The Baker

We, each of us, are sculpted by life. The type of vessel we become is a direct result of the fingers and fire that make us. I’m a baker. I walk to work in the company of stars. I feel their presence and I know they see me but whatever wisdom they might offer is light years away.

          Most people sleep while I walk the streets. I think they must feel safe, tucked in behind locked doors while the night has its way with the world. I feel safe in the dark, alone. 

       The alarm defibrillates my heart at two every morning, causing me to sit up and reevaluate my life choices. And, everyday I conclude that society needs bread and I need solitude. 

         The world at night smells different. The air is lighter, fresher. The reset button has been hit and things are new again. Street lights cast their counterfeit glow upon sidewalks and all I hear is the scrape of my steps on the concrete. The world is at rest. It’s just me out here.

          When I step into The Poppyseed Bakery, it’s lifeless. I flip on the lights, make coffee and sigh, as I haul the heavy bags of flour and sugar into the kitchen. People make me nervous. A single conversation is much heavier than an industrial sized bag of flour. I pick the flour up and I put it down and that’s it. I can’t ever seem to put a conversation down once I’ve picked it up. 

          It’s the little things, like the way a person looks at me while I’m talking, the position of their eyebrows, the genre of smile they choose. What are they thinking about me? What are they thinking about what I just said? I pick my words apart, play them over and over again. It’s exhausting. Baking is exhausting too but it’s the kind of exhaustion I can live with.

          I mix the ingredients and measure the dough. It’s so easy to quantify. Salt, sugar, flour, oil, and yeast added together make bread. Me mixing words with another human being, who knows what will come of that? Maybe I’ll embarrass myself, maybe I’ll sound stupid or even worse, what if the conversation goes well and I feel the anxiety of living up to it? Now, I have to be who that person thinks I am and I can’t live with that kind of pressure. 

         The kitchen is alive again, bread blooms in the oven. It smells like the best parts of home. I sip rich, bitter coffee, fill muffin tins with batter,roll out pie dough, and slice apples. A plume of nutmeg and butter flow past me and out the window. My siren song to the neighborhood.

          I’m lost in my work until the others arrive to set up the front of the store. I stack baguettes and crusty boules in the window. Trays of glossy pastries, muffins, and cookies line the glass cases. Temporary art. Beauty with a shelf life. 

           I study the interactions of the people around me, an art beyond my reach. People make it look so easy. “Good morning! How are you?” They say with wide smiles and courteous chuckles. Is any of it real?

          The customers love the bread. I hear them say, “I just can’t eat grocery store bread anymore. Your bread has ruined all other bread for me.” I hear it all day long and I never tire of it. They don’t know my name, they don’t even know I’m listening, but their approval means everything to me.

          I walk home around noon. I can smell the vanilla and the lemons and the buttercream on my skin. The sunlight stings my nocturnal eyes as I watch the people on the street. They all have places to be. My day is over and I’m ready for the solace of home.  My feet have turned to bare bone by now and my muscles are resentful. I wash the flour from my hair and the sweat from my face. The hot water reaches deep and soothes my aches. I draw the shades and collapse onto the couch and I’m asleep in an instant. 

           My days run together, each one a carbon copy of the last, but I don’t mind. The predictability is comfortable. Another morning, another moon lit walk to the bakery. I’m on autopilot when a pulse of pressure on my lower back draws me to the surface. I jerk to turn, but harsh words stop me. 

         “Don’t turn around. Do you feel this?” The pressure in my back sharpens.

         “Yes.” Adrenaline courses through me. I feel pins and needles in my face and fingers and the pounding of my heart in my ears is deafening. I can barely hear his muffled orders telling me to walk. He nudges me through the doorway, the metal lock grinds behind me.

       “I need a quiet place to think for a while.” His voice is steady, convincing. My muscles convulse and weaken and I find it difficult to stand. They give out on me and I catch myself with a desperate hand on the counter. 

          “Oh, none of that now, none of that.” The stranger slips his hand under my arm and turns me toward him. My weary eyes scan his face. I collect salt and pepper stubble beneath over cast eyes. He makes a peace offering of a rueful smile. “I won’t hurt you, as long as you don’t let on that I’m here.” 

        “Okay.” The confusion on my face strikes a nerve and he looks away. “Wh...what do you want me to do?” 

          “Just do your job. Pretend I’m not here.” I take a deep breath and do what I can to push through my fear. “What would you be doing if I weren’t here right now?” 

           “I would bring in the flour and the sugar.”

          “0kay, so, do that.” I notice the knife in his hand now. It’s long and jagged. My heart thrashes against my ribs and I fight against a tidal pull of shock. The flour and sugar are heavier today. I quake beneath their weight. I turn on the mixer and she lets out her usual metallic screech. 

      “What the hell? How old is that thing?” He asks with an unfamiliar kind of smile.

      “Eighty years.” I say, pouring oil over the rim of the bowl. 

         “What are you making?” He pulls a folding chair from the wall and settles in beside me. The knife is on the counter, the kitchen light glistens along its silvery edge.

          “I’m making bread.” He watches as I roll the dough onto the wooden counter. It’s a little sticky, so I add more flour. Routine takes over and my mind departs from that which it can not grasp to the easy understanding of soft, wet, dough across my palms. 

          “You make it look easy.” 

         “I’ve done this every morning for five years now,” I confess, moving on to the muffins and the cookies. The extravagant aroma of sourdough whispers through the kitchen as I drop enormous mounds of grainy, peanut butter dough onto cookie sheets. 

         “This is honest work. Would you consider yourself a wholesome person?”

         “I’m just doing my job.” I pull a rack of bread from the oven. It’s perfect and even in a moment like this, I find the process cathartic. He picks up his knife and walks toward me. I close my eyes and hold my breath. I feel his body near mine, hot breath and a foreign heartbeat.Then I hear the crackle of his knife as it slices through a baguette. He pulls the soft middle of the bread away from the crust and rolls his eyes in delight, as it melts in his mouth.  He moves down the line and selects an enormous peanut butter cookie, hot from the oven, and bites into it. 

“This!” he holds the cookie up high, “this is incredible! Salty, sweet, chewy. Reminds me of being a kid!” 

         He returns to his chair, still chewing. “I’m not good, like you,” he says, “I don’t make things. I break things.” He looks up at me and I want to help him. 

        “Why? Why do you break things?” 

         He pauses a moment, “I don’t really know. I just do. I burn every bridge. I take until people stop giving. I’ve always been this way.” 

        “Why are you here, really?” I don’t dare look at him. I focus on folding fluffy egg whites into thick cake batter.

         “I took something that didn’t belong to me and now the police are looking for me. I was running when I saw you, walking alone, and I followed you. You were so unguarded ... you didn’t even notice me.” 

         “At least you’re honest,” I say, pouring coffee into two mugs.

         “Honest? I’m holding you captive, I hurt people, I take things that don’t belong to me. Why would you call me honest?”  There is an edge to his voice that worries me. A palpable tension rises, causing prickly tendrils of adrenaline to wake up my cheeks. 

         “Yes, you are a bad person. You haven’t misrepresented yourself.” I take an awkward sip from my cup and wonder what his response will be.

         “Someone you trusted hurt you.” He says. His words strike me with startling accuracy. I ignore him and fill a pie shell with papples. He laughs, obviously pleased with himself. I’m bullied. I shrink away to nothing and put the pies in the oven. 

         I make myself busy and ignore the turn in the conversation. I’m so small now. He made me this way. The initial impact of his knife slashes into the center of my belly. The sharp, metallic probing snatches my breath away. I’m confused. I look down at the wet gash in front of me and then up at his face. He looks different now. I see him pull the knife from my belly and I feel it pierce my chest. Shock dulls the pain.

          I fall hard onto the concrete floor but I don’t feel it. He’s above me now. He smells like tobacco and old books. There’s pressure but no pain. I watch him, his eyes are empty. I close my eyes. I feel the push and pull of the knife lifting and dropping my body. The earthy notes of apples and cinnamon wash over me. I’m home. I’m safe. 

        “How’s that for honesty?” He asks, hovering over me.  I’m lost in an inky darkness beyond the reach of time. It holds me, dresses my wounds, and guards me. The darkness reminds me to rest. 

       I hear his footsteps crossover my body. His movements are casual. He opens the bakery door, letting in a shock of light. I feel its warmth on my face. My attacker steps out into the sunshine. Finally, I’m alone.