you get me into all kinds of trouble. But you know what else she said, right before she climbed those stairs? “Remember, the couch folds out.”

You’re going to get through this, man. You might think you’re at a low point now but give it a week. Give it a month. You’re going to land on your feet and those three hacks who bounced you from your band are going to realize that you’re Diamond Jack fucking Fontenot, the reason why all of them are rich and famous and not working at Costco right now. People will be lining up to get on stage with you, and as long as you can keep your dick out of their wives, you’re going to be back on top in no time. So what do you say? Should we go get hammered? Do you want to shoot some windows out of an abandoned Burger King? Do you want to find some adoring fan in some shitty bar and give her a night she’ll never forget? No matter what, like Marcy says, this couch folds out. And we just got some orange juice, a box of pancake mix, and a bottle of syrup, the good kind, too, the purple one that tastes like fresh blueberries and warm, melted butter.