Tom lined up a series of color chips at the color center and shuffled them about. He originally planned a purple and yellow theme, but soon found himself drawn to fire engine red and a light blue. An orange chip consistently ended up in his collection as well, but he could not figure out how to incorporate it with the red. It went well enough with the light blue, but he was not satisfied with the orange. Perhaps it was too juicy and punchy for a mountain café.

Violet, cranberry, gray, tan: Tom yanked colors out of their homes, kicking and screaming as they clashed with the hodgepodge of chips down below. He narrowed down his selection enough to know that he didn’t want white or yellow. He also knew that picking a coordinating trim paint was out. Not only was this an excessive expense, he didn’t have the stamina to pick out a slew of nit-picky trim colors, let alone neatly apply them to the wall along straight edges.

Light blue surged into the lead with either red or purple clinging to life. The orange laid in the back of the pack, a distant favorite nonetheless. Amidst a flurry of shuffling cards cranberry and gray were disqualified from the race, but orange moved up a few notches, gaining ground on the front runners. Lime soon pulled up alongside the orange and zeroed in on the pack leaders, but then a second thought sent it reeling out of competition.

“Hey Tom!” Clint called from the back counter where he and Don Dunham had run out conversation topics, “Are you about ready to wrap things up or should I order out for lunch?”
“Um, you may want to order out for lunch. Thanks for being so flexible.”
“Oh,” said Clint, staggering from Tom’s excessive literalism. Speaking quietly to Dunham, he said “You mind if I ordered a pizza or a sandwich to be delivered here. I can get one for you too.”

Dunham handed Clint the phone and he ordered the relief supplies needed to survive his exile at the hardware store. Meanwhile Tom shuffled the cards, sometimes pulling more down, occasionally returning them to the rack, but always misplacing them so that his options became increasingly limited. A stock boy on the next aisle over peered at Tom through the cover of rake handles, sighing as he anticipated his afternoon chore at the paint center.

After Dunham clanged his way to the back room to paw at his stomach and make phone calls in private, Clint approached Tom.
“Can I help you pick out colors?” Clint asked.
“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think you can help me,” Tom replied.
“I am in the paint business, you know. Try me.”
“Well I can’t decide on my theme. I don’t know if I want something bright and startling or something smooth and mellowing. I just put the purple and tan back, but now I can’t find them.”
“I think a café should be the latter—”
“A ladder? What in the world are you talking about?”
“No, no, I said latter with a ‘t’ in it, as in the second option: the smooth and mellow one.”
“Oh, I see.”
“People go to a café to relax, to have conservations, and to have a snack.”
“I think that settles it then.”
“For the smooth, mellow colors?”
“Oh heavens no. I don’t want people to relax in my café. I want them to get in, get charged up on caffeine, and get the heck out there so I have room for more customers. There’s a restaurant in Chicago with the same philosophy. Something like, ‘eat and get out.’ That’s my motto too.”
Clint scratched his head and looked down at the mess of colors below Tom. “So which colors are you going with then?”
“This light blue, bright red, and orange, though I’m thinking of going with a creamier version of orange than this.”
Tom handed Clint the orange card that he couldn’t pass up.
“I don’t think it matters what shade of orange you choose.”
“Yeah, you’re right. They both look so good. I think I’ll stick with the brighter one. That’ll really catch people’s attention.”
“You’re certainly right about that.”
“I’d better get moving then. I’ll grab a gallon of each and be on my way.”
“You have four walls Tom, you may want to consider at least getting a second gallon in order to make sure you cover everything.”
“But then I’ll have paint left over.”
“Exactly. You’re going to need it for touch ups.”
“Worse comes to worse I can always catch a ride back up here.”
Clint gave a slow, labored nod that could have been mistaken for a stretching exercise for his neck, and then strolled back to the counter. Tom zipped off behind him with the leading colors, while the stock boy emerged from hiding and began his day-long task of putting Tom’s mess into order.
Tom tapped on the bell until Dunham emerged and rattled his way toward them.
“I’ll need three gallons of paint, one for each of these colors.”
“Eggshell finish?” Dunham asked.
Tom eyed the prices. “Well, the flat finish is cheaper, so I guess—”
“No!” shouted Clint.
Dunham and Tom stared at him.
“I mean, you can’t use flat for walls. It’s only for ceilings. You need eggshell for the walls. It’s worth the few extra bucks.”
“It’s not that big of a deal Clint,” replied Tom.
“No, you can’t do it. Flat is only for ceilings.”
“Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. Why would they make eggshell if it didn’t matter?”
“Clint, you’re being ridiculous.”
“No, you’re being ridiculous.”
Clint folded his arms and stared down at Tom. Considering that Clint had provided the ride and had lost the color debate, Tom thought of giving in, but gave one last try. “It’s just a little café. There are windows all over. The paint hardly matters.”
Clint’s eyes bulged. “Paint matters. Eggshell matters. You can’t use flat!”
Dunham cast his lot with Clint, “Eggshell would be a lot better for walls.”
Tom realized that Clint could not be moved on this issue. He had apparently struck a nerve and he didn’t want to tickle it any longer. Besides, he felt powerless before the united front of Clint and Dunham.
“Alright, you win. I’ll take the eggshell.”

Tom of course had none of these things. With his back to the paneled wall of his cafe, he dipped a brillo pad into an old yellowed tupper ware bowl. The oversized price tags refused to peal off cleanly from the plastic lawn furniture he intended to use in the café seating area. Tom couldn’t resist a sale at Wal-Mart.

The door knob swiveled slightly, a loud creaking, and then a pause as the door snagged onto the freshly laid industrial carpet. A loud thud sent the door swinging open.

A slim brunette with short, styled hair stumbled into the room along with the door. Recovering herself, she closed the door and walked over to Tom.

“Well, I’m here. No need to stop what you’re doing.”

“Thanks Mary,” mumbled Tom as he continued with his work. “How are yah hon?”

“Well, since you asked, I’m a little flustered right now.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t you see how I practically had to throw myself at the door just to walk in here? Do you expect your customers to body slam themselves against the door every time they want to com in?”

“It’s fine Mary. You’ve gust had a hard time because you wear those impractical heels. What are they, two, three inches high?”

“Wait, you’re blaming the door on my high heels?”

“People in Vermont wear clogs, Birken Stocks, and hiking boots. They don’t get so uptight about pushing a door open because they have good balance.”

“Tom, I’m not wearing clogs with my new business suit from Jones of New York. Just fix the door.”

“OK, you win,” sighed Tom. “I’ll get to it.” Tom furiously scrubbed away at the same chair that had been the center of his attention since long before Mary stumbled in.

“When?”

“I don’t know Mary. Before I open this Saturday.”

“Do you realize that your menu isn’t up, there are labels on most of these cheap chairs, and you have an entire corner of the store filled up with Aunt Emmie’s junk?”

“Antiques,” cut in Tom. Keep her on the antiques, she can dig into that he thought. Just don’t mention the art.”

“Forget them, my point is you don’t look very prepared for business. Do you even have an artist lined up for your gallery?”

Shoot.

Looking up from the empty glass, Melinda raised her voice so Chuck could hear her in the next office over, “How about we go out for a drink once we close up? I’ll pick up dinner after that.”

“I don’t know Mel, I get tired of sipping overpriced drinks at dimly lit bars.”

“We could stop by the Chinese place. They have spotlights all over the bar.”

“Right, and smell that nasty raw fish,” said Chuck.

“Alright,” replied Melinda, “No bar tonight. I can’t wait until that café opens in town. Maybe I can at least drag you there.”

“Oh, the one run by the flatlander,” said Chuck with a snicker.

“At least he’s got a nice location.”

“Look, he doesn’t understand Vermont, not to mention the people of Chiselville. He’ll be lucky to make a nickel off the place. I give him 9 months.”

“Oh Chuck, don’t say that.”

“Alright, alright, I give him a year and my best wishes that he has a lot of cash in the bank or a rich, childless uncle on life support.”

Melinda knew all too well about Chuck’s chicken obsession. He at chicken every night throughout his childhood until the subject was broached during a conversation with Melinda in the high school cafeteria. Over a shared plate of fries the two sweethearts compared the idiosyncrasies of their parents, a relevant topic since Melinda ate dinner at Chuck’s family’s house four nights that week due to a family emergency that called her parents out of town.
After Chuck finished disparaging the abstract sea gull paintings belonging to Melinda’s father, she seized a chance to address the odd pattern she noticed in Chuck’s home.
“By the way, what are we having for dinner tonight?”
Chuck smiled. “I think it’s barbequed chicken. Mom got some drumsticks. I love . . .”
“And what did we have on Monday?”
Startled, Chuck replied, “Chicken salad sandwiches I think, but don’t you remember . . .”
“And on Tuesday?” snapped Melinda.
“Chicken parmesan, why is all of this so important to you?”
“Chuck, we’ve had chicken every night. Is that normal?”
“Of course it is. Are you saying you don’t like chicken?”
“No, I’m just . . .”
“Then what’s the interrogation about?” he cut in.
“All I wanted to say is that people have things other than chicken for dinner!”
A wounded look with disturbed, pleading eyes swept over Chuck’s face. With a quaking voice, he asked, “Are you saying we shouldn’t eat chicken for dinner?”
“Open your ears Chuck,” Melinda countered. “You’re just trying to be evasive.”
“Well, are you at least saying you wouldn’t want chicken for dinner?”
“Not every night.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” Melinda sighed. “Why are you staring at me like that? Buck up and close your mouth. There are plenty of things to have dinner like ham, steak, stir fry, or even tofu.”
“You’d rather have tofu than chicken? Isn’t that white, flavorless, bean goo? Ohh.” Chuck trailed off, dropping his head.
“Snap out of it Chuck. It’s just food.”
“Oh, oh, Melinda,” Chuck groaned with head in hands.

Somehow the relationship survived this watershed moment. Fifteen years of counseling, therapy, and a steady stream of beverages consisting primarily vodka brought stability to their marriage.

Every visitor to her office noticed the sparkling clean neatness of every single surface. Instead of the mish mash of furniture styles in Chuck’s office, every piece of furniture matched as if she had ordered a complete set from the catalogue. In fact, Melinda often told guests that such a catalogue is exactly her office came to look so magnificent.

Tactfully waiting until Melinda was cheered by the completion of her golden wine, Church sauntered down the hall and leaned against the right side of Melinda’s door frame with his entire left arm pressed along it. His legs angled to the left while his slumped forward. Melinda pondered Chuck’s endless visits to the chiropractor.

“Making peace?” Melinda inquired.

“You could at least answer the phone for one in ten calls you know,” came booming from the next office over.

Chuck did not understand the difference between office hours and working hours. Office hours, 9-5, meant a physical presence in the office. Working hours, 9-4, denoted the actual time spent working. Therefore, 4:23 pm should tell him that while glad to be at her desk, Melinda had no need to do actual work. She reasoned that including Chuck was the best way to deal with him in these moods.

“You’ve got to try this Chardonnay Chuck. It’s the best I’ve had in weeks.”

“Well I suppose I can justify keeping you on the payroll if you pour me an occasional glass of wine.”

“Oh stuff it. Here, try this.”

Melinda passed a fragile glass of wine and waited for Chuck to agree with her.

After sipping he replied, “Of course you’re right. It’s splendid. Did they teach you how to pick out wine for your boss at secretary school?”

As the word “secretary” departed his lips, he began slipping down the hall with his trophy. Melinda detested any connection between herself and women in such a station. A hostile cork flew in silent protest, but only dropped to the floor.

If Chuck couldn’t fire Melinda, there was more to his reasoning than her excellent choice in wine. First of all, Melinda did not occupy a formal position at the Chiselville Chamber of Commerce. She merely occupied an office and received a modest stipend each week.

The second reason for Melinda’s job security tied directly into the stability of her marriage: Chuck and Melinda have been married since 1972.

“Thanks Clint. How’d it turn out?”

“Well, I really didn’t have a whole lot of space to work with. OK I guess.”

“Sure, but did you at least fit all of the letters in?”

“Oh, I got it all in, but I had to paint the last works about a quarter of the size of the originals.”

“Do you think drivers will at least be able to read ‘Antiques’ when they drive by,” inquired Tom.

“I suppose,” murmured Clint with a scratch of his head and a gratuitous dig of yellow wax from his wobbling ear. “But Tom, the original design worked so much better. I could cover up the antique part if you like. The coffee mug on the top is brilliant. It’s my best work since I painted Ginny Smith’s Victorian.”

Tom smiled. Everyone in town knew that Clint is a repressed artist doomed to painting houses. This was his big chance to display his skills to the entire town.

“And the words ‘Cafe, Gallery, and News’ were enough,” Clint continued. “What are you thinking of doing with antiques anyway?”

“Look Clint, you’ve got a point, but you have to understand I have a chance to really synergize the generation of some revenue streams through my antique wing.” Tom knew that didn’t sound quite like the small business book he once read in a Border’s rest room, but he figured Clint wouldn’t take him on toe to toe if he tossed in some jargon.

“Hell Tom, it’s a corner of left over junk from your Aunt Emmie’s estate sale. And all I’m saying is you ruined a perfectly good sign because of it. Do you expect anyone to take your seriously with a sign saying, ‘Cafe, Gallery, and News, and Antiques?”

Silence crept over the two men. Tom realized there was no end to this conversation, and Clint must have as well. It could go on forever. They both were sticking with their views and a long conversation is the last thing such men desire.

“Well, I’d best be going,” said Clint.

“Got any more signs to work on?” offered Tom.

“Nah, I’ve just got an estimate at the Red Spruce Inn. They’re finally trashing that hideous Victorian wall paper.”

“Oh, excellent,” replied Tom. “Good luck with it.”

Clint stooped over slightly as his over-sized hiking boots clumped out the door. Tom watched him drive off in his rusty blue Ford pick-up truck. An all-knowing, devious smile passed over Tom’s face as if he had just stolen Clint’s wallet and charged his first organic coffee shipment on the painter’s Visa card that does not give bonus airline miles.

“Clint knows nothing. This antique corner is just the beginning,” Tom declared as if Clint was suddenly back in the room and curiously more agreeable. “People have to do something while they drink coffee. And that something is going to be shopping for antiques.”

I’m calling it Chiselville for now, though the final product will probably be something like: How Melinda Saved the Chiselville Cafe. Our protagonist is a man named Tom who opens an ill-conceived cafe in a town that couldn’t care less about it. Tom’s dull wits lead to a series of circumstances that turn the entire town against the cafe. Only Melinda, the energetic wife of the president of the chamber of commerce can save Tom and his tiny cafe.

We’ll see how things shape up. I’m not sure how well blogs are suited for stories like this. For now I’ll publish it under the Chiselville category and also date the title of each entry from here on.

I hope you enjoy reading it at least half as much as I enjoy writing it.

He was sure no one minded all that much. He regarded Aunt Emmie in the same way as Christmas lights: he only put up with them once a year and wouldn’t come near either for the remaining 364 days. Besides it was not every day that he hit an open bar. Stevie really pulled out all of the stops for his dear mother. She would have wanted it this way.

Tom’s wife still wasn’t on speaking terms with him when the second surprise hit the small community of Chiselville at Aunt Emmie’s estate sale.

“You see Tom,” cried Steve waving a tattered wooden frame in one hand, “You see this, I told Mary she was marking everything too high. Now we’re stuck with all of this junk.”

“Mary always was the optimist out of the three of us. How much did we make?”

“I made six dollars. But who cares? I just want to get rid of this stuff so we can sell the house. We can’t show it with all of this rotting furniture littering the place.”

Tom’s head snapped backwards with the impact of a life-altering idea.

“Are you alright?” inquired Steve. “Don’t throw a fit on me. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, no,” cut in Tom. “I’m, I’m fine. Really just fine.”

Steve threw a suspicious stare at his brother. “Tom, I don’t like the look on your face. You had that same look before you made Marge an engagement ring out of bottle caps.”
“Hey, it all worked out because I wouldn’t have met Jenny if she didn’t toss the ring into the river and leave town. But anyway, listen, I can take care of Aunt Emmie’s stuff.”

“Are you sure? I thought you hate old furniture.”

“I’m not dragging it home or anything. I have just the place for it all. Just leave it to me bro!” Tom enthusiastically jabbed Steve before prancing out the door.

“Wait!” yelled Steve. “Why are you so chummy all of a sudden, and where are you going?”

“Just leave it to me Steve. I’ll have this place cleaned out in a few hours.”