Chapter 2 #2
Bertha is Sweet Dreams bakery’s ancient industrial mixer—a hulking metal beast from the Roosevelt administration with more personality disorders than a psych ward and the mechanical reliability of a carnival fortune teller.
She breaks down at least once a week and requires a specific sequence of profanity and percussive maintenance to resurrect.
I slip past Marge toward the kitchen, already mentally calculating the precise angle at which to hit Bertha’s left panel while simultaneously jiggling the power cord.
“Not so fast.” Marge’s hand shoots out like a tollbooth barrier. “No croissants for you today.”
I freeze, one foot hovering in mid-air like a video game character whose controller just disconnected.
“You’ll be on pans and floors. Punishment detail for running late.
And,”, she adds, gathering her voice into a hiss, “That little disaster at the hotel last night.” Her mouth twists like she’s just bitten into something sour.
“You’ll help load the Hendrickson wedding cake for delivery later, but just loading, mind you.
Not decorating. Cake decorating is an art form that requires both talent and reliability. ”
The implication being that I possess neither.
“Sister Margaret practically begged me to give you this job.” Marge’s voice drops to a theatrical whisper, like we’re conspiring despite being the only two people in the kitchen.
“Said you needed a fresh start. Said you had ‘potential.’” She air-quotes the word like it’s a communicable disease.
“And then you go and break nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of crystal at the Riverview.
Do you have any idea how that reflects on Sweet Dreams? ”
I say nothing. My silence is deliberate—a shield, not surrender.
In the six weeks I’ve worked here, I’ve learned that Marge’s verbal takedowns follow a predictable pattern, like a tennis ball machine set to “character assassination.” Arguing just resets the timer and adds fifteen minutes to the barrage.
“You’re a charity case, Emmaleen. You best remember that.”
I absorb the hit without flinching. My face settles into what my ex used to call my “nothing expression”—the blank canvas that revealed neither thought nor feeling. It used to infuriate him. It merely irritates Marge.
She waves me toward the kitchen like she’s shooing away a particularly persistent fly. “Pans. Floors. Now.”
Sighing, I give in to my morning’s fate.
The morning drags itself by with excruciating slowness, each minute a glacial eternity as I scrub crusted batter from baking pans and attack stubborn flour stains on the worn linoleum.
The rhythmic circular motion of the mop becomes almost hypnotic—a mindless task that allows my thoughts to wander while my body performs the mechanical dance of servitude.
The industrial-strength cleaner stings my nostrils, its harsh chemical scent mingling with the lingering sweetness of vanilla and cinnamon that permeates every surface of Sweet Dreams.
My knees ache from kneeling to reach beneath the industrial mixers, and my fingertips are pruned from constant immersion in soapy water.
Still, there’s a certain peace in the monotony, a predictable safety in these mundane chores, which require nothing of me but physical endurance and the ability to become invisible.
My lunch break is non-existent—not sure you can even call the hurried three minutes in which I’m grudgingly allowed to use the restroom before being unceremoniously shoved toward the front counter a “break.”
Marge has barely tossed her purse over her shoulder, keys jingling in her hand as she announces her “absolutely critical errand” that can’t possibly wait, before pointing a flour-dusted finger at me. “Register’s yours. Don’t mess with the pricing.”
Her tone makes it clear this isn’t a request but a decree from on high, delivered with all the warmth of a February blizzard.
The register duty is mind-numbing—fake smiles for customers who barely look up from their phones, counting change with mechanical precision, reciting the same rehearsed pleasantries until the words lose all meaning.
Marge returns with suspicious timing, just as the afternoon rush dies down. I’m immediately conscripted into what is clearly the day’s main attraction: loading the infamous wedding cake that’s been consuming the bakery’s attention all week.
The Hendrickson wedding cake is a five-tier monstrosity that looks like it was designed by a committee of Pinterest boards having a collective fever dream.
Roses cascade down one side in an avalanche of buttercream, fondant lattice creates geometric nightmares across each tier, sugar pearls dot every available surface like acne on prom night, and the topper features a hand-sculpted bride and groom locked in an anatomically improbable embrace.
It’s hideous. It’s spectacular. It’s approximately the weight of a small sedan.
Paul and Chuck—Marge’s godson and his human echo—are in charge of the massive base tiers loaded onto a wheeled cart.
Paul is six-foot-something of well-intentioned clumsiness, with hands the size of dinner plates and the spatial awareness of a concussed golden retriever.
Chuck exists primarily to laugh at Paul’s jokes and agree with everything he says, like a sentient backup generator for Paul’s ego.
I’m entrusted with the fragile top layers and the absurdly expensive topper, which Marge reminds me costs more than I make in a week.
We navigate toward the back door like a dysfunctional parade float. The alley is slick from the morning rain, black asphalt gleaming with malicious intent.
Paul trips on nothing—absolutely nothing—a feat of such pure physical comedy that in any other context, I’d be impressed.
Chuck lunges to help, which is like watching someone try to catch a falling piano with a butterfly net.
The cart tilts.
Time slows to that special molasses-crawl reserved for witnessing disasters you can’t prevent. The cake begins its graceful journey toward flight, defying both gravity and common sense.
I react on instinct—the wrong instinct. I lunge forward, still clutching the top tier.
Paul, in his panicked recovery attempt, spins like a drunk ballerina and knocks me sideways.
I hit the ground with the elegant grace of a sack of potatoes thrown from a moving vehicle. My hip connects first, followed by my shoulder, followed by my dignity. Asphalt grates against exposed skin with the tenderness of industrial sandpaper.
The cake doesn’t so much fall as it detonates—a sugar bomb of catastrophic proportions.
Fondant, buttercream, and sponge create a blast radius worthy of a small tactical weapon.
The topper rolls across the alley like a decapitated survivor, the groom’s head breaking off and coming to rest in a puddle.
Time pauses. I lie stunned on the wet asphalt, watching buttercream roses bleed pink into rainwater. My hip screams obscenities at my nervous system. My hands, and my cut finger freshly reopened from last night’s glass incident, contribute their own crimson addition to the wedding palette.
Marge emerges from the bakery door like she’s been shot from a cannon, her face contorting through fifty shades of apoplexy. The sound she makes isn’t human—it’s the unholy offspring of a fire alarm having an existential crisis.
“MY CAKE! THE HENDRICKSON CAKE!”
Paul and Chuck immediately transform into a Greek chorus of incompetence, tripping over excuses like they’re auditioning for America’s Got Apologies. “It wasn’t—” “We didn’t—” “The wheel just—”
Doesn’t matter. Marge has already calculated trajectory, blame, and punishment with the precision of a NASA engineer plotting a Mars landing. Her eyes lock onto me—target acquired—while I’m still sprawled in a buttercream crime scene like the world’s least appetizing murder victim.
“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!” she shrieks, her voice hitting notes that could shatter what’s left of the sugar pearls. “Do you have ANY IDEA what you’ve done? The Hendricksons are Riverview ROYALTY!”
The public execution continues. People are stopping. Watching. Some are filming, because nothing says entertainment like a middle-aged woman destroying someone’s livelihood over cake carnage.
“YOU’RE FIRED! FIRED! Get your things and GET OUT!”
My throat closes like someone’s installed a fist in it as I get to my feet. The mathematical impossibility of my situation hits with stunning clarity: unemployed + homeless + in debt = fucked to the power of absolutely fucked.
I almost cry. The tears are right there, hot and insistent behind my eyes.
But no. Not here. Not for Marge. Not for the audience of strangers consuming my humiliation like it’s their afternoon entertainment.
I’m standing in the alley, dripping buttercream and blood, when the black Lamborghini slides to the curb like death’s own chariot arriving for an unscheduled pickup.
The engine cuts off mid-shriek—Marge’s, not the car’s—and the world goes so quiet you could hear a sugar pearl drop as the door lifts up and Mr. Bavga unfolds from the driver’s seat with the casual menace of someone who doesn’t need to hurry because everyone else will wait.
His expensive suit seems impervious to the light drizzle, like even water molecules know better than to inconvenience him.
He surveys the frosting carnage with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary about a particularly uninteresting species.
His gaze slides over the asphalt crime scene, the decapitated groom, the pink-tinted puddles, and finally lands on me—the human debris in this pastry massacre.
Marge pivots, redirecting her Category 5 rage hurricane toward this new target, not realizing she’s just aimed a water pistol at a forest fire.
“Do you see this? DO YOU SEE THIS?” She gestures wildly at the cake remains like she’s presenting evidence at a buttercream murder trial.