Wild:

I walked into a bakery today. The one near Finley's house. They had a help wanted sign in the window.

It's clean, but not obsessively. Dirt seems to have been absorbed into the original building and is somehow charming rather than dingy. Lighting's fair. There's a giant window and the letters painted on it are peeling a little. Everything is well-worn and much loved. People look happy and it smells like coffee. Not too much decoration, nothing noticeably pretty, and it occurs to me that this place is a little more about necessity than pleasure.

Bakeries. Gotta love 'em.

There was a woman with black hair and age hiding around her eyelids tending the counter; I could see workers in the back, making this or that, buzzing, laughing together. I could smell the companionship.

"When you're done, I'd like a picture of your boys," she said with a low, throaty laugh to a father of two sons, "If that's okay? Add it to the guest album? Your girls, too," she said to another father. No mothers. I wonder if that's statistically improbable or just a useless detail?

As the first father leaves the line. "I see how it is," I say with a wink, "I'm too big to be cute, mm?" She laughed.

"Not at all, but boss'll only let the little ones in." Her face is worn like leather. One of her lips used to have a piercing and her voice is low and scratchy like bad tweed.

I like her.

"I saw your sign," I said, enunciating clearly, pretending I were a hipster with confidence and witty replies. "I'd like an application, please?"

She grinned. "You're the first! We don't even have the official applications yet, sweetie." River Song?

I take it as an omen, one I like far better than the grey and lowering sky this morning.

She tore off a sheet of paper, an order form for a bakery-type order, and hands it to me. "Write you down," she says with a shrug. Brushing her black hair away from her leathery face, she hands me a pen with an American flag on it.

I wrote my name, the date, that I was eager to learn and personable, good with people--all the true lies we tell ourselves when we look for things.

"Okay," she said in a low voice, "that's my boss there. He's a little direct--"

"You!" he booms. He's got a beard, thinning hair, glasses from the nineties, and looks bored. He certainly isn't a stereotypical rosy-cheeked sweet-maker, and I decide I like that, too.

I could feel at home here, I tell myself, surprised when I realize it's true.

"You," I repeat obediently, winking. He laughs again, only it sounds scratchy here. I wonder if everyone has a scratchy something here; scratchy skin or scratchy voice like the Counter-woman....maybe I could have a scratchy perception of reality?

He flashes a clean smile in my direction. "Shelia says you're a college student," he asked, staring at my orange dress and knotted hair. I nod.

"Evening classes only," I promise. "I'm available in the mornings and afternoons, and no classes on Thursday or Friday. I'd also work Weekends--"

He shook his head. "Girlie," he said, "Why do you want this job?"

I look at him. "No windows," I blurt.

Shit. Way to be weird, Payton.

"What?" He looks suspicious of me, like I were a medically-diagnosed insane person or some such.

"I interviewed at a place yesterday that made circuits," I said slowly, trying to wrap my head around being brief and efficient like this man clearly wanted of his employees; "The pay was good and they had benefits and the hours were flexible....but there wasn't any real human life there. People worked the smiles right off their faces there, they did. It was hot and people were irritable...and there weren't any windows. No way to see the sun, the sky...." I choked on my monologue, the one I'd been too afraid to give to Finley; peeking up at the baker from under my eyelids.

Part of me was waiting for disbelief or incredulity, but he looked fascinated. I almost spun in relief.

Almost.

"I told myself I'd never work in a place like that," I said. "I want somewhere with warmth, with laughter and communication and people. I want a place that feels like home....I want a place like here."

I bit my lip, nervous again, as he stared.

"What did you say your name was?" Black-haired woman, frosting some doughnuts and eavesdropping, smiles encouragingly in my direction, feeling like a combination of a maternal figure and a hipster who loves this direct, hair-thinning baker.

"Payton," I answered. "Payton Thompson."

He smiled, waved a hand. "I'll remember you," he said. "Expect to hear from us soon." Baker shook his head, strolling towards the back, jingling his keys in his big hands. "No windows...." he muttered.

"Thank you!" I called.

I walked out with a smile, pausing to lay a finger on the huge, peeling letters painted on the window.

The Window.

The huge, sun-through-the-air window.


By the time I hit the sidewalk I'm wiping away tears. 







Hope.