Not a Bakery But…

The sign said it was a bakery but the things a person could buy there went way beyond confections and cakes. Actually, there weren’t any cakes or cookies or candies exactly. The shop had sugarless maccaronnettes.They sold beet-chocolate loaves with imported beech nuts. There were hazelnut-jalapeno cream croissantines. Every shelf had its own wild culinary experiment so edgy that it was unrecognizable. This was the new way that the people were eating. They wanted fusion. Unlikely, palate-startling mash-ups. And none of it could keep. Which is why at closing time the sidewalk beside the bakery was crowded with tall plastic trash bins full of unsold treats. The lids of the bins were ajar with all the torn single buns and raw dough and stale loaves.

That was where Crystal Deeds found Hector, lying between the trash bins. He lay out with his eyes closed, his mouth open, his frayed green field coat spread beneath him like a pool of blood, and one thin arm stretched above his head as if he were actually dead.

“Hector! You doin’ a’right?” Her words slurred. He made a weak attempt to roll away from the harsh sound of her voice but he didn’t open his eyes. Clearly, Hector wasn’t right. She skipped all the middle steps and went right to hysterical. “Whaddid you do?What’ve you done? Oh Lord! What is it!?”

Crystal Deeds knelt with Hector between the bins. Both were grubby, sunburned and ragged so they didn’t attract much attention. Strangers went past without looking. She anxiously brushed the stringy bleached hair back from her furrowed, freckled forehead. She had sat all afternoon on the stairs of a library drinking tall cans of beer with two young runaways and their emaciated dog. The sun was strong and the beer made her dizzy so she had left her coat tucked behind a planter where’d she’d slept the night before and gone walking. To find Hector like this now while she was still in the fog of her buzz seemed like a cruel test. Often she felt bitter and helpless against the capricious tests of some anonymous being.

All around them were crushed and spoiling baked goods picked at by the birds and mashed into the sidewalk. Had Hector gorged himself? Had he made himself sick on foodie garbage? She lifted his head tenderly. Hector’s tongue was thick in his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, then retched. Then he turned his head out of her cupped hands and vomited up against the side of the bakery.

“Oh Lord!”

Was he poisoned? Some of the food had to be rotten. Or was it an allergic reaction to a mysterious ingredient in this indulgent slop? The kind of swank treats these spoiled urbanites demanded, a person was meant to buy one or two rich bites for ten dollars and be done. Now Hector had stuffed his empty stomach full of the junk. And after it had been spoiling all afternoon in the hot sun! She flipped the lids on the bins to look inside but it was impossible to tell what might have been eaten. She couldn’t even tell what she was looking at. It was all a mash of gluten, food dye and shards of anonymous fruits. There were smears of pastel paste which could have been the filling for some lotus seed muffin or the topping on a demonic sake-glazed ginger eclair. Was it pale peanut butter?

She stood above him and screamed. “What did you eat?”

He was on his back. He only managed to wag his head back and forth.

“Yes you did. You had some of this foodie crap and it made you sick. What was it? What did you eat?”

He wouldn’t answer.

Finally a woman passing along the street paused. “Is he hungry?” This pedestrian looked skittish but kind. She was carrying a take-out box and she set it on the sidewalk. “Here. I won’t eat it. It can be so heavy.” She touched her stomach. Her eyes darted from Crystal Deeds squatting to Hector laying out as if she were waiting for some sign of gratitude.Then she came to her senses and hurried away with just the exhilaration of her good deed.

Crystal Deeds opened the box. It was hardly a gift. It as some inedible morsel of sushi roe spread over a burnt crust garnished with a kind of hairy root. It all rested in a sad pool of sauce that was strong with the sharp smell of espresso. Who lives on this! She sent the box into the street with a wild kick and knelt beside Hector again.

His eyes were open. He stayed flat on his back but he raised his hands above his chest, gesturing to her. He was recovering himself. His lips moved. He was trying to tell her what he needed. Finally she heard his quiet, muddled words. “Baby, I’m needle sick.” And he looked hopefully into her panicked face.