It was her turn to open the bakery
at 184 Ninth Avenue. Billy’s Bakery, named for her husband, located in Chelsea,
did brisk business, especially during Thanksgiving and Christmas. But the alarm
never went off. Sue checked her cell and saw that the time was 10 AM! Bill had
let her sleep in, as the text she found stated. She stretched in the luxury of
the moment, then dressed in her ‘sprinkles’ clothes, white jeans, and a pull-over
that had tiny multicolored sequins sewn densely over the shoulders, and here
and there after that. As the wife and business partner of a baker she liked to
dress in the spirit of the enterprise.
At Billy’s Daniel slung his guitar
case over his shoulder and ordered a small coffee. The aromas mingling in the
air acted as endorphins to anyone who breathed. Daniel inhaled deeply. “It’s
almost as good as eating cake,” he thought.
Sue handed him a small pale green bag.
“$1.25,” she said.
She saw his quizzical expression as he
lifted the lopsided weight of the bag.
“I saw you staring at the cupcakes in the
window. I knew you wanted one.”
Daniel blushed through his thanks. Once
fortified with the reality of cake, he headed for the subway. He chose a spot near
a central pillar, set up his camp stool and opened his guitar case on the
floor. He began his program with classical guitar. ‘Natalia’ by Lauro attracted
a couple who tossed a few dollars into his case. After several classical
pieces, Daniel began to play instrumentals in the style of Kenny Rankin, among
his favorites for twelve string guitar. He became aware of soft humming near
his left shoulder. He turned to see a young woman with a soft smile.
“Try this,” he said.
Daniel began to play “I Could Write a
Book” with a key adjustment for a female singer. His music lover’s smooth,
lilting voice echoed in the subway chamber with a light jazz style perfect for
the piece. Others waiting for trains quieted as they approached to listen. As
the song ended someone called, “Sing it again!” When the Uptown train drowned
them out, she blew him a kiss and rushed for the door. Daniel watched her go
with regret.
Cara, breathless from the pleasure of the
impromptu concert, swung herself into a seat as the train swayed speeding into
space. She caught the 10:23 for home to Roslyn at Penn Station. The seat across
from her near the doors of the train was occupied by a student of high school
age, who seemed very disconcerted by a sheaf of papers he was worrying in his
hands. Cara bent down to retrieve his pen.
“Writing a paper?” she asked.
“Yeah. An opinion piece about depression.
I go to Chaminade in Mineola,” he explained as if that informed his sympathizer
of the far-reaching scope of his assignment.
“An opinion about depression. Hmm,”
murmured Cara. “So, do you have an opinion on depression?”
Henry grinned in response to her playful,
facetious tone. “I do. It’s bad. But for this assignment I have to come up with
another view on what causes it.” He gestured with the sheaf of papers. “I
downloaded internet stuff but none of it is anything new,” he sighed.
“Just so happens, I’ve made a study
of this subject myself, said Cara, thinking about her journey through therapy,
medication, and subsequent immersion in a psychology Master’s program. “I’ve
read many versions of what causes depression. My current favorite is the belief
that depression is the result of too much realism.”
The glint in Henry’s eyes told her
she had captured his interest. “When a person tunes in to too much reality,
with no room for refreshing, soul-lightening illusion, he sees the ultimate
conclusion that life leads to death. Being too realistic is essentially
depressing. Reality has to be balanced out with fantasy, playfulness, and
dreams.”
Henry blinked a few times and said,
“Wow, I never heard that before. I get it. You take problems too seriously and
get depressed.”
“And stay depressed, if you don’t
know that’s what you’re doing,” said Cara. Knowledge is power.”
They talked until her stop. Cara
exited the train to Henry’s repeated thanks.
At Chaminade, Henry made a stop at
his locker. He noticed that Xun Cheung was holding a tissue to his eyes two
lockers down. He didn’t ordinarily extend himself when he saw conflict, but
this time, he jumped in.
“Hey,” he said
Xun looked up and Henry saw tear
drops splatter haphazardly on his books.
“Yeah, hey,” he said.
“You…need help with something?”
asked Henry hesitantly.
“No…my cat died. I know it’s stupid
but…”
“Dragon was my favorite cat. I
bawled when he croaked. You kidding?”
Xun laughed softly as he stuffed the
tissue in his blazer pocket. “It happened this morning. He was old; I should
have expected it.”
“Still not gonna keep you from
taking it hard,” said Henry. “A good cat is a good cat.”
Xun nodded and looked directly at
Henry with a small smile. He felt that he could face AP physics with purposeful
concentration after Henry’s friendly concern.
In class, Dr. Lockwood glanced at
the clock on the wall behind the rows of desks. This was his least favorite
class, a group of nerdy brainy know-it –alls who constantly tried to vie for
his down-fall, finding fault with his presentation. If they knew so much more
than they thought he did, why come to class at all? He gazed at the arrogant
young men sitting expectantly before him. “Blood sport,” he thought.
“Anyone catch last night’s Big
Bang?” he asked hopefully. A muffled groan filled the room. “The big bang
theory is the prevailing cosmological model for the Universe. And as we’ve
seen, it’s also the popular way to view the lives of science nerds. Today’s
topic is the universe.”
“There’s no comparison,” a student
stated dryly from the front of the room. Mr. Lockwood knew that his stress
headache would start within minutes.
Much to Dr. Lockwood’s surprise, Xun
quickly came to his defense.
“Sure there’s lots of writing for
media that doesn’t presume to use accurate science when they try to support
findings. ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark” is a prime example. But Big Bang Theory has
physicist David Salzburg painstakingly checking all the math. Be real.”
Dr. Lockwood took a cleansing breath in
response to this surprise show of support from one of his most oppositional
students. He enjoyed the intellectual crossfire during the next 39 minutes as
he never had before. “Rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock," he intoned as
they filed out of the room.
The humid air which enveloped him in a
chlorine fog instantly caused Dr. Lockwood to sweat. He blew his whistle as a
group of teens ran to the edge of the Olympic-sized pool. “Slow it down,” he
called to them. He forced himself to stop thinking that he would rather be at
home with Mrs. Lockwood sipping the celebratory double mohito typical of a
Friday evening. It was his turn after all to chaperone co-ed night poolside for
the school. He was dismayed to see that several of the visiting girls had
breached the swimsuit protocol and worn two piece suits. “No rough housing!” he yelled as two burly
teens wrestled to throw each other in the pool to the delight of the girls.
As he approached he noticed one co-ed at
the periphery of the group. She wore a baggy Chaminade sweatshirt over the navy
racing suit preferred by the school. He had seen her on the sidelines before,
obviously too self-conscious to break silence. He knew that many of the local ‘families’
urged their daughters to attend Chaminade events to make contacts with other
local families’ sons. For some quiet girls, this was torture.
“Amelie,” he called. She reluctantly met
him behind the group.
“I need some help. Would you take the
whistle and start the relays while I make a call to the dean?” He did not offer
more explanation and merely handed her the lavalier. He stepped back and
pretended to talk into his cell.
Amelie stepped forward and to the surprise
of everyone took charge of the scene.
“Relays start now. Take positions.” She
blew the whistle. When they were ready, “On my mark…whistle.” The swimmers dove into the pool. Dr. Lockwood stood on
the sidelines and observed her command. The pride he felt for her hurt his
chest.
Amelie got into the car beside her mother.
“Have any fun?” she was asked.
The
trepidation in her mother’s words was not lost on her.
“You know, I was thinking. The idea you
had for my Sweet Sixteen sounds good. A lot of my friends can’t ride horses
anyway so going out west to that ranch isn’t a good idea. You were right.”
Amelie’s mother’s eyes widened in
surprise. She was glad her daughter couldn’t see. “Soooo…”
“So call that place and have them make the
wildest cupcakes for the party under the whale at the Museum of Natural
History. Think I can get that green mermaid gown we saw at Sach’s?”
An hour later Pam Misbach placed a call. “Hi,
I’d like to place an order for the 15th.”
Bill of Billy’s Bakery wrote a $1,500
order for a dessert spread for the Deep Blue Sea. That night he danced with his
wife, Sue, to Bobby Darin’s “Somewhere By the Sea” before a late dinner and
tiramisu.
(1432 words)
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