I was hired at age fifteen to start working Saturdays in a local bakery owned by my mother’s best friend. At fifteen and three months I was fired. However, my mother’s friendly persistence with the owner brought me a second chance at redemption and I was permitted to return after a short suspension. It is worth noting that my work ethic has improved significantly since this job, but for the sake of a good story I will admit to having been that particular employer’s worst nightmare. Also, in fairness to myself, I will mention that this job was a complete abuse of policy. Some days I would be abandoned for nine hours at a time without a lunch break, and left in charge of a bakery that looked like hell. I would wash dishes, package food, collect orders, and man the front all for a measly 5.15 an hour.
I had recently returned from a week long suspension and was once again breaking child labor laws. It was a particularly exhausting summer day and I was fit to be tied with the piles of dishes needing to be washed; all of which were covered in layers of shortening and butter. There was a group of yard long baguettes strewn across the countertop with a note that read, “toss in back dumpster.” I was displeased to say the least about having to throw away so many excess baked goods. This was the moment in which my wheels of scheming ingenuity began to turn. I reached for the nearest knife and started sawing away with a smile.
I cut the first baguette clean in half and gutted it like a fish. After a moment all that remained was a tunnel of doughy lining, clinging to the insides like a hollow tube. The crust resembled the thickness and durability of a Puerto Rican conch shell. Both halves started with a wide opening and ended in the shape of a tightly closed fist. I spent a few moments fidgeting till I’d successfully shoved my entire left arm inside the first half of baguette. It was a tad more difficult than supposed, but I merely made a fist and used the wall space as a driving force. The baguette stretched all the way up my arm and stopped comfortably on the crook of my shoulder, where it found a resting space in the crevice of my pit.
Satisfied with this stiff new prosthetic arm, I scooted the second sleeve off the counter and while jarring it between my knees, managed to cover my right as well. Once I felt my fist hitting the curved wall at the end of the loaf I knew I had accomplished a most brilliant feat. I raised my arms high in the air and began flapping. I ran around the back of the bakery with a conquering spirit, knowing that I had discovered a productive way to defeat the request of my wasteful employer. I practiced mechanically moving my baguette arms up and down in robotic fashion until a loud bell rang from the front counter. It reminded me that I was still at work, and there was nobody else to take customer’s orders. I snuck to the far wall to avoid being seen by a growing line of customers. Panicked, I began using my legs to tug at the breaded casts, but by this time the heat had mixed itself with the clammy dough and they were hopelessly solidified to my skin. I was the baguette monster, doomed to the end of another prompt firing.
I yanked and pulled but those stubborn baguettes were there to stay. As I stood against the wall in a state of complete mystification, I heard the backdoor creak to an open. A shadow crossed over the small entryway and I knew I was caught. Slowly, I backed my way behind a counter in a pseudo-attempt to hide the lower half of my body. Holding my breath, I felt an enormous flood of relief pass over me as a pair of brown UPS mail shorts crossed the threshold of my employee salvation. It is incomprehensible the amount of gratitude that I felt towards this man in uniform. He proceeded to cart in box after box of supplies while I remained motionless behind the counter. He stared at me skeptically, but seeing as the counter rested equal level with my shoulders I was safe.
A few moments later he returned saying, “I just need you to sign this ma’am,” with an impatient gesture for me to take his form and pen. I stood still, knowing that I was in a tough position. With a reluctant shrug of my shoulders, I slowly raised the baguettes high above my head. By the look on his face I believe there would have been less shock had I lifted an AK47. Vulnerable and exposed, I stood there pleading with grace to bless that this charming episode would have a comical effect on the man. But alas, he revealed his lack of faith by staring at me with a stone cold stink eye; moving his head back and forth, left to right, in heavy disapproval. My face fell in shame and I was utterly disappointed that this man did not understand nor grasp the depth of revolutionary brilliance which lay before him.
“They’re stuck,” I whined, hoping he’d assume the baguettes had forced their way up my arms instead of having been placed there on purpose. With an aire of annoyance he reached forward and began tugging at the bread. We repeated the process until both arms hung free and I signed him off duty. I felt relatively similar to the Greek Icarus who lost his wings in a moment of thoughtless enthusiasm, and fell screaming to his death. My pride too hung by a thread. Yet with an attitude of reluctance, I surrendered my better judgment concerning the three R’s, (reduce, reuse, recycle), to the subjugation of capitalism, and tossed the remaining baguettes in the dumpster.
