They followed him as a foul shadow, ripe with the stench of despair and almond extract. For two days and two sleepless nights they had trailed after him, moaning wretchedly about his damned creations.
He knew he could not escape them, and fueled as they were with brown sugar and indignation, he would tire long before they would. Confrontation seemed to be his only option, but he was certain that any sort of direct interaction would end badly for him. Very badly. Still, the longer he put it off, the worse his condition would be when it began. If he were to have any chance at all, he would have to face them soon.
When he arrived in the village, his engine sputtering on fumes and the radiator taxed to failure, he coasted to a stop in the square, not bothering to prevent his front tire from jumping the curb. Cautiously, on shaking legs, he clambered out the car window and onto the roof, canted slightly to the side from his haphazard parking. He looked out at the crowd as it gathered in an impenetrable cloud about him, filling the square with unwashed humanity, crumbs littering their beards and shirt-fronts.
Slowly, wearily, he raised his arms and addressed them. “People of Donnybrook,” he began, his voice scratchy from thirst, “for many years, I have been your devoted baker.” His effort to remind them of a long, friendly community relationship was met only with baleful stares and the hungry flatulence of an old nearsighted man named Hector. “I have made bread for your sandwiches, cakes for your celebrations, and I have worked through the nights to provide light, fluffy croissants for your breakfasts.” He was careful not to pronounce the French pastry “cwoss-SAUN,” as he knew it would only alienate his working-class audience. A few slightly green students shuffled away from Hector, allowing some room for airflow.
“Through the years, you have entertained my experiments, my efforts to bring you new and enticing flavors and textures, allowing me to create baked goods new to the world. Some, like the bacon-pecan rolls of ‘98, were heartily received, and have become staples of my usual offerings. Others, like the broccoli puffs of last October, we can all agree were mistakes.” Hector farted again. Several of the townspeople nodded assent, but probably not in reference to Hector. A few of the local villagers had gathered at the edges of the square, curious, but not yet willing to intervene before they had thoroughly sussed out the situation.
He paused for a moment of reflection before continuing. They were letting him speak his piece, and for that he was grateful. “I think we can all agree that something went wrong with that last batch of cookies, and nobody regrets it more than I do.” As if in response to this assertion, a rock the size of a soup can came in a low, fast arc, shattered his rear window, and thumped loudly against the upholstery in his car. It was not meant for him, but it was a clear disagreement. He shuffled uneasily on the tilted roof of his exhausted Volkswagen. With grim determination, he pressed on, pleading for clemency. “One batch of bad cookies is certainly no reason for violence. We are friends and neighbors! Surely, we can put this episode behind us and move on?” Hector loudly blew his nose on the sleeve of his ancient overshirt, then removed the garment and lobbed it at the baker. It fell short by several feet, but a helpful clerk tossed it through the ruined rear window of the baker’s car.
A single voice rang out from the crowd, clear and loud above the assorted murmurs that rose in response to the baker’s plea. “Those cookies were foul, damned creations! You ruined our lives!”
“Well, I don’t think I’d say ruined, that’s a bit harsh.”
The same voice rose again: “The field workers who found those cookies in their lunches could only weep after eating them! Crops lie in waste in our fields! Construction workers walked away from their job sites, and children spent half their school day sobbing! Our most respected judge burnt his robes on the steps of the courthouse and walked off into the desert! Police have abandoned their posts and the power plant lies in ruins!”
The baker looked guiltily at his feet. Clearly, the impact was more widespread than he had realized. Years of trust in his products had garnered strong sales, but this one batch of cookies had spread wide before the error had been recognized. More of the local villagers ringed the square, and he realized that although he had accepted the shame of facing his own townspeople, he was greatly embarrassed by being put on display in front of these strangers.
A judgement rose from the crowd, funneled through the same voice. “You have nurtured us for many years, baker, and we will remember that. But we can not forget this transgression. You are not welcome in our town again.” The crowd moved in from all sides, and in his sudden anxiety, he barely avoided a complete release of his bladder. Dozens of arms reached out from the mass of humanity, and he was lifted bodily from his lopsided perch. Held above the crowd, he heard sounds of tools and scraping metal, and when he was placed gently upon the ground, he carefully opened his eyes to see legs retreating from him. Through them, he spotted his car, now upside-down in the square, the tires disappeared and his trunk tools scattered in the street. He had been exiled.
When they had completely cleared form the square, he looked to the villagers standing quietly on the sidewalks, witnesses to this spectacle of small-town justice, and wondered whether this town had need of a baker, but before he could rise to ask, they turned and walked back to their homes and stores, with nary a word to the lonely exile.
12-13-11
There’s an influence here of The Taco Trilogy, but only in the tone of the tale. I really did make those cookies, and they were worse than the story might lead you to believe.
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