Jones & Belle At Large

They’d met at a bar, but not in the way you usually meet people in bars. The place had been packed, but with more locals than college kids or tourists — just a couple of old regulars popping out to the pub on a nice Thursday night, having a quiet chat, playing darts, watching the game.

Still, every seat at the bar had been taken, almost every table filled. Except for one corner booth, where a girl sat nursing what looked like a whiskey and Coke. Judging by the number of empties, she’d been here a while. She was curled up possessively around a book, one of those huge mystery novels thick as a Bible but with less rape. Her thick, out-of-the-box ruby hair was pulled up in a messy curly ponytail, clearly meant more to be held out of her face than to be cute. Nothing about her stained, torn jeans, faded Lion King on Broadway tee, or lack of makeup, said she’d come here to flirt or be flirted with.

So, screwing up his courage, he’d approached her.

“Excuse me,” he’d said, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Is, um, is this seat taken?”

“Yeah, my purse is sitting there,” she’d replied, giving him a scowl. “Shoo.”

“Well, you see, it’s just that,” he pressed on, forcing his knees not to give out as the scowl grew more deadly, “My roommate kicked me out. And I need a place to work. All the coffee shops are closed, and most of the bars around here are too loud. Please? I promise not to say a word to you.”

The scowl deepened, but after a long moment of taking in his shaggy haircut, and satisfying herself that jeans instead of cargo pants meant he probably wasn’t a frat douche, she’d nodded and moved her purse so he could collapse gratefully into the seat across from her.

“Thank you so much, I—” “We promised no talksies, remember?” She opened her book back up and stuck her face in it. “You say a word except to order something, I’m telling Peggy to kick your ass out.” “Peggy?” he’d asked, confused.

“Waitress. Friend of mine. I come here ‘bout every night, she likes me. She doesn’t know you. So, shush.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then simply reached into his bag and pulled out his sketchbook. He began to work on refining his latest character design, and soon the two of them fell into a sort of companionable silence, unburdened by small talk. She was free to enjoy her book without him asking what was so funny when she laughed over certain parts, and he was free to lose himself in his art without being asked what he was drawing, why, how long he’d been drawing, on and on and on until he’d completely lost the heart of the design.

Hours later, when last call rolled around, Jordan began packing up. “What’s your name?” she asked, which struck him as quite abrupt after going so long without speaking a word to each other.

“Um,” he’d hesitated, embarrassed to give his real name. “Candi. Candi Belle.”

Her eyebrow lifted at that, but mercifully she made no comment. “Jordan Jones. Next time you need a seat here, you can grab one with me. I’ll see you around, maybe.” And she’d left, just like that.

It had taken weeks of nights like those — not quite meetings, really — before she’d asked him what he was working on.

“Oh, it’s just something for a graphic novel I’m working on.”

“Yeah? You write?”

“I draw.”

“Not much of a graphic novel without words.” “Yeah.” He’d huffed in frustration. “I’ve never been so good at that part.” “Here, let me take a look.” She’d laughed at his cautious expression. “Relax, C. I’m not gonna steal it, or spill anything, or whatever you’re afraid of.”

C. She’d never called him by his name, and he wasn’t sure if it made him feel grateful or embarrassed. But he did hand the notebook over, however reluctantly, and watched in anxious anticipation as her eyes widened.

“Oh wow, this is good. Really good.” Unexpectedly, she reached into her purse, pulled out a leather-bound notebook, and flipped it open to the nearest blank page on the table next to his sketchbook. “I can work with this.” “What?” He’d watched, bewildered, as her hand — her left hand, he noticed — formed crawling letters across the lined page. She worked fast, staring intently at the words that flowed out of her, every once in a while glancing at his sketchbook, turning the page back or forward, taking in the few mock-up pages he’d sketched without dialog or purpose.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sent her own notebook spinning across the table back at him. “Take a look, tell me what you think.” It took him a moment to decipher the sloppy cursive, especially as the blue ink had smudged beneath her hand while she wrote. But he did make it through in the end, and when he’d finished, he’d looked up at her with radiant eyes. “Holy shit. You got it. You got them,” he said, meaning the half-reasoned characters. “They’ve been rattling around in my head for months, and you just got them!”

“Hell, C, get me more work like that, I’ll write you up a whole damn plot.”

“Deal,” he’d said.