Chapter Two: Bagels and Nom de Plumes
He knew what he needed: a rental car. That day, Elijah had seated himself next to a very obscure elderly man who kept muttering about various conspiracies concerning random places that flew past out the smeary window that someone had scratched graffiti across. He was relieved as his stop came into view, smiled politely at the deranged man and said, “Well, this is my stop. It was a pleasure talking to you. Hope to see you around.” Backtracking his way to the Noah’s Bagels he’d watched pass on the bus, he thought about how much he loathed public transportation.
The sidewalk laden with gum came to an abrupt halt and was replaced by black, blue and white tiles that led through a glass door into a steamy bakery. Elijah inhaled the deep scent of baked and toasted bagels, deciding that it marked high on his list of favorite smells; right up there with baked cookies hot out of the oven, popcorn, roasted coffee beans and his ex-girlfriend’s laundry detergent. He reminisced for a moment about just holding up one of her shirts and drawing in the scent that was obviously chemical and artificial, but which seemed so pure and clean. Elijah decided he’d have to write the company a letter to let them know their chemists had done an exemplary job of making clothes not only clean, but smelling nice.
“Hey! Over here!” Elijah was rudely interrupted from his reverie to see Dylan waving incongruously at him. Pulling up his shirt collar and hunching his neck into it, Elijah slumped over to him in an attempt to not be conspicuous.
“Hi,” he said blandly. “I was ‘Nice’ta See Ya’ yesterday, today I’m ‘Over Here,’ huh?”
Elijah failed to hide his smirk as he watched Dylan’s tie dip into the cream cheese as he leaned over his bagel to whisper firmly, “I was trying not to make a scene. You can’t go around screaming ‘Elijah Wood, get your ass over to my table NOW.’ People are gonna hound you! It’s in your best interest.”
Elijah raised an eyebrow, “Since when did you become my agent?”
Dylan leaned back in his chair. “Since you became a snide big shot.”
His face twisted in torment, “Snide?!”
“Yes, ever since The Faculty.”
He crossed his arms huffily, “Oh, peacock feathers!”
“Are you gonna order a bagel? Toasted with butter is only a dollar o five. Seventy five cents for a plain bagel. You should try their pumpkin bagel, it’s delicious.”
“Are you paying?”
“Ha! Like you can’t afford a free-kin’ bagel!”
He rolled his eyes and strode over to the counter, staring into the glass showcase displaying the various options. Pumpernickel, sesame, egg, pumpkin, cinnamon sugar, chocolate chip...
“Hi! Do you know what you want?” A short, chirpy girl asked.
“Yeah, I’ll have a pumpkin bagel, um... toasted with butter.”
She scrawled the order on a slip of paper, “Mmk, what’s your name?”
“Er... Dy--Ian.”
She peered awkwardly at him, “Dee-in?” she articulated.
“Er, no. D. E. N.”
She lifted an eyebrow warily, as she wrote down the initials. “Ahh, okay. That’ll be a dollar o five. They‘ll call your name when it’s ready.”
He handed her the money and thanked her, returning to Dylan quickly and muttering about how he needed a pseudonym to go by while out in public.
“Weeell... how about Mark?” Dylan offered.
“Naw. If I’m gonna have an alias I might as well go with something... more exotic.”
There was a pause, both men thinking as though their brains were connected. Dylan snorted, “Call yourself Sergio.”
“No! I want something a little more exotic than Spanish. Something...” he waved his hand in thought. “French.”
“Michelle?”
“I’m not going for feminine, Dylan. I look womanly enough as it is.”
“It’s not womanly in France. I’m sure if they’re trying to pick an American name, Michelle sounds downright masculine for a woman.”
“DEANNE!” A voice howled from across the room, Elijah shuddered and rose from the table to claim his bagel.
“Jacque,” Dylan suggested as soon as he returned, rolling the J and allowing the name to sound more romantic than it truly was.
Elijah looked thoughtful as he took a bite of his bagel. “Alright,” he agreed, mouth full, obliterating his enunciation of consonants. “So now that that’s squared away, I was wondering, since you know this city better than I do, do you know of any little bookstores around here? I wanted to get a copy of A Thousand Years of Solitude.”
“Powell’s.” The word was like a gong humming from his lips, the vibrations being clamped sharply and leaving an odd distaste in the air, as though it should be echoing. Before Elijah could ask, Dylan clarified, “It’s down on Burnside. It’s the biggest bookstore in the country.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“In Oregon?”
“Uh huh.”
“Geeze.”
“I know.”
“So this bagel’s pretty good.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
