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I honestly didn't know where to put this, but it's the story people ask for the most often, and I'm kind of an idiot in it. It's about the time I served the Grim Reaper a rotisserie chicken.
As I've said, I worked at a bakery in a supermarket for a long time. This particular incident happened just after I'd started working, and they had me on the evening shift, which only required one person. It's about six o'clock, an hour before I go home, and I'm basically just cleaning up now because the store is so quiet. Our oven sits out on the floor so people can come by and watch us bake, I guess, and is enclosed by a long counter that we share with the Deli department at the other end. (Most of the prep work and all the supplies take place in the back of the store.)
I have my back to the store at this point, and I'm wiping down the big glass doors of the oven. I've always wondered how it gets so dirty, really. I mean, it's got a handle, and it's not like we're slobs or morons who like to smoosh our faces all over the glass and --
"Pardon me, young miss."
I actually drop the bottle of cleaner I'm holding. It's not that the voice is loud or startling, but there's something about it. It's so soft and cultured, like rich, supple leather, but it automatically snags your attention; it's so slow, deep and measured. I twist around.
The man standing on the other side of the counter is tall. Tall and thin enough that you can almost imagine the soft clattering sound he might make when he stands up, as though a series of sticks were being straightened out and ratcheted into place. He's dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit; I don't know anything about labels or brands, but the cut was perfect, as if it had been tailored for him, and a soft, sable grey. He's an older gentleman, handsome in a dignified sort of way, with grey hair combed back from his high forehead in neat waves, but he looks the way someone who has been very ill and is only now recovering sometimes will -- his cheeks too hollow, his eyes too shadowed. His hands are very long and fine, like a pianist's.
He's holding on of the little plastic cases from the Deli with a rotisserie chicken in it.
I just stare at him.
He smiles at me. His mouth is very long, as though it could open wide like a snake's. "My sincerest apologies for interrupting you, but might I trouble you for a box for this dead bird?"
The sun is setting in the skylight behind him, haloing him in rich red.
I make some sort of inarticulate sound of affirmation and turn around in a jerky sort of way, as though I'm suddenly made of rusty hinges. I'd been unpacking containers for our pastries earlier, and we still had some of the empty boxes waiting to go to recycling. I grab one, managing somehow to knock all the others down, but he doesn't comment. He smiles beatifically at me as I thrust the box at him. "Thank you, young miss. I required sufficient parcel for this, for I have come a very long way, and I have farther yet to go until I may rest."
The best I can manage is "Mmm!" in response, and the smile I try on is a little cracked. He puts the chicken in the box with infinite care, smile at me and turns to leave. He pauses once, and looks over his shoulder. "Be seeing you again one day, young miss." he says with a smile, and walks away.
I think I stood there staring blankly at nothing for a good minute or more.
The next day, I'd half convinced myself I was exaggerating it in my memory, at least until the cashier girl who served him comes in, ashen faced from how poorly she slept that night and nervous about the old gentleman she'd served.
I didn't see him again for the rest of the years I worked at the bakery, but I'm pretty sure he's going to be the last thing I see before I die someday.
The good news is the store manager thought the story was so hysterical it's become bakery lore. I spoke to him recently, nearly two years since I've left the store, and he gleefully assured me that the legend is still alive and kicking. The young teenager girls who work the evening shift after school are scared unless they work in pairs.
I don't know if I should feel guilty or not. Mostly I just think about all those future generations of spooked bakery girls and I laugh like a hyena.
I think I'm a bad person.
As I've said, I worked at a bakery in a supermarket for a long time. This particular incident happened just after I'd started working, and they had me on the evening shift, which only required one person. It's about six o'clock, an hour before I go home, and I'm basically just cleaning up now because the store is so quiet. Our oven sits out on the floor so people can come by and watch us bake, I guess, and is enclosed by a long counter that we share with the Deli department at the other end. (Most of the prep work and all the supplies take place in the back of the store.)
I have my back to the store at this point, and I'm wiping down the big glass doors of the oven. I've always wondered how it gets so dirty, really. I mean, it's got a handle, and it's not like we're slobs or morons who like to smoosh our faces all over the glass and --
"Pardon me, young miss."
I actually drop the bottle of cleaner I'm holding. It's not that the voice is loud or startling, but there's something about it. It's so soft and cultured, like rich, supple leather, but it automatically snags your attention; it's so slow, deep and measured. I twist around.
The man standing on the other side of the counter is tall. Tall and thin enough that you can almost imagine the soft clattering sound he might make when he stands up, as though a series of sticks were being straightened out and ratcheted into place. He's dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit; I don't know anything about labels or brands, but the cut was perfect, as if it had been tailored for him, and a soft, sable grey. He's an older gentleman, handsome in a dignified sort of way, with grey hair combed back from his high forehead in neat waves, but he looks the way someone who has been very ill and is only now recovering sometimes will -- his cheeks too hollow, his eyes too shadowed. His hands are very long and fine, like a pianist's.
He's holding on of the little plastic cases from the Deli with a rotisserie chicken in it.
I just stare at him.
He smiles at me. His mouth is very long, as though it could open wide like a snake's. "My sincerest apologies for interrupting you, but might I trouble you for a box for this dead bird?"
The sun is setting in the skylight behind him, haloing him in rich red.
I make some sort of inarticulate sound of affirmation and turn around in a jerky sort of way, as though I'm suddenly made of rusty hinges. I'd been unpacking containers for our pastries earlier, and we still had some of the empty boxes waiting to go to recycling. I grab one, managing somehow to knock all the others down, but he doesn't comment. He smiles beatifically at me as I thrust the box at him. "Thank you, young miss. I required sufficient parcel for this, for I have come a very long way, and I have farther yet to go until I may rest."
The best I can manage is "Mmm!" in response, and the smile I try on is a little cracked. He puts the chicken in the box with infinite care, smile at me and turns to leave. He pauses once, and looks over his shoulder. "Be seeing you again one day, young miss." he says with a smile, and walks away.
I think I stood there staring blankly at nothing for a good minute or more.
The next day, I'd half convinced myself I was exaggerating it in my memory, at least until the cashier girl who served him comes in, ashen faced from how poorly she slept that night and nervous about the old gentleman she'd served.
I didn't see him again for the rest of the years I worked at the bakery, but I'm pretty sure he's going to be the last thing I see before I die someday.
The good news is the store manager thought the story was so hysterical it's become bakery lore. I spoke to him recently, nearly two years since I've left the store, and he gleefully assured me that the legend is still alive and kicking. The young teenager girls who work the evening shift after school are scared unless they work in pairs.
I don't know if I should feel guilty or not. Mostly I just think about all those future generations of spooked bakery girls and I laugh like a hyena.
I think I'm a bad person.
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