George

Lightning cracked outside the window and woke him. George Crombers sat up and looked out at the night, at the rain coming down in torrents, wetting the road and the world beyond, then lay back down again and fell back to sleep. When the morning came, he roused himself and stood, put on the only pair of boots that he had that were beginning to blister his feet, then his shirt, and walked to the bathroom, stood and looked at himself in the mirror, didn’t like what he saw, then looked around at the place where he lived. The realisation washed over him, almost as though he were waking up from a dream: the insane way that he had been conducting himself, more like a vagrant than anything else, obsessed with an idea that may or may not be true: that he had been married at one time, that somehow, in the blink of an eye, his life had been taken off of him. But he couldn’t actually recall this life, or even exactly what it was that he was pursuing, only the image of a woman, but even that was like a blurred photograph; some accident that he had had, leaving him with only the vaguest of recollections.  He stepped out into the bright sunlight and decided right then and there that enough was enough, he would let it go, start again, leave it all behind, and the effort itself, to do it, was massive. It had been months - or was it years? - of this relentless searching for a woman, a woman who may or may not even exist, and he realised that he could lose his whole life to this �" what else could you call it? �" obsession. No, somehow or other, life had to go on. He started walking, trying, as always, to recollect what exactly he used to be, for he had this belief that he used to be something, something really special, like a doctor or a lawyer, and that he was really good at it, and yet, like everything else in his memory, it was only ever dim and, at best, a suspicion. His mind would trace over all the various professions, trying to find a match, some flicker of recollection, but there was nothing, and he knew that, like everything else, he simply had to resign himself to the fact that there was nothing there, that the only reasonable thing to do was to start his life again, forgoing the past, whatever it was. But first, he was hungry, and so, decided to walk to his local café and have breakfast, as was his habit, feeling bolstered for finally making the decision.

The streets were empty, empty chairs and tables cluttering the sidewalk, open doorways where waitresses were laying out cakes. The cafe he would often frequent, had an ornate style lettering on the window, and décor from another era that appealed to his sensibilities and the coffee was good. The barrister stood behind the coffee machine, head down, hair like a dark helmet on her head, then looked up as if sensing him, and smiled, her face lighting up, and he stepped inside and took a seat and looked around.

The place was dimly lit and there were only a few other patrons around, and, after a moment, she came over and took his order. Maybe, I could work in a place like this, he thought, and she leant over, and, as always, he admired everything about her. He gave her his order and she turned and walked back to behind the machine and started making the coffee, and he looked out at the view of the city, and thought more about his obsession, about letting it go, about starting his life again, and, in the next moment, she returned with the coffee and put it down in front of him, and he looked at her, an idea forming in his head.

‘Say, Julie, what does it take to work in a place like this?’

‘Oh, there’s nothing to it, really, you’ve just got to ask the manager.’

She turned and looked around.

‘I’m not sure if we’re putting anyone on at the moment, but I can have a look, ask for you, if you want.’

‘Hey, that’d be great.’

She turned around and George watched her walk to the back of the shop and then she came back, smiling, which he wasn’t expecting.

‘Ben says to come back in the morning, if you’re interested.’

Elated, he finished his coffee and paid and spent the rest of the day walking the city, amazed at how life could suddenly turn around. He thought about his quarters and realised that, with a job, he could actually live somewhere, get his own place, and, all of a sudden, life suddenly seemed to be worth living again. He bought groceries and carried them back to the block where he lived, carried them up the stairs and dumped them in the communal kitchen then started making the meal. The kitchen started to fill up with the other residents, putting out their condiments, others wanting to cook, to use the stove, and he kept his things in a tight area in the corner, and started chopping vegetables, dreams of his own place filling his mind, his old obsession finally defeated and fading. He threw the vegetables onto the pan, turned and saw, Ray, his neighbour, doing the same thing: Ray, a relic from another time, wearing his usual silk pants, which came half-way up his body, held up by braces.

‘Georgie-boy, what have you been up to?’

‘Not much, Ray, you know, this and that, got myself a job, today, you know.’

‘Is that so.’

Ray turned back to the vegetables that he was frying on the pan, leaned back on his heals, his belly protruding, then served them up, winked at him, and walked over to the table and sat with the others; men sitting, shoulder to shoulder, hunched over their food. He finished making his meal, walked over and joined them, sat next to A.J, another old timer and war vet; A.J, who wore yellow lensed glasses and looked as if he was still serving.

‘Georgie-boy.’

‘A.J, what’s been happening?’

‘Oh, you know, this and that.’

‘Any luck on the job front?’

‘As a matter a fact, yes, I might have found something, am going down in the morning.’

A.J started cutting into the meat on his plate, his massive hands making his knife and fork look tiny.

‘I always knew you could do it.’

‘Thanks, A.J, you?’

‘Still looking, man.’

They ate the rest of their meals in silence, the sound of cutlery banging on the table with their conversations, and then, people were getting up and leaving, making their way back through to their quarters. A.J finished his meal, stood and took his plate.

‘Well, Georgie-boy, I’m turning in, catch up, soon.’

George sat and waited for them to leave, enjoying the silence, looked out at the road and the trees and the orange light falling on the bitumen and wondered what it was all about, this life, then stood and went to the sink and washed his plate and made his way back to his room, sat on his recliner and looked out the window at the night, deciding, in his mind, to stop wondering, and once and for all about his past life.

The next morning, his alarm went off and he leaned over and turned it off and, for once, got out of bed on the first try, took his shower and got dressed. Was he really going to be a cook, now? Was that it? He thought about it and the idea didn’t seem all that bad, all of a sudden, and he got dressed and stepped out into the day that was warm and sunny. A cook; there was dignity in it, though, he always saw himself doing something to do with his head, with his smarts; but his head was all messed up, and if he was ever smart, he didn’t feel it, at least, not anymore. His mind scoured itself, hunting again, for remnants of his theoretical accident, and, for the millionth time, and he chastised himself inwardly. No, he would let it go, whatever it was. The world and everything in it seemed, suddenly,  to have taken on a different hue, now that he was a man with a job, with steady employment, and equally significant, he felt the huge weight of the past fall off of him, like some gigantic bear that he had been carrying around, a bear that he realised had been slowly strangling him. He kicked the road with his boots, deciding that his first pay-check would involve a new pair of shoes, then slowly made his way to his new work place.

By the time that he got there, he saw that he was ten minutes early, but there was nothing else for it but to go inside anyway, and so, he stepped inside his new workspace, where the barrister was already polishing the coffee machine. She looked up at him and her eyes lit up. He didn’t know what to say and so just let the words blurt out as though he were throwing flowers at her.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Pretty, good, you?”

He was amazed at the mere fact of her, that she was actually talking to him, and after a while she pointed him out back. George walked past the counter where he had frequented for years and made his way to the back of the shop that was larger than what he thought it was and he suddenly realised all the work that went into the place. The old man was sitting in the middle of the room like some aged bear and when their eyes met, the old man smiled and struggled to his feet.

‘Well, it’s good to see that you made it on time, Georgie-boy, it’s a good start.’

George watched him stand and shuffle passed, hobbling, as if on his last legs.

‘I’ll hand you over to Dave.’

The old man hobbled out of the room and George turned and saw a man about his age standing in front of him, wearing all white.

‘You’ll need to get changed. Us Bakers, we wear uniforms, you can go on into the back and get yours.’

George walked on into a changing room at the back of the shop and found a freshly pressed uniform sitting on the chair and he got changed and looked at himself in the small mirror and saw that he looked the part, then came back into the shop. Dave pointed to a large metal machine and showed him its parts, pointing at various devices, before going onto the next one and then another one after that, and George saw what the work was, saw that it was work that he could do �" hard physical work; work that would help him sleep at night, would finally tire out the big body that he had. Dave had him pouring a mixture into a vat and then stirring it, and that was where the work began.

All day, George made cakes. Cakes that were all different shapes ands sizes. Some big, some small, some chocolate, some vanilla, some cheese; cakes of all different flavours and styles; cakes that he himself would have eaten at a moment’s notice.

That night, hunched up against the table, squashed in by the other men and smelling like cakes, he smiled from ear to ear, mostly at the fact that he was working, but also that suddenly life seemed good, as though there was finally some possibility in the air.

‘Well, well, Georgie-boy has got a job! How do you like that!’ Said Ray, beaming front a pair of yellow tinted glasses. ‘Pretty soon, you’ll be good for a loan!’ A chuckle went through the room and suddenly it didn’t sound funny. George looked around at the others, as if seeing them for the first time: there they were, all sat, hunched over their meals as he was; middle-aged men and older, moving slower than most people would have at the age, looking tired and burnt out, and he wondered if he was so different.

‘Well, come on, out with it!’ said AJ, ‘Tell us about it.’

‘Not much to tell,’ said George, ‘It’s a café.’

‘Oh, come on, man, you can do better than that!’

‘I make cakes. What do you want me to say?’

Most of them seemed satisfied with this, and went back to their own conversations. George looked around at them again and realised that they were mostly army vets, and saw that he was living in a home and it came as a shock.

‘So, what you gonna do now, Georgie-boy? You gonna move out?’

George looked around and saw the chubby face of AJ smiling at him, then thought about the question. Probably, after a few pays, he could move out, but why bother? What exactly did he have to gain from going back into a commercial rental place? For one, it would be far more expensive, and he knew that he would lose most of his income on rent and bills, leaving little to save with, and what after all, would he be saving for, anyway? He was at least smart enough to know that the property market was well beyond him, and that it was too late in life to service any sot of a loan, so what was the point? He looked around at them again and realised that they were all in the same boat, then became aware that there was something wrong here, that it didn’t add up, that life wasn’t meant to be this tough. But who was to say? And, what was so tough about it, anyway? After all, he had everything he needed, didn’t he? And now, he had managed to even get a job, and one that he liked, so, what was the problem?  But he knew what the problem was, and he knew also, that there was a part of himself that was lying to himself, for George had always dreamt of raising a family and he wasn’t sure if a baker’s wage was going to cut it.

‘You’re deep in thought, Georgie-boy.’

He looked over at Ray and Ray looked back, taking a break from his mashed potato and steak.

‘Just thinking, Ray.’

‘Oh, yeah, what about?’

‘It’s private. I’m turning in, catch up tomorrow.’

With that, he tipped the last of his meal into the bin and made his way back to his room, and sat on his recliner and thought about life.

The next day, he got up early, for the first time that he could remember, early enough to make it to work on time. He showered and dressed and looked at himself in the mirror and got a shock. His hair had turned grey and his face was full of wrinkles and he was carrying a paunch. Still, he could get himself back in shape, couldn’t he? Who, knew, maybe it wasn’t too late after all? He stepped out into a summer’s day, made his way down to his new workspace, when another thought occurred to him: what if he’d already left it too late? After all, who was going to be interested in an overweight middle-aged man? With these thought clambering around his head, he made it to his work place, where Daisy was bending, looking athletic, laying out cakes. She turned around, as though recognising his stare and smiled at him with brown eyes and he realised that he had had a crush for ages.

‘Georgie, you’re here!’

‘I work here, don’t I?’

She laughed at his joke and he made his way to the back of the shop and got changed into his uniform and when he came out, Ben was sitting on a chair, looking down at a set of books.

‘Hello, George, good to see you made it on time.’

George looked at the old man who didn’t bother looking up.

‘Just go out back, Ray, will get you started.’

That night, he came home sweating and smelling of cakes, but he had to admit, it felt good, felt as if he was finally part of the world, after all these years. The past was a mystery, but wasn’t it the same for everyone? After all, from certain point of view it was arguable whether it even happened, wasn’t it? It was dust, and dust was liable to get blown away in the wind. He had made mistakes and hurt people, but who hadn’t? He cooked his food and sat in the refectory with the other men, the last of the afternoon light coming in gold on the couches, and thought more about what it all meant, then remembered someone telling him that thinking didn’t do any good either. But was that what his charge was, to do good? He thought about it some more, and found that it was as good an answer as any.