To the Baker under my bed

No one dreams alone

There are too many nightmares

Thanks for the comfort

The Baker

When life was simple and the day was young, there were fewer problems. No big responsibilities, no decisions that had to be made on the spot that could affect the lives of every person in the vicinity. Life was easy as a child.

Except when you went to the closet or to bed. Because everyone knows that behind that door, and under the bed laid uncharted territory. Here there be dragons. Well, maybe not dragons necessarily, but monsters to be sure. So measures were taken, precautions observed, habits altered. Nightlights were seemingly miraculous, open doors and hallway lights an obsession, and nightly checks by those trusted adults assured us that we would be safe from the dangers and terror lurking in the shadows.

Somehow my parents always missed the Baker. I don't know how this occurred, or why he insisted on hiding when they went to check, but he managed to keep his shroud of mystery, and every night he would visit after my parents had left me to my own devices, safe in knowing that no living thing was under my bed. Or at least, no living monster. The Baker was exactly that, a baker. He never had a name, just the Baker. He lived under my bed at night, baking all sorts of delicious treats. Cakes, pies, brownies, cookies, a plethora of goodies. (I never rightly knew his place of inhabitance during the daylight hours, and I never asked. The Baker never was fond of such personal questions about himself.) And every night, when other children went to bed fearing the beings under their beds, I waited anxiously for bed time, excited to share the events of my day with him. He would sit me down in his little bake shop, The Lint Café, and stuff me full of goodies whilst I exuberantly related whatever it was that ran through my head at the time. Talking 900 miles a minute, together the Baker and I would pass away the hours of the night loquaciously happy in our little bake shop under the bed.

But not all was sugarplums and cupcakes with the Baker, because you see, like all children, I was known to have nightmares on occasion. Unfortunately for the Baker, this would mean grabbing his rolling pin again and once again riding to my rescue to save me from Jack, the vampire from the Dust Corner. He came around the Lint Café every time I was developing a nightmare, and wouldn't leave until either I woke up, or the Baker managed to beat him back to the Dust Corner. For this, I was always grateful to the Baker. But sometimes I felt awfully sorry for Jack. The Dust Corner was full of rabid dust bunnies and were-dust bunnies, fearful creatures of the night. Not to mention, it was in the farthest corner of the bed, where the least light from the hallway could come through. No small wonder that Jake wanted to join us in the Lint Café.

Lucky for me, the Baker had a bit more sense. For all that I could pity Jack his lodgings, and bemoan his circumstances, the simple fact was that Jack was dangerous. A vampire, a monster, the stuff of nightmares. And if I let him into the Lint Café, true horrors would begin, and I would have a full on nightmare. I only made the mistake of opening the door for those piteous eyes once, and I would never do it again. So I let the Baker beat Jake back into the Dust Corner, safe within the protective embrace of the café.

Sometimes I think the Baker was my knight in shining armor. But I know that more than that, the Baker was my best friend, confidante, fellow bibliophile. I've always pitied children who complained of monsters under their beds. Not because they dealt with monsters, but because they never had the pleasure of having a Baker for their very own.