《A Life of Pennies and Bread》


 Chapter 1: A Man in a Suit

    Chapter 1: A Man in the Suit


    The vibrant ringing of the small bell atop the door oppressed the room in a somber, depressing mood that reminded me of the expectations of amiability that was always needed throughout the long hours of the workday. The loud ringing from the opening of the door was always followed by a new, usually impatient, customer that did not speak much, and ordered quickly, before returning to their own lives, struggles and feelings that corroded at the spirit of every working man that visited my shop. Yet, the man that followed was not of my expectations, rather, he seemed to be a man that would rarely partake to coming to an establishment such as mine. His potent, lustful-like cologne that wafted from his cleanly washed, business-like suit, clashed against the aroma of freshly baked bread, creating a duality of tension between a man of distinguishable income, and a man that was scraping for substance baking copious amounts of bread.


    The man drenched in cologne, with a dapper mustache and fanciful, cleanly-cut hair stood at the counter in a way many businessmen do, with a wide legged, broad shouldered stance that commanded respect and assurance from the discussee he happened to stumble across. His golden watch gave a miniscule crash against the glass of the counter, a sound that almost sounded like the faint cracking of glass. It was with this sound, despite the loudness of the doorbell, that I left my duties from the kitchen, and approached the counter in the greeting hall of the restaurant.


    When approaching this man, I noticed his eyes darted in impatience, hurriedly scanning the room for the next second, the next minute for time to pass, for time to allow him to order his bread and leave, and to get on, with what I can imagine, a tedious 9 to 5 job at management, a man tempted to climb higher yet content with the income he already possesses; a man stricken with the duality of climbing higher, or succumbing to a rewarding yet stagnant lifestyle. At least he was rewarded with that choice.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    I approached him, my hands covered in starchy dough that crystalized into a hardened coat over my hands, making my fingers strenuous to move as I clutched the towel that hung over the center pocket of my brown, stained apron. As I moved from the kitchen to the counter to greet the presence of the man, his perfume and stature only grew, until his height reached well above 5 inches from my own. A truly astonishing man that gave me chills when I was in his presence.


    I asked him what will he be having, along with giving him the special assortments of bread that was available at a reduced cost, which included, mostly French style rye and dough bread, that fancied many of the working folk for its cheaply yet sophisticated manner, due to its country of origin. The man shook his head, and stood silent for a while more. I stood, every-so diligently, awaiting a vocal or physical reaction that felt like days to draw out.


    I dared not leave in his presence, for both the reasons of his own respectable nature, and of my own. Every person that had communicated with such a distinguished man, greeted with the aristocratic garb granted by the capitalistic society around us, would not dare to leave a presence that commanded such admiration from strangers. It was also in my own interest, that I dare not leave my sentry position at the counter, as to not deteriorate my own respectability, not as a working man, but as an owner of a bakery. In our own ways, our commands for respectability, while different in marginal ways, did not falter in the other¡¯s presence.


    The man stood there, looked around and walked out. As he walked, his broad shoulders that commanded respect merely seconds before turned into a shell of narrowness, and his stature proved to be miniscule and weakly comparatively to the giant of capita that stood before me. He left, and I returned to my duties in the kitchen. A distinction between me and him was made, and yet neither said a word. It was as if the stillness of the air spoke for us, in a dialect only strangers could understand.

 Chapter 2: The Morning Paper

    The next day was beaten to ruggedness by the sheer amount of snow that fell from the lovely white clouds of the heavens that poured onto the landscape a white sheet of celestial bliss. Looking out of the bakery window, I could see snow piled upon neighbors¡¯ houses, making the redness of the brick tile of the roof look as if it was painted white. The cobblestone road lost all of its texture and crevice, replaced with a heavy pavement of soft ice that filled all the nooks and crannies of the stone, covering up the quaint differences in each slab that was placed. Children were released from their respective schools, and frolicked across the snow, building snowballs, and snow angels in the white, heavenly floor. Everything was peaceful, calm, and unified under a white blanket. I found it a wonderful change of pace for the drab scenery that usually made acquaintance.


    While the children sat and played on the cold blanket that engulfed the grass, workers and journeymen were still hurrying to work, their jobs of mundanity. Men in business suits, now wearing fur coats walked hurriedly across the cobblestone, striding low to the ground as to not slip. The mail boy, a dropout troublemaker named Ralph, still rode his bike across the snow, throwing newspapers across the icy floor and onto the outside pavement of each door.


    Despite his reputation as a dropout, it seemed I, a baker, was the only man who respected his tenacity for his job and craft. Perhaps he would be a mailman until he died, or perhaps he would move on to greener pastures. All I know, is seeing from his work delivering newspapers on such a heavy snow day, allowed me to believe that he would do better straight into a work field than any education could give a man. He was already gifted in manly wisdom, that compensated for his lack of education.


    With eyes that met mine as I stared at the snow laden neighborhood, Ralph tossed the morning paper at my doorstep. The newspaper did not concern me as much as other things at the present moment, such as the heavenly fog starting to sweep through the streets, or the bread that was starting to burn in the back. Newspapers, while an attractive form of knowledge for some, rarely attracts attention or noticeability from me. It¡¯s printing ink always gets on the fingers, and is unusable in practical cases for wrapping bread or using it as a napkin; therefore, it is a spoiled piece of paper, unused ever again.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    The words on the pages never gave way to promote intellectual growth; instead, these muckrakers would write about the hardships faced by the lower income families present in the world, or give blinded statistics on the growing population and homelessness rate plaguing the country, yet they did nothing to benefit this people, gaining capital, rather, on promoting the hardships they printed. The world of journalism is a knowledgeable yet unforgiving practice, that only concerns itself with money and capita. I wish they would start acting rather than writing, helping the people they reported on rather than simply telling common folk the facts; although, I suppose they would not garner any money from acting on these problems, would they?


    I went outside to pick up the newspaper. Opening the door gave way for the coldness of the air to enter, and tickle my nose and cheeks in a frosty touch. I quickly grabbed the newspaper, already the ink seeping onto my fingers, and walked inside to reacclimate myself to the warm present inside. I examined the newspaper, the headline as big as the fold.


    Man Found Dead due to Suicide the headline said. Flipping the newspaper greeted me with a horrific picture of a man, planted on the ground in a bloody, horrific mess. It was a man in a suit, having freshly cut hair and a noticeable mustache. He lay there, still, similarly to the angels carved out by the children outside, yet his legs twisted and construed into devilish ways.


    I burned the paper with the rest of the bad batch of bread. Neither had an apparent use.

 Chapter 3: After the Snow

    The sun illuminated the bakery in a lovely, heavenly stupor that allowed the roof of the bakery to seem a little more elevated than of days previous. The snow outside, still present from the day before in little patches of white that dotted the landscape in a lovely, Polk a dot fashion. The kids resided back in school, men seemed to confine back into their cubicles, and all was quiet except for the occasional pedestrian or car; all seemed peaceful, and weirdly enough, out of all of the most beautiful and wonderful days, all seemed to be empty.


    With the emptiness of the neighborhood outside, as many adults went to work, and the kids resumed school, the bakery remained empty for the duration of the day. Not a soul rung the bell when opening the door, and not a soul walked past with a glance at the shop.While the earth slumbered, man seemed busy at work.


    It was truly depressing of the emptiness of the city, contrasting the loudness and openness of joy with the children playing on the day previous. It was as if life was given, and then taken back the day after. Not a man came out of any buildings until the end of the workday, where then, I could only see tired walks, and narrowed faces.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    As the baron neighborhood started to fill with people going home, I noticed that no one made eye contact, no one communicated with one another, no one went into any shops, or bars, or meeting halls. Instead, the destination for everyone, almost as if told in complete unison, was to the home, and, as if in a blink of an eye, the workers that had filled the streets, went home, and returned the road desolate once more. And again, life, that almost was seemed to be granted, was sucked away, and not a soul stirred in the road. I decided to close off shop; no one came, and no one would come. The day turned Wednesday, and the roads seemed to get more desolate as the days kept coming. I hoped I would get business soon, but it seemed I could not sustain myself if the current trend of work to home represented by the people outside persisted another month or so.


    I counted my few blessings, locked up the shop, ate the unsold bread from days ago, and finally went to sleep. The bread was stale, and the blankets were cold, and the snow turned from a beautiful painting to a bitter annoyance.