Success: A Short Story by William Amari

The Magnum Opus Café sat on a decaying corner in the northeast part of town. Ice would freeze the entrance steps in the winter, and carpenter bees would squat inside the doorframe in the summer. Few saw the cafe for what it was— the functionality of it was all too arcane. Pedestrians would cruise by it in midday without a second glance, sometimes even mistaking it for one of those shabby Gilded-age townhomes, antiquated and forgotten by time. But in the evening it told a different story. The sun would submerge itself behind the buildings, and the songs of hungry artists would arise from within the halls. An almost esoteric hub of people created boisterous chatter and often pressed themselves along the stoop waiting for Allison to invite them in.

It was Allison who sacrificed most of her young adult life to invest her savings in a place where she could constitute her community. She rented out the first floor to implement a stage, a small kitchen, a few bathrooms, and an opening wide enough for a dozen sets of tables adorned with ironed clothes. The cafe faced the northside, so there wasn't a lot of natural glow, but the room illuminated itself with colorful, twinkling lights. When it was showtime at The Magnum Opus, an artist would perform in front of a crowd of up to 30 people, but the ambitious performer wouldn't know it if it wasn't for the roar of applause, for the only particles of light in the room touched the stage.

Everyone at the Magnum Opus was an artist. Among them were some of the best poets, painters, photographers, philosophers, musicians, and writers. Some skipped night class to be there, others dropped out, graduated, or never gave University a chance. They wore overalls and tight, striped shirts and colorful patterns stitched onto their shoes. They dyed their hair a different color every month and felt most comfortable when jewelry pierced their faces. All the attendees at the café rejected their birth names; a creative pseudonym would suffice. They wanted a name that felt like something new, all except for Allison, who simply went by Allison.

Before the rush, it was Allison's routine to exercise her mind through reading. She believed reading gave her permission to write. The writer in her was always a quiet and more dominant side to her aura. She flipped through the pages. A literary companion managed to publish a short story in The Monthly Atlantic, and she wanted to pay him respect, despite the fact it was never her habit to read for pleasure. It was a pleasure to read, but that wasn't her affair.

Her friend called himself Octavius Dimitri. He liked to drink strong martinis and carried the fresh aroma of olives and onions into every room he visited. While many expressed ambivalence towards the young author, to Allison, he was someone she aspired to be, and perhaps overshadow as well. Octavius was far more than the crapulent, tortured writer, an allusion to the ones of a bygone era— he possessed a charm captured by his formal appearance and mannerism. When he spoke to Allison, it was in a fashion that simultaneously resembled a wise priest relaying the word of god, and a young child with an attitude to seize the day.

She was even further convinced of this notion a year ago from today when Octavius admitted to Allison at Gigi's party, "I'm finishing a short story. I think I should confess I modeled the main heroine after you. When it is published, I'll give you a copy. I hope to have it in The New Yorker or The Atlantic, or if all else fails, I'll have it published in an independent journal. Either way, it will be tremendously explosive and immensely raw." He tapped his glass of gin to Allison's porcelain teacup and winked with a poised expression.

While on this sentimental tangent, Allison turned away to glance out her second-story window. She was no closer to the halfway mark of the story, before her mind halted to images of Lady Anne, her oldest friend. An hour ago she received a text from her: "Can't wait to come to the show tonight. It's been so long. In fact, it's been too long. TTFN!!"

Allison gulped her own saliva and held her lips tightly together. Unable to focus on Octavius's short story, she concentrated on the context of her friend's text. Every time she read it, her heart sank a bit more.

It was never hard to notice Lady Anne. She was a modern-day goliath with beautiful broad shoulders, a chiseled chest, and a personality that could radiate an entire room.

In their youth, Allison and Anne climbed trees. Those sunny days she would watch the giant blithely swing her way to the highest branch and then ride down the trunk as if it were a fire pole. At night, Allison and Anne took turns hosting sleepovers. Even amid pubescent adolescence, Anne's towering body was no match for a sleeping bag. Allison's mother would offer her daughter's bed instead, leaving Allison to settle for the floor graciously. In her stuffy, black room, Allison listened to Anne's snore, hugging her stuffed giraffe tighter towards her chest with every exhale. While the young giant slumbered, Allison stirred, restless. She couldn't calm down until she allowed herself to close her eyes and pretend that Anne was a tree, and Allison was the climber.

Allison mimicked the text in her own tone, "It's been too long," she curled her lips and paced around the office, "Now whose fault could that be?"

Three months ago, Allison and Lady Anne were walking through the town, practically touching hands. It was a brisk night in November, and Lady Anne was as pale as The Statue of David. Allison didn't need a jacket— she had to walk twice as fast to keep up with her friend's pace, almost damning her short legs. But there was no reason to feel bitter in that hour, her nerves fluttering from within kept Allison perspiring warmth. They both reached the corner of Allison's place, and Allison pictured her escort from the days they were young. Imagining Anne sliding down the tree was the only way Allison could muster up the courage to admit her love for her friend, a love that was accepted by Anne, but not mutual, at least not in the same regard.

Anne spoke quite compassionately, "You know me so well, Allison," she began her response, "I love you like a sister, I truly do. But you know I'm involved with Max. I'm sorry if I ever led you on. Please don't take it to heart. You are my only true friend, and I merely love who you are as a person. We've had a long night. Let's talk about it in the morning. I promise we can talk about this when the day is young."

But that morning never came. Twenty years of friendship, and it was the only promise Anne failed to keep. "Anne was only using the lie to protect herself," Allison said alone, "Clearly, there is some way to justify it— to justify her silence from me."

But it was the lie of false hope that crushed Allison, ultimately making her feel unwanted like a lost artwork in a museum. So, she lived the last three months, never able to speak of it again. Confessing her love was the bravest thing she'd ever done, succeeding the amount of courage it took to show Octavius a story she'd written, and the only reward was melancholic closure.

A palette of colors in the sky morphed into one as the light painted shadows around her desk. Allison halted her business and bookmarked her page in the magazine. Her guests were arriving, a crowd of them already lined up at the door. She jumped out of her office to walk down a stairwell with no ramp into a tiny, tight hallway that led to everyone's favorite spot: The centerstage of The Magnum Opus.

The usual suspects were there chatting, some of them rehearsing or enjoying a final cigarette. Allison watched the door, committed to her smile, and thanked everyone for coming.

"Please have a seat," she said to them, "We're serving refreshments in just a minute."

Lady Anne, Allison's distinguished guest of honor, had yet to arrive. She was a busy photographer, and tardiness was naturally embedded in her personality. But Allison knew it would be a matter of time for Anne to make her grand appearance. Despite the lie she'd made in the past, Anne had a clean record of retaining her word. Plus, the guilt was too insurmountable. Allison knew she could never be rejected by her friend again.

For the sake of comfort, Allison stationed herself in the tiny kitchen in the back where she brewed fresh coffee and exotic teas, baked sponge cakes and rich cookies, and fixed together buttery toast with jam. She prepared everything until the kitchen enveloped the sweet smell of ambrosia. Those lucky enough to sit closest to the kitchen entrance were captivated by the warm, saccharine scent of Allison's baked treats— the one item that could distract them from the activity on stage. Their flared nostrils followed Allison marching to and fro, carrying her goods on a silver platter.

One of the lucky guests commended quite earnestly, "In some light, she presents her treats like the aristocratic Salome bestowing the head of John the Baptist to her kingdom," he would turn to the table to inquire, "When will she dance The Seven Veils?"

Once everything was served, her guests each accounted for, Allison gave the go-ahead to her bearded MC to dim the lights and set the show into motion.

The first to mount the stage was a soulful poet named Venus With The Furs. Her quivering hands held two or three pieces of paper in the spotlight as a sudden cry of silence erupted in the air. The guests took heed, each of their starry eyes attending the speaker. Venus cleared her throat before reciting tender words of love and wisdom.

"Love. Wisdom," she sighed her words into the mic. "One does not befall without the other. We cannot fathom why we love those who fail to love us back. To embrace blindly is to love a statue, a foolish act. One can rebuild a bust, but our craving hearts will never be intact, yet it feels a must."

Allison balanced several dishes of buttery crumbs in her hands and sucked on her teeth, uttering a murmured whisper, "Isn't that the truth."

Back in the kitchen, she washed plates and brewed more coffee. In the sink, a tower of bubbles began to swallow up her forearm as she scrubbed each plate together with a tarnished sponge. As each part of the tower popped, the drying rack accommodated one dish after another. Allison could hear Venus conclude through the walls and clapped the performance in her solitude. Allison applauded everyone. If an artist dared to brave the stage, then they deserved the spoils of the limelight.

The MC introduced the second act and then the third, and then several more performers followed. The poets were reciting their poems; the musicians were strumming their melodies, all while Allison waited for her guests, politely asking them if they were enjoying the show, when they were going to perform, and what they were going to do. Did they want milk in their coffee and honey in their tea? Would they care for a baked good or toast with jam? She worried some days the service would be too slow, or that she would run low on supplies, or have too much. She feared most of all the acts wouldn't be talented or entertaining enough, and their dreams will go unfulfilled.

The second to final act concluded, and the lights twinkled on across the stage and through the cafe. Poor Allison huffed and used a damp cloth to wipe the sweat across her forehead. She panted behind the scene, where it was too dark to be noticed by anyone, not even god on high could witness her from the heights of heaven.

She sneered, "Maybe this isn't the night for me. Maybe Lady Anne was a liar, a snake in the grass, a vampire sucking all the good blood away from one poor soul to another. Maybe she hated me for loving her, and it is I, the pervert gazing illicitly from one being to another." She recollected the poem from Venus. "What a fool I am to fall in love with a statue. What do they have to offer me if not true affectionate love? Octavius would never do such a thing. Perhaps I could find a way to woo him. If not by way of my own writing, but by using my feminine charm, if I have anything left to give. Why is love so damned hard to understand? Oh who am I kidding? I'm so hopelessly in love."

There was only one voice that could harness Allison's attention, and it didn't take long until it was recognized.

Abruptly a booming request from across the room demanded to her, "Allie, we require your company. Will you please come to join us?"

It was a voice as clear and familiar as the roar of a thunderstorm. The source of the call was spotted immediately, as something inside helped Allison understand precisely where to turn her head. She ambled out of the shadows into the spotlight of the cafe. As expected, as promised, standing out like a giraffe in a herd of zebras, was Lady Anne, her face no less young and beautiful than it was three months ago on that brisk, November night. The light made her aurify as if she were gold. Allison's heart fell to her stomach as all other faces in the room blurred away, all except for the waving Anne. She almost released a single tear, but there appeared no reason to cry. Lady Anne had come to see her, and that was more than she could say about anyone.

She sat with her new fiancé Max alone in the corner. They arrived a minute prior to the final act, and each ordered a London Fog and waited for Allison to say hello. Eventually, Max would have to report to spring training, but since it was early-February, he had at least a week left to spend with Anne.

"Bet it didn't take long to notice us two goons," cheered Lady Anne, reaching for Allison's body. Whenever Lady Anne hugged, her muscles would inflate, nearly elevating the other person off the ground. Allison blushed. The giant's warm embrace made Allison sweat even more. Lady Anne enveloped her in her strong arms, proving her point made in the text— it had been way too long.

"I'm glad you two could make it," said Allison, moving to hug Max. "Are you having a good time?"

"Of course, we are. Are you impressed that I convinced Max to come?" asked Lady Anne, "Can you believe he chose this over watching a basketball game with his bros?" Max looked away with a shy expression.

"I guess you're not used to seeing a square like me in a place like this," said Max.

"Max doesn't claim to be the artistic type," Lady Anne added, "He likes his sports, though."

Allison didn't appreciate the comment. "Well," she said, "Can't sports be art?"

The question stemmed from a conversation Allison had with Octavius, who told Allison that anything could be art. If there was an art to writing and since you can write about anything, then anything can be art— even baseball.

Max thought the question over. "Bat flipping," Max considered, "There's an art to that. Jose Bautista. Bryce Harper. I've seen some pretty interesting bat flips in my life."

Allison couldn't visualize bat flipping, nor did she have any clue who Harper and Bautista were. Bryce Harper sounded like he could be a Scottish missionary and Jose Bautista, a 19th Century Spanish Romantic poet. But Allison knew all conversation was welcomed at the Magnum Opus, so she proceeded to engage the athlete.

"Those are good examples," said Allison, "Has baseball started yet?"

"We start spring training on the 20th," answered Max.

"Max has been dying to get out of the house," Lady Anne accused, "He's probably sick of me blabbering about my photoshoots all day." Like countless other athletes forced into the spotlight, Max had no comment. "That reminds me," Lady Anne jumped. The table shook. "I want to swing by during your off-hours to take a few portraits to add to my portfolio."

"Okay, yes, give me a time and date," said Allison, "I would need to know in advance so I can get ready."

"Don't bother," ordered Anne, "I want to capture your raw essence. I want your truest self: straight, no filter."

Anne always told Allison that she was classically handsome, that she "belonged in a gallery of Baroque Art." But Allison wore makeup, never left the house without washing her hair and glossing her lips. She ornamented herself with pascal boots to appear taller and a French beret to cover the bald spot on the top of her head.

Fixing herself in front of the mirror, ready for any occasion, especially one including Lady Anne, Allison would joke, "I belong to a gallery of Rococo Art, not Baroque. She ought to hang a portrait of me right between The Blue Boy and The Swing."

The final act was a song performed by Gigi. Allison and her company attended the stage. With great bravado, she heard Gigi belt out a classic tune, humorously tragic.

"She was poor, but she was honest,

Though she came from humble stock

And her honest heart was beating,

Underneath her tattered flock..."

Out of respect for Gigi, their conversation diminished to a whisper.

"Are you still speaking with that Octavius Dimitri?" asked Lady Anne to Allison.

"I have— a little," said Allison, "I want to see him, though. I want to congratulate him in person for getting his story published in The Atlantic."

Lady Anne darted another question, "Do you think he is a good writer?"

"I think he is the best of all of us," responded Allison.

"Do you like him?" Lady Anne asked.

Knowing the word "like" was a G-rated euphemism for something else, Allison pondered the question. She never considered Octavius as anything more than a mentor and a friend. But she recognized he was attractive, and like Anne, he had a commanding presence and broad shoulders.

"If he were to ask me out. I would agree to it," shrugged Allison.

"Someone's mighty careful with their words," suggested Lady Anne.

Allison considered Lady Anne's intelligence, but there was no lie nor spin in what she said: If Octavius wanted to take her out, she would agree without hesitation. "I just never saw him as any more than a friend," she said to Lady Anne, "Actually, he's not really my type. I prefer smaller men. Octavius is so… dominant." Allison looked to change the subject, "I like to just talk about art," she requested.

"Alright, then talk about art," Lady Anne said, raising her round shoulders, her tone, almost scolding, "You already know my opinion of Octavius."

"I still wish to see him," Allison huffed.

"I know you do. You two are so fascinated with one another. You and he may have been cut from different clothes, but your artistic passions have sewn you two together."

"I don't think we're as different as people make us out to be. I wish people could see that I am more than just a muse to him."

Lady Anne turned away. The light hit Gigi, pacing stage left to stage right, gazed at like a lion at the zoo.

"She's gorgeous," Lady Anne said to herself.

"She's very talented," Mac said to his fiancé.

Allison said, "Gigi always closes well. I'm happy she hasn't been discovered yet, or else she would never come back here again."

"Not true," responded Lady Anne, "Everyone loves it here. This place is iconic!"

Gigi sang, "When they dragged her from the river.

Water from her clothes they wrung.

Though they thought that she was drowned

Still, her corpse got up and sung."

Immediately after the finale, Lady Anne stood up, banging her thighs against the table, almost knocking it over. When she put her hands together, Allison could see her stringy, twig fingers. By the end of Gigi's second bow, Allison felt those fingers wrap around her as if she were a child again snuggled inside a sleeping bag. Lady Anne thanked her for a wonderful time.

She said to Allison, "You're the best. You're the best. I love you so much," squeezing out every knot in her back. "Don't ever stop what you do."

Allison told Max she'll maybe see him back here soon, and they too hugged for a while. Then she watched the couple blend into the crowd pacing outside. The sound of poetry and song followed suit with the mob. The last thing that made her smile that night was watching Lady Anne almost bump her forehead on the top of the door.

Just as the crowd had gone, the liveliness made an abrupt exit from The Magnus Opus, leaving the entire floor to an amort state. This sudden silence was something Allison could never get used to. She flicked on the leading lights, but all flare was gone; the nerves which drifted in the air settled like dust. Allison clinked all the plates together, saying goodnight to a few stragglers at a table. She stacked them in the kitchen and placed all the silverware in the sink filled with lukewarm soapy water. The MC spoke his final words, before turning off the mic and leaving the stage. As quickly as she could, Allison wiped everything down and threw all the used napkins into the laundry room. When the closing was over, she sat on the stage and surveyed the empty room. Every chair was tucked in, and each tabletop was spotless.

It had been another successful day at The Magnum Opus Café.

In her office, Allison picked where she left off— grabbing the magazine that held Octavius's short story featuring the heroine that was supposed to be herself. It may have seemed silly to be eager to read about oneself, but Allison wasn't perfect— she needed the spotlight too.

After humming Gigi's tune up the stairs to her room, she tucked herself in and read the next couple of lines: "... loved everyone, yet knew no one. Not a soul could carry the same weight of compassion as she could. She was talented, yet couldn't dare to take the stage into her own hands. She loved the idea of success, but couldn't accept any failure. Everyone believed in her, but the evidence of her brilliance and talent were never tangible and would never materialize. And so she laid horizontal, watching others fulfill a dream so close to her grasp, but not close enough for her to cradle success into her own arms. She read a lot, and the relatable characters kept her company. Sometimes the ones she could not relate to, kept her company as well. But in her heart, she remained a lonely spirit. The lights on the stage would turn off, and she could never get used to the bleakness of her own condition..."

Allison flipped the page and continued to be immersed in the story, but a feeling in her chest distracted her again from the words said so plainly in black and white. She held the magazine to her side and took note of the way her chest would inflate and then settle, like blowing into a balloon and then releasing some of the oxygen. Her eyes began to tremble as well, as the veins popped out behind her pale knuckles. There came this ominous energy approaching through the tips of every finger and she inhaled the warm air through her nostrils. This feeling always felt so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time.

The bedroom around her blurred away into the background, and her lips tightened again as they did in the evening. Her chin curled her lips towards the tip of her nose as her heart palpitated and roared like the ground during an earthquake. A single tear slid down her bony face and then she felt the rain inside of her. The storm erupted from within her and teardrop by teardrop she swiveled away. It didn't feel good, but it didn't feel bad. She lifted her torso, so it could lean against the head of her bed, and threw her beret on the ground. The magazine slid off the bed and she placed her damp hands over her eyes.

Lady Anne once told Allison it was healthy to let it all out, but she couldn't recognize what it was. It didn't matter, though. The more she released, the better everything began to feel, and eventually, she could pick the magazine back off the floor and read on, while her heart returned to an even pace.

*Author's note: Gigi’s song is taken from a traditional piece of music for the public domain. The lyrics have been altered to fit within the context of the story.