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A Red and White Striped Apron

The Bakery

By Margit FagerbekkPublished 6 years ago 10 min read
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Barbra Jennings was tiny. Still, having her beside you was like standing next to a giant. Her bright red hair was cut into a groomed pixie cut and combed to one side. Her chubby face, sharp-looking eyes squished into the back of the hollow sockets, and her mouth looking like it was permanently pointing downwards made up her somewhat ghastly appearance. Her figure could take up a double hallway. Her breasts hung down and hovered over her nonexistent waistline. The giant layered lump of her upper body led down to a pair of stick thin legs with tiny feet that seemed to struggle carrying the rest of her. Waddling like a penguin, the round, wobbly lump that defined Barbra made its way through doors and hallways. Seeing her crunched over a tray of pastries, one could easily imagine the weight of her chest tipping her over and her pointy, crooked nose slowly sinking into the warm custard. To the people coming in and out of the bakery, she grinned, laughed, made jokes and quite often slipped in a little something extra when handing over the pastry boxes. The business flourished, so she only gained by doing so. The satisfied smirk that dominated her puffy face when she left the counter was beyond any customer’s observation. Her ability to disguise herself this way was performed with bewildering mastery. It was truly fascinating to watch.

I did my utmost to never meet the piercing look in the eyes of my sharp faced boss. I was like a ghost, sneaking my clumsy hunchbacked body around, as silent as I could make myself, terrified to spill a drop of coffee or let a clean, hot mug slip out of my hands. I kept myself under my own strict surveillance, making sure the right type of latte was made, the pot of cocoa powder was full, and that the pieces of napoleon never flipped over on their way into the boxes. Yet I constantly felt the heavy breath of Barbra the Boss over my shoulder. It was like walking through a minefield, Barbra lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently for me to set my foot in the wrong spot. Oh, the endless stream of complaints… The fact that customers heard them never held her back. It may have satisfied her even more: "Sorry about the dirty floors, Miriam spent ten minutes sweeping them, not half-an-hour as she should!" "You’re too slow, don’t fall behind!" "Being a freak doesn’t give you any excuses!"

I guess I should have recognised this job as a bad idea. I had been warned; her employees never stayed for long, they came and went, changing like the seasons. But I needed the money and most companies wouldn’t hire me because of my hunchback. So I stayed, for months and months, trying not to get her vile little speeches get to me. They did, occasionally. Sometimes I found myself fighting back tears in the customer bathroom while wiping off the mirrors. Sometimes I excused myself to the dressing room, buried myself in an apron and screamed, because of the reprimand she threw in my face. Just because I accidentally let one of her precious cappuccino cups bash to the floor.

I get it. Everyone has a strict boss at some point in their lives. And it’s not that I couldn’t manage it. I got through the day even with her thin lips pointing downwards in a grimace of disapproval every time she looked my way, even though her eyes automatically pointed to me when a fault had been made. The banging sound of the spray bottle towards the counter when it was time to clean up, the sight of her huge back shuffling away without a word. All things that come along with having a strict boss. I was fine, it was only a job, I was giving it my best shot. There was just something about Barbra Jennings’ entire being that made my blood boil.

So there was this one Thursday in December. It happened to be the day I dreaded most of them all, the day my boss and I shared the closing shift. I put my tangled hair up in a tight ballerina bun, put on the uniform that fitted me the best. Not that it could hide away my hunchback and take away Barbra’s reason to mock me. I even put my Yves Saint Laurent lipstick on, the one I usually save for fancy occasions. Comme d’habitude on Thursdays, I came in half-an-hour early, with my little notepad ready to double check the closing routines from the night before. Mariah Carey’s lavish, ear-splitting voice came screaming out of the kitchen radio, being all I didn’t want for Christmas… Trash taken out? Good.

"How many times have I told you? The trash HAS to go out every night, no matter how empty it is!"

Is the coffee machine clean?

"Does it really take that much for you to understand that you need to finish one pot before you put on another? It’s all over the floor!"

Clean milk steamer? One more wipe to make sure. Floors swept? Yup. The toilet looks fine. Big oops! Forgot to lock the back door. Oh, she would have killed me. Last night’s breads are in the discount drawer. "I’ve lost money today because you forgot!"

Yes, a whole two pounds. You old grump…

Coffee? Coffee! I’ll put some on right away, she’ll want a cup with her before-work cigarette. Cups? Yes, all 57 are there;

"You COUNT them EVERY night!"

Tables are clean? Yes. There, the pitcher’s full of water. Let’s not smash it on the floor again, shall we? And the red Christmas tea lights are lit, good. She couldn’t have much left to scold me for.

The hands on the black and white wall clock dragged themselves around as usual. Barbra arrived in her silly red Mazda, walked in my footsteps re-doing everything I’d already prepared. She huffed and puffed into the café hall, where I stood bent over a tray full of gingerbread men, a red and white striped apron in her hand. One of the few Christmas ones. "Take this instead, matches your back. You can be our little Christmas gnome!"

I was put on dishwashing duty.

"I’ve TOLD you to wipe off the washer, do you want us to be shut down!?"

Occasionally I heard the shrieking sound of my name from the counter. I hurried to make a cappuccino, clear a table, slice a bread, put on coffee, fill the pitcher, and sweep up someone’s smoothie. Always with Barbra’s sickening smirk in the corner of my eye, waiting for the victory of watching me make a wrong move. Still, I smiled and chattered with the customers, waving them happily out the door before rushing to get something else done.

"Just a fifteen minute break today, Miriam, we don’t want to fall behind!"

As always. After getting down my cup of coffee as quickly as I could, I tiptoed back to the café hall. More tables to clear, piles of dirty dishes and half eaten cake pieces.

"Miriam, five people are waiting for lattes!"

Make espresso shots, warm up steamer, steam milk, clean steamer, five pretty lattes with sprinkles on top. Soy milk in one of them? One pretty latte in the sink. But the place cleared up eventually and by closing time, the last customer mouthed a smiling ‘Thank you!’ and danced out the door.

After all the cleaning up: coffee machine checked, floors swept, bathroom cleaned, cups clean and back in place.

"Bread goes in the discount drawer, you forget that again, I fire you!"

I finally had the kitchen to myself, chopping up cucumbers and peppers for tomorrow’s baguettes. An extra half hour unpaid, yet the most enjoyable part of my day. I laid out perfect lines of chopped cucumbers on a white plastic plate, in precise distance to one another, and covered them in cling foil.

"I’ll do the rest of that."

I jumped as I discovered Barbra’s enormous figure filling the doorway. The Chinese chopping knife I’d used for the vegetables flew out of my hand and landed close to her feet. I twirled the threads on my apron around my fingers and looked down, as if my eyes would flee back inside my skull if they met hers.

"I-I’m sorry."

Barbra laughed. "You really aren’t useful for anything, are you? You’ll wash that up later. Stop fidgeting and come with me. We have some dough to cut for tomorrow."

I put the knife in the pocket of my apron so I wouldn't forget and followed Barbra across the backyard and into the main room of the bakery. The snow outside had been sprinkled by rain and had turned into a watery paste. I made matching little squares of a long sausage of dough, my back against Barbra.

"You know, if you hadn’t been so slow with the tables today, I would have let you go sooner."

I paused for a second, feeling with my hand inside my pocket. The thin cold blade of the knife soothed my hot fingers. What if...? It felt as if the knife in my pocket could extend the power of my hand. It made me understand, my mind was clearer. Maybe it had flown out of my hand by purpose? I felt as if I could outlive this moment, as if I could think in a new state of mind that never would have gotten to me if it hadn’t been in my pocket. The sharp blade controlled me just as much as I was in control of the knife. I could have paused at any time, any moment, stopped myself. Any short piece of a second and both our lives would go on as they were meant to. I would finish my pieces of pastry, change and go home, come back tomorrow for the same routines. Countless hours of greeting customers, clearing tables, making endless numbers of lattes and cappuccinos. Never being good enough. Comme d’habitude.

I carefully slid the knife out of my pocket and held it in my hand, just regarding it for a while, sensing its weight in my palm. Barbra was rolling strips of dough, her back still against me. I slowly started walking towards her, tip toeing. My body was weightless. The knife lifted itself in my hand. I held it high above my head, right above Barbra’s shoulder now.

Everything would change. Even if she had turned around and seen me, if she had made me unable to finish my sudden uncontrollable mission, nothing would ever be its normal self again.

Then I let the knife drop. The cold pointy blade slid in right between the shoulders. A high-pitched gurgling shriek echoed from Barbra’s mouth, louder and louder, like the piercing scream of a wounded hare. She leant both of her hands down on the counter, tried to turn, breathing heavily, waving her arms in the air to push me away. The knife slashed down again, harder, angrier, with less hesitation. One more time, two, three. Her body dropped to the floor like a bag of flour. It almost looked as if she was deflating, like the dense layer of fat around her waist was shrinking into her sides. The screams had stopped. Nothing could be heard but her gurgling drools, her last raspy, desperate attempt to breathe. I carefully slid the knife out between Barbra Jennings’ shoulders. A stream of dark warm blood sprung out where the knife had been.

Who would have known she could look so calm? The sharp expression was gone, replaced by eyes that were looking towards the sky. I bet she hadn’t seen the stars in years. I gently closed her eyes and started clearing away the finished pastries. They still needed to be ready for the morning.

I guess I could have taken her somewhere. Out in the the backyard where the snow would cover her up and spare my colleagues from the sight of her bloody cadaver. But she was too heavy, and my hunchback made me unable to lift much weight. Besides, she looked more at peace in her usual surroundings. I took the Chinese chopping knife into the kitchen and washed it thoroughly. These were expensive knives, they can’t go in the dishwasher.

"How many times do I have to tell you!?"

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