I walk to the bakery section. I look at pastries and cakes, tarts and pies. My body craves sugar, always craves sugar. Years of alcoholism and the high level of sugar in alcohol created the craving, which I feed with candy and soda. I check my pocket, I have twenty-two dollars on me. I have twenty or so more dollars in my apartment. The cakes have the most sugar, sugar in the cake itself and sugar in the frosting. They come in two sizes large and small, they come in four types chocolate with chocolate frosting chocolate with white frosting white cake with chocolate frosting white cake with white frosting. I would like to buy one of each type in both the large and small sizes. I would have them put in nice white cake boxes and have the boxes closed with finely tied and looped string. It would be a struggle carrying so many boxes home, but I would persevere.At home I would open the boxes one at time and work my way through all eight cakes systematically, starting with the small ones and finishing with the large ones. I would forgo fork and knife and eat with my hands, licking my fingers and my lips along the way. Once I was done, I would most likely either vomit due to excess, which I have done many times in my life, or spend several hours in some sort of sugar-induced mania, maybe pacing in circles, maybe walking endlessly around my block, maybe babbling idiotically at random strangers on the street. Eventually I would shut down and sleep, happy and full, every cell of my body saturated with sugar, cake and frosting.
A woman in a white baker’s outfit steps to the counter opposite me.
May I help you?
How much are the cakes?
Which ones?
I point to the cakes.
The birthday cakes.
The small ones are fourteen dollars, the large ones are twenty-one.
Large please. White cake with white frosting.
Do you want me to put an inscription on it?
Does it cost extra?
Nope.
Yeah, I would like an inscription.
What would you like it to say?
I think for a moment.
How about—Big Promotion, Jimbo!
She laughs.
Who’s Jimbo?
Me.
What kind of promotion?
I work at a bar downtown. Got promoted from cleaning crew to doorman.
Congratulations.
In a couple years I’m going to be President of the United States.
She laughs, opens the cabinet, reaches for my cake.
I’ll be right back, Mr. President.
I will be anxiously awaiting your return.
She laughs again, turns around, puts the cake in a box and ties the box with a finely tied loop, hands it to me. I thank her and I go to the checkout line and I pay for my cake my beautiful cake.
I walk home. No more skipping and no more finger snapping, I don’t want to hurt my cake. I do, however, smile, and I also greet people on the sidewalks with heartfelt and sincere hellos, how are yous, it’s a beautiful days.
As I walk into the building I see Mickey, the building superintendent, walking out of it. His eyes are swollen and it looks like he’s been crying.
Yo, Mickey. You want a piece of cake?
What?
I just bought a cake. You want a piece?
What kind is it?
White on white.
I need some cigarettes.
If you want cake, I’ll be in my apartment.
Mickey skulks away. I go to my apartment. I open the door, go to my little kitchen, set the cake on the counter. I open it, my oh my it is a beautiful cake. I get two plastic plates and a knife. I cut two pieces away and set them on the plates. I take the rest of the cake and I sit on the floor next to my bed. I carefully pick it up and take a big bite out of it. I chew my bite
slowly, savoring the light, moist, airy cake and the sweet, thick, creamy frosting. I take another bite, another another. It’s a great cake. More than suitable for my promotion celebration.
About halfway through my eating of the cake, there is a knock at my door. I stand, walk over, open it. Mickey is standing at the door, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He speaks.
You have cake and frosting on your face.
I smile.
Is there any left?
I saved some for you.
He steps inside my apartment. I walk to the kitchen, get one of the plates with cake on it, get a plastic fork, give them to him.We sit on the floor, and as we eat, he tells me about his day. He is miserable. His boyfriend broke up with him at breakfast, told him he needed someone with more ambition than Mickey, someone who wanted more out of life than a job as building superintendent. Mickey told him it was temporary, that he was working to make it as a painter, that he felt his dreams were going to come true. The boyfriend said I need more than your dreams, Mickey, and he walked out.
Mickey starts to cry. I eat my cake. I make sure to get some extra frosting on my face. When Mickey looks up, he sees me and he laughs. I speak.
If you don’t eat yours . . .
He laughs, starts eating.As we eat, we talk, he asks me where I’m from I tell him Cleveland, he asks why I moved here I say I moved for a girl, he asks if we’re still together I say yes we’re still together. I ask him the same things he’s from a small town in Indiana and moved here so he could be himself, could live as a gay man without being harassed, could try to make it as a painter. I ask him what he paints he says he’d rather show me than tell me. He finishes his cake and he stands and he leaves my apartment.
I keep eating, I’m almost done. Five minutes later Mickey comes back with a painting and sets it carefully on the floor in front of me. It is a small painting, maybe six inches by six inches. The canvas is black at the edges. The rest of it is covered with tiny faces. Some are smiling, some are laughing, some are screaming, some are crying. The faces are painted in perfect miniature detail, they look like little photographs, and it’s a beautiful painting, beautiful and horrifying, full joy and misery, laughter and sorrow. Mickey speaks.
What do you think?
It’s great.
You want it?
Absolutely.
It’s yours.
Thank you.
If you need a nail to hang it, I’ve got them.
Once I decide where to put it.
I’m gonna go. Thanks for the cake.
Thanks for the painting.
Sure.
And forget about the boyfriend, that shallow fucker.
He laughs.
Yeah.
He leaves. I finish my cake. When I’m done, I lick my lips and fingers and clean the excess from my chin and cheeks. I want to see Lilly. I usually walk to see her, but I’m tired, so I decide to take the train. I’ve never used the elevated train system of Chicago. I have been told it is simple and easy. I’m wary of it. Most of the time someone says something is simple and easy it turns out to be complicated and difficult.
I put on my warm clothes. Get my last twenty dollars from beneath my mattress, which is where I keep my money. I wrap the last piece of cake, carefully wrap it. I leave, walk to the nearest train station. I look at the map, colored lines weaving through and across each other. I find the station on the map, find Lilly’s station on the map, buy a token, step to the platform, wait. The train comes, I make the transfer, arrive at Lilly’s station. The trip is simple and easy. I now know how to use the elevated train. So much for my bullshit theory.
I walk, stop at a flower shop, spend eighteen dollars on red roses.
I give her the roses.
I give her the last piece of cake.
I tell her about my day. The best day I’ve had on my own in Chicago.
I got a promotion.
I went for a nice, long walk.
I spent my hard-earned money on something beautiful.
I ate that beautiful thing, and it was tasty.
I made a friend.
I was given a gift.
I learned something.
It was a great, great day.
I tell Lilly I love her, miss her. I spend my last dollar on a token home. Part of me expects Lilly to be waiting for me. I would give everything for her to be waiting for me. She’s not. I’m alone. I lie down, can’t sleep.
I wait for the darkness.