Charlie the baker pushed past the dingy curtain door in the back of his shop and over to the cot by the back wall and shook the boy.
“Wake up, it’s past six” he barked.
The boy didn’t move. Charlie walked back to the front of the bakery and continued to feverishly cram dough onto the metal baking sheets. The store usually opened at six thirty and he was running way behind schedule. Yesterday had been a long day, and for the first time in years, waking up hadn’t been easy for him.
The baker was sure the boy was exaggerating. Max was always trying to get himself out of doing work and the baker was sick of it. He had practically taken the boy off the street, was giving him a place to stay, and teaching him an honorable trade. That's more than anyone had done for him to be sure. But was the boy grateful? No. Of course not. Instead he spent his time putzing around, feeling sorry for himself. He had to be asked to help out; he did a shoddy job sweeping, didn’t have the common sense to open the window or door to air out the place when he was cleaning, and now he was getting up late. The baker hadn’t had the luxury of an uncle when he was coming up. He had worked his way up from the bottom despite all the opposition, put himself through culinary school, he had applied for and gotten a restaurant license, and opened his very own shop. The baker had never taken help from anybody to get to the place he was now, but what thanks did he get? None from the boy, that was for sure.
They just don’t make children like they used to, he thought. No work ethic, no people skills, and no sense of cleanliness or pride in a job well done.
He bustled around the kitchen banging as many pans as he could in the process, but to no effect. “Get up Max,” he shouted through the clamor.
The people waiting for the #70 at the stop in front of the bakery made shadows against the large windows that paraded by in a distorted silhouette merry-go-round. There was still no noise coming from the back.
“Did you hear me?” the baker yelled to the curtain, “I said get your scrawny ass up.” Just plain laziness, he thought to himself, that’s all there is to it. Mr. Dewitt is a fine, upstanding man who knows the value of hard work. The boy just came up with some outlandish tale to spite him and get some attention, he thought, and he wasn’t going to put up with it any more.
The boy—a frail little thing—rolled off the faded green cot into a slouched lump, furiously rubbing his crusted eyelashes. He occupied himself with this for a couple of minutes, trying to gain his footing in the waking world.
Fresh bready steam infused the air in a burst as the curtain flew open again, surrounding the baker in a puff of smoke enhanced by the streams of light on his flustered face.
“This is the last time I’m coming back here. Customers’ll be here soon, and you’ve got to wrap up that order for Mr. Dewitt before he gets here.”
The boy looked up blankly for a second, and then reached for the shirt on the fold-up chair next to his uncle’s old army cot where his clothes were thrown the night before. His shirt hung so loosely from his flesh, the buttons practically begged the holes to hold them. The baker couldn’t understand how Max even thought up the story. It was so ridiculous after all. Mr. Dewitt wasn’t that kind of man anyway. The baker had a sense for that kind of thing. There was no way it could have happened in the first place. And even if it did, shit happens. People just had to learn to suck it up, as far as Charlie was concerned. He hadn’t had it easy himself. But did he dwell on his hardships? No sir. He did not.
Charlie turned and went back to the front of the store. Large loaves sat on baking sheets cooling behind the still empty glass display cases, and several trays of danishes, éclairs, donuts and cream puffs sat waiting to be boxed. The steam swirled upward to join the dust being beaten around by the ceiling fan.
The neighborhood had changed drastically over the past couple of years. Most of the small family owned shops had closed down, and gradually, organic food marts, expensive boutiques, and upbeat restaurants—with their fluorescent lights, two seater tables and happy neon colored walls—started springing up in their places. One by one, all the buildings in the area had been sold to the tofu eating smoothie makers. Dewitt was the new owner of Charlie’s building, a big-shot stockbroker from ‘the Merc’ (as he called it) at LaSalle and Van Buren, now trying his hand in real-estate. He checked on his buildings regularly and often dropped in without prior notice. He had replaced three of his buildings already with $15 an hour parking-lots or fancy café’s, and the bakery was definitely not as profitable as his latest endeavors.
Charlie was trying his best to attract the newer clientele. He made some of the fancy specialties he saw in the new coffee shops and added more decorations to the cakes and bonbons, but he hadn’t had much success yet. These new recipes weren’t in his hands or heart, and it showed in the taste.
Max shuffled into the kitchen. His hair, trying desperately to escape from his head, stretched in all conceivable directions; and his shoes were untied. The baker stared at them. Of course his shoes were untied. Nothing he said to the boy about cleanliness and professional presentation had ever seemed to stick. Max grabbed a soggy sundried-tomato roll and stuffed it half way down his throat.
“You going to help out this morning? Or just stuff your face?”
The boy grabbed another roll and a frosted cookie before reaching for the broom. His face looked like it had been forced through a funnel on his way into the world. It was pinched at the nose and mouth, leaving his eyes extremely wide-set, and his forehead even wider. His baggy pants shuffled to the front of the store leaving smudged streaks on the floor.
“Could you open the front before you sweep?” the baker exclaimed.
“I know.”
“Well you never do it.”
The bells clanged in angry little peals as Max pulled the door open, and began to half-heartedly sweep the entry way.
***
Yesterday had been an average day. By three in the afternoon, the rolls were getting dry. There was hardly anything in the register, and it didn’t look like traffic would get heavier anytime soon. Max had been sitting on the padded stool behind the counter, his moist fingerprints studding the glass as he tapped it. The fan was whirring, as it always did, and the sun wrapped its long smooth fingers around the shop making the dirty windows look frosted from the inside. The buzzing florescent lights were dimmed to keep the bills down, and the combined effect made everything look tinged with brown. The boy had been in a very quiet mood, and he sat with his homework in front of him, scratch marks and ketchup covering the small problem-sets.
Max liked math. Playing with numbers was fun for him. He could plus and minus them, times them and divide them, and in the end, everything equaled out to what it was supposed to be. Once he got into it, he didn’t even have to think anymore. He could let his head leave his body—fade into a world of numbers where nothing else mattered. Drawing let him do that too. It was like being in another world. A nicer world that he made himself. He especially liked shading: the way it made things jump off of the page.
His favorite thing to draw was Comics. His Spiderman looked almost like the one on TV now. He’d been saving his money to buy a real set of drawing pencils, the ones with different darknesses, and maybe even some colors too. He had his old crayons, but it was hard to get the same effects you could get with pencils. Markers didn’t work that well either because he couldn’t really vary the dark, it was all the same shade. Before, he used to like coloring everything as dark as he could, but it ran the crayons down too fast, and it always made things look flat.
He had seen this show on PBS in Art class with this old man with a curly blond fro. Bob something. He talked really softly, and made everything look so easy. But he drew with paint, and it was mostly trees and flowers. Not that he didn't like nature, comics were just so much cooler.
The boy looked up into the sepia glare of the sun through the tinted storefront. He wished he could go outside. He was so tired of working; and no one was coming inside. He didn't see the point of cooking and cleaning all the time if there weren't going to be any customers.
There was a nice tree in the park down the block. One with knots and knarls that looked like trolls lived in it. Max could see the one that was right in front of the store, but all the ones on the street were the scrawny ugly ones trapped in the black metal grates on the sidewalk. And those ones barely even had leaves. He thought maybe he would draw a truck. There was a big red one right out front. He needed his pencils though. It would never work without the pencils. Mr. Dewitt had bought him pastels, but he didn’t like those. They were greasy, messy, like Mr. Dewitt made him feel. They got all over his hands and clogged his fingerprints with gooey gunk that got darker anytime you switched colors. He thought maybe Uncle Charlie would buy them for him for Christmas. He had asked him before. Maybe he would remember.
The door opened and the boy jumped. He hadn’t been watching the street as the black BMW parked. He recognized the footsteps though, and his nerves forced his fingers up to his earlobes.
The boy looked down, and backed up slowly. The man laughed.
“Is your uncle here?”
The boy nodded to the back. Dewitt frowned, but sauntered behind the counter, scruffing the boy’s hair as he passed him.
“Heyyy, Good Afternoon Charlie, how’s business treating you buddy?”
The baker stepped out from behind the oven, wiping his hands on his apron. He smiled, perhaps a little too largely, and gave the man an enthusiastic handshake.
“We’re doing pretty well Mr. Dewitt, pretty well,” the baker fibbed.
“Well that’s great to hear.”
“Yessir it is.”
“Listen Charlie. I have a proposition for you.”
“Sure, anything, what is it?”
“I have a big meeting tomorrow with the board of directors of one of my biggest investors. If it wouldn’t be too much for you, I’d like a big plate of your goodies to put out. Usually I’d just go to Dominick’s or Jewel, but I’d like to make an impression. Know what I mean?”
“Of course! It’d be an honor. What time tomorrow would you need it?” the baker asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, nine in the morning? I know that’s short notice, but I’d make it worth your while.” Charlie looked up.
“Sure thing boss. What kind of things you looking for? Éclairs? Scones? Danishes?”
“You’re the expert, hook me up, as they say.”
“How many?”
“Oh, say 50. Seventy-five just to be safe.”
“Wow, that’s a big order.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Dewitt looked around the shop skeptically.
“No, no problem.” Charlie smiled, showing his browning teeth. “No problem at all.”
“Great.” Dewitt patted the baker on the back. “Throw a couple extra in for the kid there too. My treat.”
“Aw, don’t spoil the boy, he eats enough as it is.”
“No, I insist.”
“What do you say Max?”
The boy shivered, and the two men laughed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with him lately.” The baker shot the boy a look so strong his lips almost disappeared from the pressure in his face. “Max, be polite.”
“It’s alright,” Mr. Dewitt smirked, “I was shy too at his age.”
The baker walked over to the register to ring him up, moving his lost-looking nephew out of the way when he didn’t move on his own accord.
“I’ll be back around opening time tomorrow to pick it all up, and I’ll give you the other half then.”
“Sounds good.”
“Chin up kid,” Mr. Dewitt said, as he lopped the boy’s chin up with his rough banana fingers. He waved goodbye to Charlie and made his way past the windows and on towards his Beemer.
After Dewitt left, the baker decided to have the conversation he’d been meaning to have with the boy for a long time.
“Look at me a minute would you?”
Max gripped his stool.
“What’s your problem? Someone does something nice for you, and you don’t even say thank you?”
Max looked down.
“Do you want to be here?" Charlie pressed, "I'm not forcing you you know.”
The boy kicked at the metal stem of his stool. Charlie began again, less forcefully.
“Listen. I try to do everything that I can to make you feel comfortable. You have a place to sleep, food you don’t have to pay for, you get to go to school when you want to; all that I ask is that you help me out around the store. Is that too much to handle?”
The boy looked at a brown scuff on his toe.
“I didn’t have it good like you do. I had to work construction with my father. That wasn’t easy like this gig. No sir. Hard manual labor. That’s what that was. I had aches and pains everyday. But did I cry about it? No. And I damn sure didn’t get free hand outs.”
Max struggled with a piece of icing stuck to the counter. He flicked at it with his nail, and the shavings scurried across the glass. It was hard for him too, he thought.
“So do you want to tell me what the hell’s going on with you or not?” his uncle pushed.
Max scratched his head and fidgeted with the counter again while little pockets of sound escaped his mouth.
“Well? What is it?”
Max started, still staring at the ground, “It’s Mr. Dewitt.”
“What do you mean?” The baker was genuinely confused. “What’s wrong with him?”
The boy looked up and caught his uncle’s eyes.
“He comes in here sometimes when you’re not here.”
“A lot of customers do. What’s your point?”
The boy tried again. “He’s different.” He noticed the smudges he'd made on the glass and started rubbing them with his sleeve to clean them off. “He scares me.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not, I promise.” The boy looked up in earnest this time. “He touches me all the time. I don’t like it.”
“Is that it?”
“I guess.”
“He’s just being friendly. That’s how some people show it.”
Max shook his head.
“What do you mean no?” the baker asked. He was getting impatient.
Max shook his head again, looking intensely at the baker.
“Cut it out. You’re making shit up now”
The boy didn’t know how to get him to believe him, he wasn’t completely sure if he believed it himself. He'd missed his chance though. Charlie was out of his listening mood.
“Look, I don't know why you’re making up stories, but it needs to stop.”
No, Max thought. He wasn’t crazy, it had happened. There was no way he could dream or make up something like this. His gaping eyes grabbed the baker with an emotion bordering on disgust or pain or hatred, Charlie couldn’t decide which.
“Mr. Dewitt has done nothing but good for you and for our business," The baker reasoned."How could you be so ungrateful?”
The boy’s eyes receded back to their vacant pools as he stared past the baker at a glitter in the glass left by the sun.
“He’s a good man,” Charlie added to reinforce his point. “They don’t make them like that anymore, that’s for sure.” He turned away and walked to the fridge to grab the dough for Dewitt’s pastries, and to scope out the prospects for dinner. “We owe a lot to that man.”
“He—”
“That's enough out of you. Get to work.”
***
Max finished sweeping, and began to fill the white cardboard take out boxes with tissue paper to pack Mr. Dewitt’s order.
The front bells tinkled and Max looked up. An old lady with a black metal rolling basket and geriatric shoes stepped onto the tan tiles.
“Zdravo,” her voice cracked.
“Afternoon ma’am,” Max piped.
She smiled at him—her eyes crinkling on the edges and the creases of her dimples stretching inwards towards the gums. Her shoes padded across the floor, slowly. She peered into each case, and then returned to the first one. She spoke to him quickly. They sounded like words, but Max wasn’t sure.
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“Not speak Serbian?” she stammered.
Max looked ashamed. “No ma'am, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, so sorry.” The old woman slowly padded around the store again, and returned once again looking disappointed. “Have Chevapi?”
He was confused.
“Or Burek? Have Burek?” she made a pie with her hands, “Burek?”
The boy got up, “We have croissants,” he pointed to the golden lumps, “and donuts, and bread... and cake—We have cake?”
The woman shook her head apologetically. “It’s ok. Nice boy” She smiled again and drug her basket out the door and to the other bakery down the block.
Max sat back down. He knew his uncle wouldn’t be pleased. He really wanted to make up for yesterday and make his uncle proud of him. Once when he had sold a cake while his uncle was in the back, the baker had been so happy, he bragged about him to customers for the whole week. He wished that nice lady had bought something.
Mr.Dewitt's event went over well, pastries notwithstanding, so he had called the bakery around one in the afternoon to ask Charlie out for a drink later that night to celebrate.
Dewitt was losing quite a bit of money on the bakery, but rather than give Charlie a hard time about it, he had seen the difficulty of their circumstances, and in general was quite supportive. He took the boy to football games, had bought him all new school supplies, and even games—something Charlie had always wanted to do, but could never really afford. He warned them a couple of times about health code violations because they were both living in the back, but mostly he was just friendly.
The boy was alone in the back room after closing that night. Loud buzzing came from the kitchen area, where the baker was putting the last touches on some cinnamon rolls. Some of the grease and crumbs always caught fire if the old oven had been going all day; the smell was oppressive, so several fans were on to clear the smoke.
He lay on the floor next to his cot drawing pictures with red crayon on old bags of flour, napkins and bread bags. He had a whole collection of these drawings that he kept in a yellow shoebox behind the suitcase under the canvas cot, and he took them out every night before he went to sleep. He organized them by theme, color or subject, depending on what mood he was in. Lately blue had been his color of choice, but tonight was different for some reason.
The baker called in from the other room that he was going out, and turned out the front lights.
The wind pushed upon the thin glass windows in the front, and Max could hear it wheeze beneath the old wooden door. He knew his uncle would be back in a few minutes, but the noises bothered him. Storms had always scared him. He tried to forget about it and just keep drawing, but he couldn’t get over the noises. He hoped that there wouldn’t be any lightning or thunder that night, but decided to put the pictures away just in case. He hopped into the cot, flipped off the lamp and pulled the covers up past his nose.
The darkness surrounded him like a giant black velvet bag. It warmed him. Comforted him. Darkness was good. If there were no light, there could be no shadow. And with no shadows, the noises weren’t as bad.
Crashing metal dumpsters, car alarms and rustling tree branches disguised the click of a key in the back door, but the orange street light from the alley pierced the fuzzy dark fog and outlined the furniture as the door crept open.
The boy clinched his eyes shut as he heard the floorboards creak. They were slow deliberate steps that knew the stronger points and paused at noisier ones. He peeked out for just a moment to see the giant paper cut-out of the man against the light.
The cut-out came closer and its hot breath filled his lungs and pushed up against his eardrums. It dropped down on the cot. Its arms, legs, and torso suddenly were three dimensional, stifling; hot. It pressed him into the unforgiving canvas until he thought it would give out; sucked his breath and his stomach through his lips. Flipped him; invaded him.
The boy screamed.
The baker appeared at the front door cradling a forty ounce brown paper bag in one hand.
"What are you doing here Dewitt?"
“I thought we had an understanding, Charlie.”
Charlie’s face was blank with booze.
"You didn’t think that remodelling deal was a free lunch did you?" Dewitt laughed.
"I don't understand," the baker stammered.
“I can have bulldozers here tomorrow. You know that. It’s not worth all that now is it?”
Dewitt’s pale lips stretched into a line, a cocky reminiscent of a smile.
“Be back in the morning ,” he said, buttoning his pants, “we can talk some more about that little idea you had.” He picked up his hat from the chair and casually walked out of the shop and onto Hoyne.
The baker leaned in the doorway peering into the back room. Maybe it wasn’t what it looked like. He veered into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and started absentmindedly putting things away. He squinted again through the bright kitchen to the darkened room. The boy lay on his side in fetal position. Charlie imagined the whites of his eyes were glinting with tears.
He turned the lights back out, locked the store, and stumbled down the block.
Division Ave. was unusually barren, and the night particularly chilly for this time of year, but the baker didn't feel it. He passed the shoe store, food and liquor store, and the panadería. The store-fronts were all closed and his face bounced back at him through their dark glossy windows. He looked away and picked up his pace. The yuppies were all asleep so the neighborhood looked kind of like it used to.
The boy would be alright he thought. If he lost the shop, they would both be homeless, and that wouldn’t help anybody. A couple of cars whizzed by him, and four drunks stood on the corner across the street yelling at each other. He wished he could join them.
So maybe the boy wasn’t lying. But there was nothing he really could have done to help him. The world was an ugly place. The boy would have to learn this sooner or later, just like he had. The earlier Max got past this, the stronger he'd be in the long run, he reasoned.
The cold was starting to make his eyes water. Everybody got taken advantage of some way, some how. There was no getting around that. In his experience, that was just the way the world worked. The streetlights smeared his vision and ran in squiggles across the sky. His father had been the one to teach him that lesson. Charlie and his younger sister shared a room when his family first came to Chicago. It was a small room, no bigger than what most people would consider a large walk in closet, and it was connected to his parent’s bedroom. The beds had been bunked, and there wasn’t much space in general, but they were pretty young at that point, so it wasn’t a big deal. Charlie had always wanted top bunk, so he was really excited at first. But after a little while, his father started sneaking in there to spend time with Nora. His mother had looked the other way. Charlie guessed now that she had been afraid to be left alone in a strange country with two small children and a baby, but every night like broken clockwork, his Pop came home drunk and it would happen again. Charlie would lie on his back in the darkness, inches from the ceiling, clinching his eyes closed until his father’s shadow left them. He felt like such a coward.
Charlie was pretty sure his father never thought he knew. He never mentioned anything, and his father put him to work the summer after it all started. There were so many times he could have said something, done something. But he hadn't, and Nora ran away from home at twelve, no one knew where.
But he had made it through just fine. Max would be fine too. In the morning he’d be angry at him for leaving, but eventually he’d get over it. He’d have to, Charlie thought. The windows circled around again, then some houses, apartment buildings, and play-lots. His buzz was wearing off now, and he started to shiver. As he walked east towards the lake, he peered down into the abyss of the blue-line stairs at the plaza at Division and Milwaukee. He stopped at the barren fountain, and leaned up against the concrete sides.
The sky was a dark and orangey purple haze. The tree limbs formed a cave over head, and the streetlights penetrated the silky leaves, making them appear as bats hanging in the now early morning air. He had been walking for ages, or a couple of minutes, he didn’t know. The bats swirled above his head, but aside from the wind and rush of cars there was little sound. A wood CTA bench appeared in front of him, and through no conscious choice of his own, he sat.
What an asshole, Charlie thought to himself. Dewitt had taken him out for drinks and then raced back to the bakery before him when he knew he would stop off before home. And then he was cocky enough to think he wouldn't do anything about it? What did he take him for?
The birds began to whisper. Their volume escalated to chatter and then to full out counterpoint. His eyes glossed over. “What have I done?” he thought. Was the bakery, his success, his own pain and suffering; was that really more important than his nephew? Was he really that blind? He'd call the cops. Who cared if the bakery was torn down? He could move somewhere else. He could start all over again. They weren't doing that well there after all.
Charlie took a shortcut through the alley and after what seemed like hours he finally reached the back wooden door. He fumbled with the keys. His coordination was still a bit off and the lock was stuck. So he struggled and pushed for several minutes, unknowingly cursing the stubborn thing aloud. With a violent kick, the wood splintered, and the early morning light slipped into the murky air inside. He called out into the back of the store, but the fetid sun ate his words. The baker slumped into the counter, gravity setting in. Sweat poured down his numbed face and his hands began to shake. The boy was gone.
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