PETRA
I felt like a failure. Three months ago, I was the proud owner of a little bakery on Lake Shore Drive. Through no fault of my own, the landlord decided to kick us out. I was forced to close up shop, sell off all my equipment, and lay off the two staff members who worked with me. I was just beginning to build up my clientele, and given a few more years, I might really have gotten myself established in the industry.
It wasn’t in the cards, and that was a hard pill to swallow. It didn’t take me long to find another job, but I didn’t have the funds to live on while I held out for another place of my own. I was back to working for someone else, and it sucked.
The new bakery was a little bit closer to my apartment, so that part was nice. I could walk if the weather held up, which it never did. Chicago isn’t called the Windy City for nothing, and there was hardly ever a day that was conducive to a longish stroll downtown.
Because I had to be at work at three in the morning, I had no option but to drive. At least I could roll out of bed at two-thirty, shower, change, and get to work on time. I was trying to be positive, and that was the best thing I could say for the new gig.
My boss sucked. After working for myself, any manager could have gotten on my nerves, but Chad was particularly difficult. He wasn’t in the bakery that often, which was nice. When he was, he made sure to throw his weight around.
It was almost exactly three when I pulled into the parking lot. I wasn’t worried about walking around in the dark. As a baker, I was accustomed to working odd hours. While the rest of the world was sleeping, I was getting ready to start my day.
It was raining like it always was. I climbed out of the car and hurried to the back door, almost dropping my phone on the way in. Thank goodness I managed to hang on to it because fishing it out of a slush puddle would not have been fun. I juggled the keys around to access my work key and fit it into the lock.
I was the first person in, and I would be alone for several hours. There were two other bakers who were scheduled for the early shift, but they weren’t doing prep work. They would show up just in time to slide bagels and croissants into the oven before dusting off the counter and arranging all the goodies.
I was the one in charge of rolling the dough, cutting the shapes, letting the masterpieces rise, and filling each offering with jelly or cream. It was the one part of the job that I really enjoyed. Being alone early in the morning gave me time to think.
I put in my earbuds and flicked over to my favorite playlist. Letting the music carry me away, I began the day’s chores. First on the list, I had to pull all the trays out of the dishwasher and make sure they were dry. Then I had to pull the dough out of the freezer. There were many different kinds, one for each kind of delicacy.
One of the other bakers was in charge of the bread. I specialized in pastries, donuts, eclairs, and buns. They made killer pretzels that they rolled in cinnamon sugar and butter, but that wasn’t my job. I pulled some of the fillings out of the walk-in fridge and set them on the counter to come to room temperature.
The butter was stored in massive blocks at the back of the refrigerator. I sawed off what I needed and put the rest back. As I worked on the dough, all the other ingredients came alive so that when I put them all together, they could make their magic.
My favorite band, K-Pop artists, came on, and I found myself dancing. It wasn’t planned. I just didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing me, and the beat made me happy. My foot started tapping, and my hips started to sway. I grabbed the rolling pin and held it like a microphone, belting out words that I only barely knew.
They sang in Korean, not a language I could speak. But I knew the song well enough to be able to sing large chunks of it. One song cycled into another, and then it was American pop music, then rap and finally country.
I had eclectic tastes. It might have been what drew me to baking as a career. There were a lot of salty characters in the restaurant industry. I felt at home among them, able to tease and banter with my co-workers. I streaked my hair with color, adding a little bit of personality to a drab, muddy blond.
The hours passed quickly, and before I knew it, the door opened, and the rest of the staff came in. I had to put my dancing on pause, but I kept my earbuds in. No one cared. No one bothered me, and I listened to my music in peace. We had an unspoken agreement that no one got in anyone else’s business. Except for Chad, most of the people who worked there were incredibly laid back.
Like me, they were on their third or fourth try in life, having lost or quit jobs at other restaurants or other industries. One of the bakers used to be a used car salesman. He sold his soul for table scraps and felt largely unappreciated. It was his dream to work in a bakery and after going to night school for two years, he finally got his foot in the door.
I suspected that he was going to quit as soon as a better job offer popped up. I couldn’t blame him. It was hard enough working seven days a week, but when you had to deal with a manager like Chad, every day seemed longer than the last.
I would have considered quitting myself, but I didn’t think I could get a better job. I wasn’t naïve. Chad was horrible, but there were thousands just like him, one for every little bakery or coffee shop in the city. Before I owned my own shop, I worked for two different places. They each had their own drawbacks, and none paid significantly more than Chad did.
I just had to wait it out. Sooner or later, he would get tired of his position; he would move on to another restaurant and leave the bakery to someone else. Then I would have to get to know that person and step into another round of the How bad is my boss? game. It was times like this that I wished for my own place.
I thought I was doing pretty good by myself. A few of my customers thought I was too. They followed me all the way downtown, taking time out of their busy days to come buy my pastries.
My best customer by far was my friend Meara. She had three different boyfriends, all of whom knew about each other and approved of the arrangement. They shared a business as well as a woman, and they were constantly coming by for tasty treats whenever they had a meeting. I had to stay on my toes, never knowing when one of Meara’s men would pop by. I appreciated the business, but they certainly ate into my inventory.
The bakery opened at seven, and the customers were already lined up. We had a good reputation in the community. Plenty of people grabbed tables in the dining area, sipping on cheap coffee and expensive desserts. They met colleagues and work friends. Couples stopped in for breakfast before splitting up for the day. A few teenagers who thought they were wise beyond their years worked on homework before class.
It wasn’t exactly an upscale atmosphere. It could have been a lot better if Chad put any money into redoing the counter and the dining area. The tables were old, and the chairs were cheap. The walls were in desperate need of painting, and no matter how many times we cleaned the floors, they remained sticky.
People liked it because of the food, period. The atmosphere left a lot to be desired. If I was in charge, I would definitely have the floors and the walls done. Maybe new windows and a new sign out front would help brighten up the place. We could even get one of those cute blackboard-type menus for out front instead of the Xeroxed copy that was posted on the door.
But it wasn’t my place, and I didn’t have a say in the way it looked. Too bad. We were probably losing money because some people thought it was dingy. At least the customers we managed to attract thought we were something special.
I kept working on the pastries to replenish them as they sold. The front counter staff arrived and were kept fairly busy. There was a lull from around ten to eleven, and we were able to restock the displays. Our busiest time was breakfast, so that while the foot traffic picked up around lunch, it wasn’t quite as hectic as it had been in the morning.
By two o’clock, I was ready to go home. I had been at work for almost twelve hours. A single hour break to eat my own meal had gone by quickly. My back was aching, and my feet were barking. Just then, Chad decided to make an appearance.
I was cleaning my workstation, preparing to go home. There were a few things I needed to do to get ready for the next day. Usually when I got to the end of my shift, I just made sure there were enough pastries to last until closing. If I made too many, we could sell them for a discount the next day. There were some customers who looked forward to the day-old selections, so it was no trouble to back a couple dozen extra. I wasn’t anticipating any problems, but knowing Chad, I should have been prepared.