Little Blue House

Everyday when I wake up and walk into my kitchen, I look out and see the man that lives in the blue house across the street is already gone. He wakes up before the rest of the neighborhood and drives his little blue car to his bakery. His house is small, the paint is chipping, and the porch is a little crooked. His grass gets long because he works so much. He has no time to mow and no money to pay someone to do it. He is hardly ever there, he is trying so hard to just survive.

Sometimes I look outside and see the red notices pinned to the door of his little blue house. I can see him take them in with defeat on his face, his shoulders sagging from the weight of his stress. How can someone work so hard but never really succeed? Grinding away everyday to have nothing. No family or friends, just a little old blue house and run down blue car.  The next day, when I looked out, he was already gone to bake his loaves.

As he gets to his bakery he turns on what light he needs to work. No need to waste any electricity he doesn’t have to. He preheats the oven and gets his supplies. Morning after morning he rolls the dough, shaping and kneading. As he does he thinks about his life, it's a lot like this dough. Being pressed and smashed, turned and torn. He knows how close to failure he is. Praying each day he sells enough to come back tomorrow. 

He has always worked this hard, his face wrinkled and hands scared from the burns of years of baking. He has no family, no time for a wife or kids. His parents long gone, his brother and sister stopped trying to contact him. He is so engrossed in work, not for a luxurious life but just to get by. Baking is his true love, he caresses each loaf with the touch he would a lover. So gentle but strong is his grip as he kneads dough and works on them just so. He talks to each one, telling them how beautiful they are and how happy they will make the one who chooses it. Even after all this time he still loves it, even when he barely has a profit to show. He still gets up everyday ready to work, to start before the sun comes up and work until everyone else has gone to bed. 

He finishes baking and turns the sign to open. He flips all the lights on now that he has to. He has gotten used to working in the dim light. He stands behind the counter watching the flow of people pass by. He silently wills them to come in knowing if they will try his work, hold the warmth in their hands, smell the freshness, they will want to bring one home. He desperately needs new business. He can always count on the old maid that comes in with her little dog everyday. She counts her change out with her tiny wrinkled hands to buy her one loaf. Her and a few other regulars are all he has.That won't pay his bills, or get groceries. He lives off the bread that is left each day. He can't remember what meat and vegetables taste like, or the crisp bite of an apple.

 When the day is over he prepares for tomorrow. After he flips the sign to close, turns out some of  the lights, he mixes up his dough to rise until the morning and then says goodbye. He wraps his frail body in his tattered coat and goes to his little blue house. He parks his old blue car and with his head hung low he climbs his stairs and takes another notice off his door. He goes inside, not turning on any lights until he is in the kitchen. As he checks his mail his eyes fill with tears. He is going to lose it all. He has tried so hard, but always came up short. 

 He finally drags his battered body up the stairs, his stomach growling, and climbs into bed without even undressing. He refuses to run the heat, to waste even a penny isn't worth the warmth. It’s too cold to even sleep without his coat. He closes his eyes heavy with weariness. He will worry tomorrow, now he must sleep. 

    His alarm is beeping after what seems like just a few short hours of sleep. He lays there in his bed, not ready to face another depressing day. Another day of being a failure. He closes his eyes for one more minute to dream of a bustling bakery, the doors always opening and closing with customers. He has workers to man the cash register, always filled with bills and coins. He can spend his time with his creations, making each loaf with such care. Spreading the dough, massaging it, then baking it to perfection. Soft and chewy in the middle but a beautiful tan and flakey crust. Maybe he would make pastries or doughnuts, he would have time and money for new inventions for people to enjoy. They would ooh and ahh over them, lining up to get more everyday. His bakery would be their breakfast spot, they would be excited to see what they can choose from. Maybe he would even sell those fancy coffee drinks, he can hire someone to make just those. His alarm beeps again rousing him from his reverie. He gets up and tackles the bleak day ahead. Always hoping and praying for this to be the day everything will change. 

He climbs in his old blue car and drives to his run down bakery. He makes his loaves in the dim light. He turns the sign to open and waits. Everyday he waits, everyday people pass on by. Except for the old lady and her dog. He makes it through the day, turns his sign to closed. Same thing day after day, he makes his dough to rise overnight and goes back to his little blue house. 

He sees more red in his mailbox. He sleeps in his bed with his coat on and his stomach growling. Tomorrow is the day he will lose it all. No more notices will come because they will take his little blue house, his beat up blue car, and his old run down bakery. The dough he prepared will be left to sit there and spoil. The old lady and her dog will have to find a new place to get their loaves. Where will he go? He does not know. But for now he will sleep in his little blue house one more night.

I wake up and go to get my coffee and look out at the little blue house. I see no beat up blue car in the drive. I see a foreclosed sign in the tall grass by the crooked porch. I guess the old man lost his dream. So sad that sometimes all the hard work never pays off.