A shirtless guy pacing his livingroom, on the phone, heard through the front window: "so... I do raspberry syrup down my left forearm. And I'm doin' slidin'. Y'know? Y'know how it is?" (Uh... yeah, sure.)
Shock-yellow mullet/mohawk combo. Fu Manchu facial hair. Tattoos on every inch of body. Sleeveless t-shirt and engineer's boots. With his spotted pit bull on a very long leash. Sitting at an outdoor coffee venue chatting up (how do these guys do it?) an attractive woman in business attire: "I go inside sometimes, but they make me feel awkward in there."
Parent, yelling across park at wayward youngster: "Brandon! Don't pet the water!"
Big guy in shorts and spats gets out of creaky 80s sedan to greet tall skinny guy in shorts and spats across the street: "Yo dawg whassup! Fugginbeautyday, isn't it?" (I'm going to try that one on my pastor this Sunday.)
Two elderly women walking ahead of me suddenly stop in their tracks, and part to either side of the walkway to let me through. Winded, but with a smile: "Sorry, we just passed our oh-shit distance."
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HORRIFYING TALES OF... PASTRY!
In 2002 I worked at a large supermarket bakery department in Washington state. Part of my daily routine was to refill the donut case whenever it got sparse, and keep the donuts nicely arranged in pleasing aesthetic display. As time went on, I realized a few regular customers were, in effect, keeping tabs on my donut schedule. They knew about when I'd be pushing the big rolling tower-cart of fresh donuts out to the floor, to restock the self-serve case. One of them was a blind man, whose cane I could hear clicking toward me. I soon learned it meant that I should pull out two large cinnamon twists, in reserve. He'd ask if they were the best ones in the case, and I assured him they were, as I slid them into a bag for him. "I trust you, dude. The guy that used to do this would give me the cruddy ones he couldn't sell."
My favorite customer was Della, the "tall Texan lady." I loved her Lone Star drawl, as thick as boot leather. Her hair was snowy, worn long, down past her shoulders, with a streak of jet-black down the right side. Maple bars were her passion. One day she snuck up behind me. "Two big ones." I knew her voice, and by that time I knew what she meant. I found the two biggest maple bars without raising from my position, and swiveled around to present them to her. She smiled.
My other favorite old donut enthusiast was Anna. She'd put her soft little hand on my arm, and point deep into the donut case. She'd whisper, like it was top-secret. "Get me that great big chocolate thing there." I sometimes felt like I was climbing into the donut case to locate the exact treasure she desired. Once, I got for her the largest cinnamon roll the baker had made that morning, directly out of the tower-cart, rather than the case, which was technically against the rules. "My doctor says I'm not to have such things," she said, then beamed with self-assuredness, "but I'm 85 years old, and my doctor can kiss my boney butt." Rest in peace, Anna, if you are not still with us.
My least favorite was unfortunately a regular customer as well. I forced myself to forget her name, but I can picture her in my head as if she were painted by Norman Rockwell after a few stiff drinks. I recall her only as the "snicker woman." She had that classic little half-snort that she used to punctuate her statements if she disapproved of anything you said to her or did for her. A typical encounter would be her suddenly appearing at the counter with a loaf of national brand bread from the bread aisle. "What's the difference between this and the bread yer sellin' here?"
Not really having any insider bakery expertise to wield, I resorted to stating the obvious. "Well, that bread is baked at some factory and shipped here overnight. Our bakery bread is made here, and most likely fresh this morning."
"Why!!"
Why? Why exactly does a large supermarket bake its own bread (as markets have for decades), then also offer the prepackaged national bread (as they also have for decades)? I told her it was so that we could offer her all available bread options.
She decided I was getting smart with her, which I was. "Well I think yer all fulla shit," she said, with her patented snicker. She tossed the national bread in her cart and defiantly rolled on. She came in nearly every day.
But my all-time favorite bakery moment was the night Husso became indignant.
Husso was a large, blond master-race baker from Russia, who worked the night shift – he would bake specialty items like raisin-cinnamon loaf, poundcake, white and chocolate layers for the Wedding Cake Designer, and other items in quantity, that required a level of focus and discipline that just wasn't doable during a bustling shopping day. Husso considered himself a culinary artiste, and wasn't afraid to tell you so. "They just bake... but I AM HUSSO." It was pretty impressive for a guy who worked at a bleepin' supermarket!
At about 2:00 a.m., he'd clean the kitchen for the all-important Donut Man who'd arrive at 4:00 a.m. Sometimes the donut guy wouldn't show, and Husso would, without complaint, work a double shift and produce the following day's supply of donutage.
It was around 9:30 p.m., and I was in charge of closing down the front counter for the night. Husso had just arrived and was busy prepping for his shift. In the middle of the bakery stood the Mighty Donut Tower, still about a third full from a slow donut day. Day-old donuts are usually arranged in those large pink boxes with plastic windows in the lid. Always remember... pre-boxed donuts = leftovers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Husso sneak around the donut tower, raise the cover and snitch one.
He just as quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he felt he needed to sneak around. He was in charge. Hell, if the donut man had gone on another bender, it's possible that Husso had even made this particular batch. They were his anyway. Bakers are allowed. It's code-named "quality control."
A few minutes later, Husso did it again. He sneaked open the cover, grabbed something, and zipped back out of sight. I paused what I was doing, in amazement, and looked to see where he'd gone. Damn, Husso, if you're hungry, don't be shy about it. Grab an armload. And toss one my way while you're at it!
About ten minutes later I had mentally skipped over it, and was trying to concentrate on getting my work done, so to leave on time – my shift ended at 10:30. Just then, Husso snitched another donut. And he looked me right in the eye as he did. He motioned me over... "Rhoberr... come." 'Rhoberr' was how he said 'Robert.' And he'd said "come" with a hint of alternate-lifestyle butch-seductress. I froze.
"Rhoberrr... come here, I show you sometink."
What have I got to lose, I wondered? I made up my mind to remain calm, remain CLOTHED, and not walk directly under the ceiling mounted security cam.
I followed Husso into the kitchen, and discovered he was not eating any of the donuts he'd swiped. He was WEIGHING them.
A medium-size apple fritter sat perched on a large shiny metal scale. "Look dis..." Husso sighed, pointing to the digital read-out. "Eight ounce." Husso never spoke in plurals... ever.
"Yeah, eight ounces. So?"
"Look how small. Eight ounce of dough, to make THAT! They waaaaaaasste." He said this like Lex Luthor. The world was about to kneel in fear at Husso's white-sneakered feet. They wwwaaaaaaaaassste... I haaaaate theeeemmmmmmm."
He swatted the apple fritter away and replaced it with another one, much bigger – about twice as big as the previous fritter. "Look... this one I MAKE."
Five ounce... er, ounces.
"Look at this one," Husso breathed, like a master chef presenting the main course at a White House fundraiser. "Only five ounce of dough, look how big, how fluffy... it good, yeah."
"Yeah," I said, unsure if he was going to make me eat something out of retribution – like the "evil" fritter that he'd just back-handed into the trashcan.
"Their fritter NO-GOOD. Husso's fritter GOOD."
For a minute I flashed on Boris Karloff in "Bride of Frankenstein."
He continued, "they waste so much here. I make twice as many donut, half the money. But no, they get bastard to make donut."
"That's a shame, Husso," said I. "Yeah, they'd sure be smart to put you on the donut shift."
"Hell no, I want to live in daylight. And I want to sing."
The conversation was taking a turn for the surreal, but I hung tough. "Oh, you sing too?"
"Yes, Husso sing, and bake expertly. Donut. French bread – a thousand loaf a day. In Russia, I bake donut in afternoon, and at night sing in club. You know, like a nightclub."
"Wow."
"Husso make donut... sing country, rock and what you call light-rock. Mellow rock."
"Ballads."
"No... donut. And I sing."
It went on like that for five more minutes, then he brought the discussion full circle. "But this place, they get bastard to make donut. I will not stoop to bastard. I am Husso."
That said it all. Husso and I were pals after that. He had allowed me into the Golden Fritter Circle of his confidence, and I felt honored as I made my way down the dark sidewalk, munching on a free cinnamon twist gifted me for the trip home.
