Marcus was a baker. Marcus made pies in his own bakery that had been passed on to him by his father. All the kids in the neighbourhood loved Marcus because his pies were the sweetest and warmest they had ever tasted; better than anyone’s mother could even attempt making. He lived with his dog in the apartment above the bakery. He’d wake up every morning at four o’clock and would begin kneading dough until the sun began to rise and fill the bakery windows. Marcus was kind, and would deliver dinner or dessert pies personally if he could manage the walk after the day was done and the floors had been swept. That was the kind of man Marcus Von Blume was.
Ever since Marcus was a child, he admired his father for being a baker. Before he went to school every morning, and had eaten his breakfast, he would watch his father remove the pies from the searing hot oven. He knew the changing of seasons and months by what pies were being made: savoury meats in winter, tart cherry or rhubarb in spring and summer, and his favourite, spiced pumpkin in fall. His mother also helped out in the bakery. But this truly was Marcus' bakery, ever since he was tall enough to reach the oven door.
Getting older and greyer, Marcus still loved the early hours and his customers who he greeted with a smile, no matter how hot the bakery got when the sun was high over the store and customers came in for their slice of pie at lunch. He did find it hard however, to cope with the traffic, the endless honking of car horns from overworked business men. Even the various young teenagers who he had bring his groceries every few days, Marcus had to dole out more and more generous tips. Even with the incentive, a scoffing young lad would show up late, if at all, and act ungrateful for the work and hard-earned money he had been given. The neighbourhood had changed from a quaint red-bricked street on the west end of downtown to a sleek sky-high hub for suits and young entrepreneurs. The von Blume bakery remained one of the few hints of the neighbourhood's former glory.
Marcus’ shop was neat. Behind the counter were all the shelves that were stocked full daily, except for the ones near the front which had the day’s specials and would usually sell out the fastest. The von Blume bakery used to make all sorts of baked goods, but since his father passed on and his mother got too old to do near anything other than sit in her day chair, his selection of inventory decreased. Instead of breads, cakes, muffins and rolls, Marcus focused on what he did best, what he loved: pies. He figured to stop baking bread wasn’t so bad for the neighbourhood, as a new bakery had just opened up two stores down on the opposite side of the street—nice folks that Marcus liked just fine.
To the right of the counter was the entrance to the bakery, where there were two stone ovens side by each, a counter with a window over it that looked out into the small garden that was quaintly unkempt. On the wall opposite the window beside the counter was a large chalkboard that showed prices and a smaller one that Marcus kept track of the number of specialty pies he sold. The ticks and tallies had faded because recently, no one seemed to ask for anything special done to their pie. Marcus loved filling out people’s orders for their special pies: heart-shaped for lovers, numbered for birthdays, even coloured crust for some of the more adventurous customers. But these days no one expressed the desire for Marcus to make any specialty pie.
* * * *
Chuck was a womanizer, for the lack of a better word. He got whatever he wanted. It wasn’t because of looks, for the forty-something man was getting old, and lacked the bone structure for a pretty face. Chuck was plump, but he was rich. Ever since his parents died and left him penniless at the age of fourteen, Charles Eugene Manning made it his ambition to make money. When he heard the news of his parents’ death, he took the thirty cents he had in his pocket and bought an ice cream from the corner store. The sun had been hot that day and the ice cream began to melt all over his hands. Charles got the idea for a bowl-shaped ice cream cone, changed his name to Chuck and made millions off his idea. Chuck had a knack for getting what he wanted. It was the way he talked, the way he commanded a room the minute he stepped in. He was tall, and wore suits that wore him with blazer buttons that were never done up.
One night, Chuck was fed up with the bar he had gone to the night previous, having been unsatisfied with the selection of adequate tail. He went to a place that was just around the corner from his flat, which he had never bothered going into because the lines were always too long to get in, and Chuck didn’t have the patience to stand in line, or the desire to pay a doorman fifty bucks just for pussy. On this Wednesday night though, the line was desolate. He thought he’d take a peek in and see what the joint had to offer. Within seconds, he caught the sight of a pair of legs by the bar and sauntered over to dangle the bait. He slid his arm under hers to grab the parasol beside her drink, and as she looked over to who had done this, he put it in her hair.
“There. Beautiful. Now how about we go to Hawaii?”
“I’d love to but I’ve got work tomorrow.” she smiled.
“Well then, let’s settle for my place.” Chuck’s charm worked instantly, passed off as hilarious through her slightly drunken fog, and without even buying her a drink. He whisked her away from her barstool to the door, and within a few minutes he’d have her, legs spread on his mattress.
As the sun rose upon the bakery, Chuck awoke to the smell of sizzling sausage and Sunnyside eggs. He sauntered nakedly into the kitchen with a morning repeat in mind. She sensed his presence, and not particularly wanting to taste him again, began to talk about breakfast and her love for cooking and baking. Chuck was disappointed that she wasn’t as naked as he was, but was intrigued with a girl that could serve up a good meal. He asked her what her favourite thing to make was, to which she responded “pies”. Chuck almost lost interest, wishing she had said steak or pot roast, but thought that if he listened to her intently with a sultry eye, she would want him on the kitchen floor.
She wished he would stop looking at her while she talked about her culinary endeavours, so she mentioned her life-long dream of creating an E-shaped pie.
Chuck had never heard of a letter-shaped pie, or any pie that was shaped other than the regular old O. He began to imagine this E-shaped pie, and dollar signs filled his eyes. He saw birthday boys and girls lining up for their letter, whole table spreads with words spelt by letter-shaped pies. He would find someone to open a shop that would have a bright sign in front and the many Filipino ladies making the authentic German pies in the back. Today he would walk into town and find a bakery that would want to be bought out by Chuck’s money.
* * * *
It was a slow Thursday for Marcus and the bakery. He had a few customers that morning, but nothing substantial. At about four o’clock Marcus greeted a new customer. He entered taking the place in, but in a different way than most of the mothers and old ladies that entered the shop did. Marcus smiled and greeted the man, who introduced himself as Chuck.
Chuck was never one for formalities, so he got right down to business. He introduced the idea of letter-shaped pies and asked Marcus to bake him an E-shaped pie for the next day, while walking towards the door. Marcus was more than happy to, and jotted down the man’s name from a pile of scrap paper beside the cash register. Marcus wished the man a good day, and began to plan out the letter E.
Too excited to tend to anything else, Marcus spent the rest of the day sketching the letter E on a pad of paper by the cash register, and plotting out the specifications in his head while sweeping up before the end of the day. That night he would close up the store but stay in the back room to work on this specialty pie through the night.
* * * *
Chuck went home satisfied that he’d found his bakery so quickly. He ate a sausage before bed and slept very heavily, forgetting to close the blinds so that in the morning he was awakened by blinding sunlight before his alarm at seven o’clock. Tired but unable to fall back asleep, he decided he’d walk back to the bakery. He’d see the quality of the E-shaped pie for him self and Chuck figured, show the baker that he truly cared about purchasing the bakery.
* * * *
Marcus had worked into the night, making numerous versions of the E-shaped pie, since it had been so long since a specialty pie had been made in his bakery. By seven thirty, he had forgotten to open the windows and unlock the door in unloading the rest of the day’s baked goods, and a customer had arrived. It was Chuck at the door, with a large briefcase. He greeted Marcus with a too-broad smile and asked how lucky Marcus was feeling today as he plopped his briefcase onto the register counter. Marcus was confused, and instead of questions rushed to retrieve Chuck’s specialty pie, while reminding himself to chalk up another tally on the smaller chalkboard. When Marcus returned, Chuck was shuffling papers and a pen was laid beside his open briefcase.
Chuck was straight with Marcus. He offered him two hundred thousand dollars for the bakery, and forty thousand a year for Marcus to be the head baker at Chuck’s Extraordinary Pies. Marcus’ old eyes reflected in disbelief as Chuck began selling the profits to be had from letter-shaped pies. To seal the deal, Chuck drew the neon sign on scrap paper, and he hoped the blank look the old man gave him was awe. Chuck asked Marcus again how lucky he felt that morning, and extended his hand to Marcus, once more offering to join Chuck’s team of extraordinary pie professionals.
Marcus stared at Chuck’s transparent smile, and thought of his father. He thought of his childhood, and how the bakery had already begun to lose popularity, how he was unable to produce as many goods as his father had, how his mother was immobilized in the garden day after day, how the chalk had faded, and tears collected in the corners of his eyes. He saw this man before him, offering money and success. He saw the weathered, floured hands before him, and for the first time he felt old. He left the smiling man with the extended hand and retreated to the ovens in the back room. He looked at the various pies sitting across the messy and floured counter, and saw a black handle underneath a spilled bag of apples.
Chuck didn’t know where the old man went, but figured he had gone to calculate how much he would make joining Chuck. He smiled to himself about how much more was to be made with old fools that didn’t know the retail value of their own stores.
Marcus returned thinking of the delivery boy that would be late, about the raging traffic that would soon start and not stop until the sun set, and extended his hand with a knife to Chuck, who laughed back at him awkwardly. Marcus asked Chuck to leave his store, and that he should know folk like him weren’t welcome in a family store. Chuck left quickly without the E-shaped pie, and Marcus sat in his mother’s place in the garden, content he had made a stand against the world that turned its back on the tradition and the value of a dollar.
No comments:
Post a Comment