Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“No shit,” Ralph Angel said. “You must really like baking bread.”

“Ain’t had a choice,” Johnny said. “Daddy was ready to retire, my older brother joined the service, so it was up to me. Either that or let some of my coon-ass cousins run it.”

“You own this place? But I thought your last name was Fontenot.”

“Bakery is on my mama’s side. Her people came from France, then down through Nova Scotia before they settled here. Been in the family since 1884, right here in this building. Five generations.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ralph Angel said, and studied the framed black-and-white photos on the wall above the register. It was like looking back through time. “So how’s business?”

Johnny shook his head wearily. “Pretty good till this morning. My best guy quit; said he’s moving to Mississippi. I’m down to two guys, which would be okay, but we got to fill a huge order for that zydeco trail ride over at the old Fruit of the Loom factory tomorrow. Two hundred loaves on top of our regular orders. I’m usually up front in the office, not back here on the floor, but we got to get them loaves out of here.”

Ralph Angel looked at Johnny, then through the entrance, out at the gravel lot, and felt another page turn. “If you’re shorthanded, maybe I could help you out.”

Johnny looked at the ground. He ran his sneaker across the floor, which was itself covered in a quarter inch of flour dust. “Naw, I couldn’t ask you to do that, man. But thank you.”

“What’s the problem?” Ralph Angel felt a sudden urgency bloom in his chest. “I got the time and I’m good with numbers. Was an engineering major in college. You need the help.”

“You serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Johnny thought for a moment. “Okay, then,” he said. “You got a deal. And of course, I’ll pay you.” He shook Ralph Angel’s hand, then hugged him. “Man, I sure appreciate this. You don’t even know. I was sweatin’ bullets trying to figure out how I was gonna get all this work done.”

“What are friends for?”

“You’re really saving my ass,” said Johnny. He went to the register, counted out seven dollars and fifty cents. “Take your money. Those loaves are on the house.”

• • •

Twelve thirty a.m., and Ralph Angel, back in Miss Honey’s blue sedan, drove the twelve-mile stretch between Saint Josephine and Jeanerette, appreciating, for the first time really, how quiet the country could be on a summer night. He crossed the high bridge that spanned the widest section of the bayou and looked out over the dark cane fields and the mill lights twinkling in the distance. He’d heard a story once, about a man who was crossing the bridge on his bike when a truck came along and knocked him over the guardrail. The man fell thirty feet into the water, but managed to swim to the bank even though his right arm, his right leg, and three ribs were broken. Some people were just born survivors.

After his conversation with Johnny that morning, Ralph Angel had stopped off at Goodwill. He bought a nice white dress shirt and tie — navy with red stripes — stylish but not too flashy with the $7.50 Johnny gave back to him. He hadn’t mentioned the job to Miss Honey, though he’d wanted to, and he certainly hadn’t said anything to Charley when she got home. Thought he’d stay quiet till she started griping about how hard she was working and asked him to join her, then he’d spring the news on her. He couldn’t wait to see the look of surprise on her face.

Everyone arrived at the bakery at 1:00 a.m., Johnny had said, which Ralph Angel thought was early to be starting office work, but he’d agreed. Now he pulled into the gravel parking lot again, past the two white delivery trucks he hadn’t noticed earlier, and parked in the last spot near the fence. It wasn’t one o’clock yet, but the lights inside the bakery were already on, and through the open windows, Ralph Angel heard men’s voices and the clatter of machinery over the radio.

“Hey, good buddy,” Johnny called as Ralph Angel stepped over the threshold. “Right on time.” Johnny had showered and shaved, changed into a new pair of shorts, but wore the same gray T-shirt and sneakers, and looked surprisingly alert, Ralph Angel thought, considering the early hour. He gave Ralph Angel a puzzled look. “What’s with the shirt and tie?”

Ralph Angel looked down at his shirt, then up at Johnny. “Can’t go around the office looking like vagrant.”

“The office?”

“Yeah,” Ralph Angel said. “You said I’d be doing office work, right?”

Johnny’s brow furled. “No.”

“But this morning — you mentioned working up front. Said your best man quit.”

“That’s ’cause I work up front,” said Johnny. “I was talking about my head baker quitting; a guy named Leroy.”

“Oh.”

“I moved Joe up to Leroy’s position and got Billy to take over for Joe, but now I need someone to take over for Billy.”

Ralph Angel stuffed his hands in his pockets. “What does Billy do?”

“He’s on the mixer. Mixes up all the batter.”

“I see.”

“Hey, look, man, I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I should have been clearer.” Johnny put his hands on his waist and let his head drop. “I understand if you don’t want to do this. A guy like you — a professional and everything — I can see how this would be beneath you. Actually, that’s what I was thinkin’ this morning when you offered.”

Disappointment settled down around Ralph Angel like a shroud. He’d been so excited at the prospect of working at the bakery; had imagined himself up front, in an office right next to Johnny’s (though smaller, of course), his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, the knot of his tie loosened after a full day of taking phone orders, jotting names and numbers on a small pad, entering figures into a computer. He’d looked forward to taking coffee breaks and maybe, after he earned his stripes, long lunches down at the café. Ralph Angel sighed. He thought of Charley, the expression on her face — determined, purposeful, focused — as she carried those boxes from the shop, her shop, to the truck, then he tried to picture himself dumping big sacks of flour into an industrial mixer. Not exactly what he’d signed up for. But it was still work; it was still a job. “No sweat,” Ralph Angel said. “I’ll do it. A deal’s a deal.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves.

• • •

Beyond the swinging door, the bakery floor stood large and boxy, with white tiled walls around three sides and two enormous ovens built into the far wall. The other men were already at work, stacking long rectangular wood boxes on top of one another and sliding big metal trays into tall racks. Everything — from the radio to the portable phone and the long wooden table in the middle of the room, to the men themselves — was covered with a fine layer of flour so that it looked as though an early-winter snowstorm had just blown through. Johnny introduced Ralph Angel to the guys, then led him over to the mixer in the corner. It was almost as tall as Ralph Angel, with a large stainless steel bowl and a huge paddle inside that looked big enough to row a boat with.

“People don’t realize, but baking is an art,” Johnny said. “Which is why I usually start new guys making loaves. I learned the hard way it takes a new guy three months before he knows how to form a decent loaf. But since it’s crunch time, and I can’t stop to train you, I’m gonna have you jump ahead and work the mixer first. Once you get the hang of it, made enough dough, we’ll see what needs doin’.” Johnny gestured for Ralph Angel to follow him behind the mixer where six large plastic garbage cans, each labeled with a different ingredient, stood against the wall. On the floor in front of the garbage cans, twenty fifty-pound bags of flour sagged like overgrown sandbags.