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| Blogs > mdec82 > Thoughts, and non-thoughts |
Kathy, the Baker - Prologue and Pt 1
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Kathy, the Baker - Prologue and Pt 1 Kathy, the Baker A Prologue on Prologues We often assume that stories have a discreet, purposeful beginning. An obvious kick-off to an epic journey. The grim-mouthed Ishmael’s call to the sea. A who doesn’t grow up. Times that are either the best, the worst, or both. Old men fishing alone in skiffs. Profound statements from singular moments that mark the definite beginning of what is to come. A grand beginning in life is rarely recognized as such.. It’s not until we’re well down our path, looking back, that we suddenly see our point of departure. Novels teach us to begin reading at the prologue, but in life, I’d wager we usually start somewhere near chapter three, and then only go back to reflect on the beginning as we near the end. This is one of those things I never learned in school, and just mere weeks freed from the “shackles” of public education, I had already started to notice that there were many such lessons left to learn. But I was still young, and like every eighteen year old, I chose to ignore my ignorance in favor of the grand self-diagnosis of infallible genius. Despite the evidence suggesting I knew nothing, I still chose to believe I knew everything. After all, they were about to give me a diploma. Chapter One: The Break Central Ohio has a way of forgetting that it’s late April, and from time to time, delights in chilling the air to February’s near-freezing temperatures. To make things worse, it’s the time of year where it’s normal to go weeks without seeing the sun behind a curtain of oppressively gray clouds and their seemingly inexhaustible reserves of not-quite-rain that turns the air into less a gas, and more of a gassy-liquid. I could never fathom the amount of energy, or perhaps mental instability, it took for our morning-news meteorologists to resist the urge to stand in front of their green screens, point wearily in Ohio’s general direction, and sigh, “Today’s weather will be: Shitty. Just like yesterday’s, and probably tomorrow’s to.” Seriously, they deserve medals for their perseverance during these unabashedly shitty days. April 24, of the year 2000 was one of those days. To make matters worse, it was also a Monday. It was enough to put even my most obnoxiously cheery co-workers in a bad mood, and despite being just five weeks from my high school graduation, I was in a terrible mood too. Under the soul-sucking lights of Fennegan’s grocery, we part-time, minimum-wagers swayed back and forth on our feet as if we were an army of morose undead. Today, the obnoxious teal polos that served as our uniforms doubled as our white flags of surrender as we all did our best to at least pantomime our roles as employees who kinda, sorta gave-a-damn. The first half of my shift slogged on in this unremarkable fashion. The customers shared our aura of apathy, and that may have been the only thing that saved us all from losing our minds and walking off in a manner that had been made so popular by one mister Jerry Maguire (or Half-Baked’s Scarface in a scene that I overwhelmingly preferred.) It had to be some time near 7:30, the halfway point of my after-school shift, when I was finally tapped to go on break. It was almost a ritual of mine to grab a coke and an entire box of Little Debbie’s Oatmeal Creme Pies and call it lunch. Or dinner. Or post-dinner dinner. — Damn, I miss having a high schooler’s metabolism and only a passing knowledge of the word “diabetes.” As I wearily shouldered the heavy rubber door leading to the back of the store, I could see that someone else was in the breakroom. Given the day, and given the quality of conversation that my other high-school-mature coworkers generally held, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be spending my precious fifteen (by now it was closer to eleven) minutes alone. The break-room door groaned on its hinges as I pushed against the dented, stained, paint-faded slab. I paused as she looked up; it was Kathy. Kathy worked in the bakery, and as such, we rarely interacted through the course of our prescribed duties. Still, we’d exchanged pleasantries before: shared breaks like these, or coincidental walks through the parking lot at the beginning or end of our shifts. Nothing meaningful, mind you, and I was always a little shocked when she’d remember my name. I liked Kathy. She was nice, and smart, and even though at 43 she was more than double the average age of my coworkers at the front of the store, her beauty immediately caught my eye. When she smiled, her round face was a work of art worthy for enshrinement at The Louvre: chestnut eyes shining bright above a centerpiece of painting-perfect teeth and their red-lipstick frame. Her shoulder-length, sandy brown hair parted like grand curtains flanking either side of the stage. We stood nearly equal in height, at 5’6” that was no grand achievement for me, but it suited Kathy’s frame quite a fair deal better. Though she had a habit of complaining about her weight — “It’s not fair!,” she’d bemoan, “I’m around cake all day, every day,” — I’d often find myself daydreaming about the supple curve of her hips, and thighs. Of course, I couldn’t help but see the “extra weight” in her chest as anything less than spectacular. Kathy was gorgeous, but it was the unmistakable kindness behind her eyes, and her remarkable empathy for, and genuine interest in, those around her that made her truly attractive. It was safe to say that, despite the infrequency of our interactions, I had a huge crush on Kathy. I didn’t know much about her outside of work. I knew she didn’t have any , but she had two dogs who looked very cute in pictures. I also knew that, up until December, she was married to some dick named Jason. At first, I hated Jason just because he was lucky enough to have Kathy in the first place. However, it didn’t take long to figure out that Jason was a genuine, certified, card-carrying member of the Grand Society of Assholes. From what I could tell, he’d never put a hand on Kathy, but his constant jabs about her weight were sharp as spears. Though he himself had never graduated high school, or from what I could tell, held a steady job, he’d often refer to Kathy as a minimum-wage moron who couldn’t even serve him a hot meal. —“Look, douchebag, she’s working herself to death just to support your sorry ass. Cook your own fucking dinner.” I was such a badass in my head, even if I could never actually confront the loser. The real coup-de-grace was when Jason, on Christmas Eve, informed Kathy that she might as well stay and work late because he’d taken all “his stuff” (that she’d paid for), and moved in with some bimbo named Jenna. Kathy wasn’t at work for the first two weeks of January. Instead, she’d used up all of her vacation time for the year in order to “move the hell out of” that house and into a depressingly tiny apartment that she somehow managed to make cute anyway. I felt really bad that she would have to go the entire year without any time-off, but if I’m being truly honest, the greedier part of me was happy to know that it would mean I could all but depend on seeing her whenever I was at work. Which meant I’d occasionally find myself with her, like tonight, now, in the break room. Tonight was different. Though she’d done an amazing job of maintaining her happy, caring personality while at work, tonight, her smile was gone. I took a seat across from her and awkwardly drummed my fingers on the heavy-plastic tabletop. Kathy didn’t say anything. “Looks like you’re having one of those days too, huh,” I said, suddenly having to fake my melancholy in an attempt to match hers. I’m a shitty actor, and the obvious dishonesty of my tone sickened me. Kathy didn’t seem to notice, or she didn’t care. Maybe she just appreciated my effort to relate? “Yeah, you could say that,” Kathy responded. Her voice was quiet, waivering. “. . . Are you okay?” This time, my tone was geniuine. I’d never seen Kathy like this, and suddenly, all I wanted to do was help. But I was just some horny high school , not even half her age. Why would Kathy take any comfort in anything I could offer her anyway? Besides, it’s not Kathy’s some sort of helpless damsel that needs my help anyway. I was just some idiot . “I’ll be okay, I think. Yeah, I mean,” she looked up our eyes locked. I was frozen in place; turned to a big, dumb slab of stone. “I mean, yeah. I’m okay. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, and for a second, we just sat there. Silent, for a while, and then I felt my numb-mouth begin to move. “It’s this weather, right? It’s got everyone down.” —Shut up, you moron! My mouth seemed to have gone rogue, and was now operating sans assistance from my brain. More so than usual, I mean. Kathy ducked her head into her hands and began sobbing. “He . . . He says he wants to move back in. Why can’t that asshole just leave me alone?” Her words came in awkward cadence through punctuation of tears and gasps. “Jason’s a dick,” I blurted out, “He doesn’t deserve you. I mean, you’re amazing. No guy deserves you, but particularly not that one.” What the hell? What. The. Fucking. Hell? I told you to shut up, mouth! I thought I was going to pass out. I felt dumb. I’d never wanted to go back to work so badly in my life. Then clock out and go home. Then wake up, and then live the rest of my long, long life pretending like this never happened. Kathy’s soft weeping stopped. If my heart had been still beating, it would have been the only sound echoing through the terrible silence that seemed to last for hours. Days. Finally Kathy chuckled and looked up. Though her eyes were still red and shining with tears, her entire countenance had changed, had softened. She was even smiling, a little. “Thats exactly what I told him,” she laughed! She placed her hand atop mine. My dumb fingers were trembling. Kathy was kind enough to pretend she didn’t notice. Her hands were soft, nice, warm, but the moment lasted only the briefest of moments. Suddenly, she rose to her feet, grabbed up the chip bag and tea bottle in front of her, and moved towards the door, pausing as she pushed it open. “Thank you,” she whispered. She dumped the items in the trash, stripped off the rings from her left hand, threw those away tool, and then she was gone. The door groaned behind her. In the distance, I could hear the ‘swoosh’ of the larger plastic door leading back out to the store, back out to reality. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and tried to figure out what had just happened. By the time I made it back to the front of the store, I was six minutes late. After being chewed out by both Mrs Underwood the manager, and Scott, who had to endure the<b> torture </font></b>of waiting six more minutes before going on his break, my 38-damn-degrees on April 22nd! mood was back. I worked another three hours and headed home. A new story had started, but I was too confused to realize it just yet. |
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