The Bakery.
Madison Square.
Chapter One: Ingredients.
—What Spot Hears.
Honk honk honk. Get out of the way! Move it! Exhaust fumes unfurling. Gravel crunching. Tires squealing.
Click clack click clack. Sharp-heeled woman rushing to work, even though it is summer. Cell phones ringing. Hello? Yes, Frank, I'm coming. No, I'll be late. Sorry. No, I didn't mean it. Well, I think I should present today. I'm ready. Oh, of course. Alright. Decaf? Latte? Okay. Be there in five.
Up above, a women leaning out the window. Yoohoo! Honey! I'll ring you up, sweetie.
A man in front of him slips off his ring and looks up. I'm coming. I'm coming. Baby. Darling.
To his right, at a bakery. I...hiring? Why? I'm not working hard...anyone...training...stupid-ass—
Hey! Don't talk me like that, young man...
Even though Spot has on his hearing aid everything is still a bit blurry.
—What Spot Sees.
A tiny Italian with slick brown hair in the bakery and red and white and green. A woman with her hands on her hips and her lips moving rapidly. The tiny Italian averting his eyes and slouching, nodding. Bread and pastries and cookies and cakes. A Coke can in the Italian boy's hand, a cookie in the other. Two white aprons; one over the boy's arm, the other tied around the woman's neck. A counter, a register, a coffee machine in the back, half hidden by the woman's hair. A "Help Wanted" sign.
—What Racetrack Thinks.
damn damn. stupid mom. don't want to train a new employee. don't want to. why. we can just work more. wasting money. stupid stupid stupid. oh god who is that. don't come in here. no. don't. go away. why are you here. i should never have put up that sign. he's here. don't ask for a job. no no no. yes. mom said yes. does that mean he's got the job. damn it. why. i have to train him. is that a hearing aid. he's crippled. we can't hire him. what's his name. why couldn't he just keep walking. this sucks. now I'll have to train him. i'll just glare at him really long and he'll get the picture. glare glare glare. ha he looks scared. oh wait he's glaring back. wow he's scary and damn I have to train him.
—What Racetrack Sees.
A scrawny boy in ripped up jeans and a ripped of tee-shirt of The Doors with a thin-looking black jacket that's not zipped up and has no hood and hugs at his arms and bright blue Doc Marten's where the right shoe has a scuffed up peace sign in white-out over the toe. A piece of plastic half clear and half bright blue like the boy's shoes over his right ear and piercings piercings piercings.
His mother disappearing into the backroom to bring out more bread.
Cars speeding in front of the glass windows. Red, white, green. He sees pastries and cookies and a boy holding a Coke can and an apron.
Oh, wait.
That's just himself.
—What Is Said.
I'm Race.
Yeah, right.
Well, my real name's Tony, but no one's called me that since I was little. Like 5.
I'm Spot.
Yeah, right.
No, really. That's my name.
Oh, sorry. So what's up with your—
Oh, this? My dad used to box my ears when I was little. Into the strict discipline. Old school.
Used to?
It's hard to box anybody's ears when you're six feet under the ground.
Oh, sorry.
Stop apologizing. 'Sides, I hardly know you.
Right. Okay.
—What They Decide.
That Spot will work on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
That tomorrow's Thursday and Spot needs to be trained.
That when he's working Spot needs to take out at least his lip and nose piercing.
That Race has a big nose.
That they just might be able to tolerate each other.
End Chapter.
a/n: WOW. I've written something. I'm SO proud of myself.
Jay!Muse: Ai-ya. You know you have, like 3 other stories you're SUPPOSED to be writing.
MS: Shut it. It was just a moment of inspiration. Go play your music and sing and make me swoon!
Jay!Muse: plays music and makes MS SWOON
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