How did it begin? Oh, yes. It began along the Gold Coast. I was walking along the Florida turnpike approximately forty miles south of Biscayne Bay, the birthplace of the Tequesta tribe of Indians, when I saw it.
Frantically circling the eerie shopping mall on 34th Street I stumbled upon a festive banner that read:
It’s Christmas in October!!!
And we’re expanding…
With Halloween two months past, the ad certainly aimed to intrigue, puzzle. Even the last of the Elm Street children dead asleep in their bloody nightmares would itch for a glimpse of the thrilling venue. Vowing to lure their infamous killer into dreams, they would coax him into singing Christmas carols, hanging stockings, eating sweet yummies and publishing Elm Street greeting cards–before suffering their inevitably brutal murders.
In the window there were snowmen and candy canes, garlands and cellophanes, lights, wreaths and bells–oh my! Santa Claus and Jesus Christ were being naughty, being nice, and stretching my imagination to unknown, unseen places.
Like the walls, where newspaper article clippings of highly-ranked chefs gave the place its number one world-famous bakery status for the past five consecutive years.
The awards, medals and celebrity autographs spoke volumes. No wonder the business was booming so. Some of the colorful employees working in the back waved hello to the twenty-odd customers already standing for take-out orders while other bakers in the front doubled as waiters to serve the dine-in customers. Transcending from embossed editorial characters in black and white print to three-dimensional living beings soon to be wrapped around my voracious fingers, the staff of twenty-five greeted me as I entered through the automatic sliding doors; and my mouth watered! I was hungry.
Rain or shine, every day at noon the rest of the world stopped, or so I learned. Customers from all walks of life, from all Indian tribes, and non-Indians from all countries, cities, territories, provinces and states banished going to popular drive-through restaurants during their lunch breaks -and sometimes for dinner-to savor the award-winning aroma and scrumptious selection of baked goods right here on 34th Street.
To my right there were families of four, to the left were parties of seven and in a private room sectioned off behind ceiling-length red curtains were coteries of couples, friends and loved ones creating new memories perceptible to the gustatory sense.
I skimmed over a menu with a variety of soup and salad appetizers leading up to the main dessert course before doing a double take. Was I seeing and hearing things correctly? From the time I entered the door to the time I gazed over the menu, thirty long minutes had passed.
I read the name tag: Chef Goldman. He happily sang into his cellphone, “For that special wedding order, we have enough flour for 15 brownies, enough eggs for 25 brownies and enough baking powder for 40 brownies!”
“Wedding order? Strange. Jasper, the bride, has a wedding order too… ” I connected silently.
“So what?” Chef Schultz jeered on the other end of the line while walking into the bakery with two fellow chefs who went right to work.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He hung up the phone while speaking to Goldman in person.
“What’s that Einstein?” Goldman jumped.
“It means that we can only make 15 brownies. Theoretically because the flour is lacking more than the other ingredients, it limits how many brownies we can produce,” chided Schultz.
The bakery was a jovial restaurant: a great, big, happy maze! Cherry wood and mahogany tables displayed arrays of bread puddings; caramel apple dips; chocolate dessert fondues; cranberry-orange pear slices; guava duffs and cobblers…
“I think you might be right about that, Schultz. It’s also possible that three of those fifteen brownies could burn. We could actually end up with no more than 12 brownies, a big batch of egg yolks and a plethora of powder.”
“Of course I’m right! Unless we get more ingredients we can only feed 12 people max. That’s chemistry 101.”
“How many guests will there be?” “One…”
“You clown!”
“…hundred!”
“Oh, heavens no! I guess we need to get more ingredients then, eh?”
“Ah, I’ve got a better idea …” Chef Schultz announced.
…Pear and rice puddings; rich rum, red velvet, coffee, butter and upside down cakes; Blondie bars; pecan sandies; sweet potato, key lime, apple-butterscotch, toasted almond cream, cherry cream cheese and citrus meringue pies…
Extrasensory perception led them to give each other that awkward moment look, the one when you know what the other person is going to suggest before they actually do. Extrasensory perception, or ESP, led them to zestfully shout and clap in unison, “THE BROWNIE BAKED ALASKA!!!”
((… Chocolate covered strawberries, pumpkin spice biscuits; glazed, creamed, and powdered doughnuts; buttermilk waffles; doobies; lollipops, chocolate bars and bubble gum drops for the children connoisseurs; for those watching their weight, low-carb parfaits topped with homemade strawberry sauce and light whipped cream; and for the nostalgic bunch, 1950’s style cream soda and vanilla ice cream floats…))
“Yes! We’ll order the ingredients but we’ll prepare individual servings for the wedding guests,” said Goldman.
Then Chef Schultz exclaimed while looking in my direction, “Miss..uh..Singh! Please come right this way!”
“Ms. Singh?” I thought. “My first name is Jewel, but my last name isn’t Singh is it? Oh God! What in the world is my last name?”
Chef Goldman cheered, “Perfect. Double fudge brownies on the bottom layer with key lime ice-cream on the middle layer, green and red buttercream roses and a dash of nuts sprinkled on top of the meringue … and voila! Taste the rich tropical oasis! The customers will surely come back again!”
Chef Schultz allowed me to skip several people in line. I suppose that every dessert, every bowl of soup, every salad dish, every glass of water and rum, every conversation, every sound, I suppose they were right. The feasting environment was highly dynamic to say the least. People stretched for what seemed like miles out of the doors and indoors the folks sitting beneath lights that emitted from stained glass chandeliers were no fewer.
I said,
“Thanks, Mister uh …”
“Schultz.” He shook my hand cordially as my olfactory sense overloaded. “You may wonder how I know your name. You’re part of the wedding party aren’t you? We always book our wedding orders in the morning, and we’ve trained our staff to detect new customers like the plague. New customers get special treatment. Thank you also for your outstanding punctuality! Sit wherever you’d like and someone will be with you shortly.”
I feigned,
“Okay, sure. Just a second please. Let me call my friends and tell them I’m here early.”
Looking at the time on my phone, I panicked. An hour had already gone by and I had gotten 50 missed calls from Jasper and the other bridesmaids. Deep down, I guess that I didn’t really care. I was starving.
I walked toward the statuesque curtains as if I was a performer on Broadway. Inside the party room was insane! There were waterbeds, booths, balloons, male and female dancers and a liger inside of a cage. Hookah and incense clouded the customers from view until a strong gust of air revealed that all of the women were clad in tight-fitting black Spanish moss skirts and the men were adorned in black visors, black deer hide loincloths and black bowties. They were all in excellent physical condition. Once inside, the curtains had swallowed up behind me and vanished into a door-less, window-less red cement wall.
A waiter escorted me to the seat of my choice: it was the only seat available.
“Please enjoy our Tie and Tails affair here at the River of Cream!” he bid before disappearing faster than the speed of light behind clouds of sandalwood and jasmine.
And I knew that it was true: the rest of the world had stopped. To think that I had been walking along 34th Street for over an hour searching for the wedding boutique where we were going to be fitted for bridesmaid gowns and I stumbled upon Jasper’s catering bakery! What a place she chose! At least Chef Schultz and Chef Goldman acknowledged me.
I knew nothing about this place, but once inside I knew that I had to check it out. Maybe I just needed me-time to clear my mind of recent events that haunted me. Being there felt real.
Mr. German came to my lonely table of one and asked,
“Would you like anything for starters?”
“Just give me a chocolate key lime cupcake for now! Make it a virgin, like Joseph’s wife.”
A laughing Mr. German resembling one of the church members from the community church in Tacoma threw down a mini-menu of the 20-proof and 40-proof alcoholic dessert options.
“Mary is a four-letter word to us, unless you mean Bloody Mary. In any case, you must order something from this menu. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed!”
I squirmed, “Didn’t you just tell me that I could order whatever I wanted? Besides, you guys are having way too much fun in here and I’m missing out on a hot date with my friends. Not to mention, some of my friends have children who need a lot of care and attention,” I lied.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude, but you didn’t come in here just for one virgin cupcake, now did you? I’m sure that you’ll find something else more, appetizing. You know we also have soups and salads, don’t you?”
“Yes I see. Well I am pretty hungry but I don’t have a lot of time. I think I’m dying actually! I’ll have something quick, without too much preparation. Give me the Ranch Delight Salad.”
“That’s more like it! Today, you’re going to get all the care and attention you need. As for the little children who need extra care and attention, that’s what the front rooms are for. This room is not considered a front room. It’s very private.”
Waving goodbye and signaling a female baker who was tottering batches of whipped and ice cream he and the woman interchangeably whooped some kind of weird bakery incantation. It sounded familiar, like the Salishan dialect of the Puyallups in Tacoma, Washington.
She approached me at my table with a small tray and said,
“… and here’s one Ranch Delight salad for you, Ms. Singh!” I loved to sing, but my last name wasn’t Singh! Dammit! I’m Native American, not Eastern Indian. My last name is…Oh God, what is it?
“Thank you,” I nodded before saying grace. The first bite was pretty good. But after overhearing the bakers’ wedding order conversation I had already developed a fierce hankering for chocolate.
“So where are you from?” a second waitress asked me. I was really from Tacoma, Washington via a recent business trip cut short in Anchorage, Alaska.
“Los Angeles!” I fibbed.
“L.A.? I used to live in L.A.!”
“Small world: where about?”
Just then two more waiters placed six Ranch Delight salads and butter garlic rolls onto the table. I’d hoped that the other bridesmaids would ditch the bridal shop already and join me for the endless meal, the incense, the confection and the flattery!
“Shenandoah Street just south of Pico Boulevard; I also resided at the Chesapeake apartments for a while before moving on down here to the magic city, what we call Wade County. And you?”
“Please excuse me! I need to make a very important phone call.”
“Certainly ma’am. I’ll be right back with your complimentary desserts!” she smiled widely as she decorated the table with forks, knives, spoons, napkins, straws and peppermints.
“Come on! Pick up your phone Jasper!” I whispered into the mouthpiece. No answer.
I heard gunshots. “POW!!” Chef Shultz turned into a robot. His name tag now read, Chef Dasher Schultz!
With guns for arms, Dasher Schultz fired rounds of bullets setting the tables ablaze. Ice-cream melted onto the floor. Pies and cakes burned. Chocolate covered strawberries liquefied. Tablecloths caught on fire. As most matter decomposes into smaller smithereens after burning, these decorations decomposed into disastrous ‘Schultzereens.’
Customers scurried and zigzagged in every direction but most of them were caught and injured in Dasher’s trajectory of dehumanized humbug. Head spinning around like a category five cyclone, he seemed to have impeccable pre-programmed face recognition for everybody in the bakery including a 900-pound liger that was trapped in metal cage in the corner of the room. Firing at the iron cage, Dasher went on a nonstop showdown killing the 900-pound beast and causing an indoor earthquake.
No dessert was too sweet to spare, no task impossible to fulfill, for Dasher the Mechanical Pied Piper aimed circumspectly and frightened away the little children, old time friends and modern families who ran like lemmings and collided into a sea of onlookers beyond the automatic sliding doors.
Refusing to look back I ran past the festive banners, past the decorations and menus and out through the sliding doors where all five of the bridesmaids stood astonished.
I was all out of breath panting,
“You guys won’t believe what just happened at the bakery -your bakery-Jasper!”
The ladies looked on as I told the tale of a thriving, booming business staffed with professionals who treated their new customers with a little extra care and attention. Expanding to surrounding areas, this place was The Gold Coast’s number one bakery for five consecutive years. It was frequented by locals and celebrities. It was known for its rich array of desserts and it even had soups and salads–until just a minute earlier when a raging robot had fired ammunition from his arms and ignited the entire bakery, now charred to the ground!
“Calm down,” Amethyst interjected as I gasped for air and fell to my knees. Snap out of it!”
Rose-Quartz threw her bottle of ice cold water onto my face. “Look sweetie! Get up and turn around.”
Customers and staff stood perplexed at the sight of me. Nope, the bakery didn’t faze anybody: it was standing, untouched, normal and festive as I’d found it hours earlier.
Carnelian proposed, “We might as well go inside and place your order since we’re all here together.
Jasper said, “Yes, we may as well. We’ve called you fifty times in the past five minutes. Now you have everyone staring at us! People are crazy these days. We could get killed because of you!”
“Five minutes?? But…” I tried to explain to no avail.
The newspaper article clippings were untouched on the wall. Autographed photos of celebrities caught their attention. Perusing menus, the bridesmaids stood in line and read the banners. They also admired the festive decorations, lights, wreaths, snowmen, candy canes and cellophanes. Santa Claus and Jesus Christ were being naughty, being nice. I was going in circles.
Three steps ahead of what I thought would happen next, I warned,
“Chef Goldman and Chef Schultz are going to call us to the front of the line! You think I’m crazy? Watch this!”
Surely enough, Chef Schultz and Chef Goldman rushed us to the front of the line. Earlier customers were still there eating their meals. The families, the friends and even the red cement walls and the tall red curtains near the back were all mysteriously intact.
“Rose-Quartz, go pick a table for us! Run toward the tall red curtains in the back. Just do it! Hurry!”
“Sure, why not?” the young girl giggled and skipped down the aisles.
“Right on time, ladies! You’re part of the wedding party aren’t you?” Chef Schultz asked and shook Jasper’s hand firmly.
“I’m the bride, remember?” she revealed.
I yelled,
“Jasper! Amethyst! Carnelian! Obsidian! Frack him. Follow me and Rose-Quartz! You’ll see that I’m not crazy!”
As they followed us we selected six seats. They were the only six seats available.
“Today, you’re going to get all the care and attention you need. As for the little children who need extra care and attention, that’s what the front rooms are for. This room is not considered a front room. It’s very private.” Mr. German sounded like a broken record.
I argued desperately,
“Did you hear what he just said? Children! Did any of you ask him anything about children? We don’t even have children here with us!”
Several bakers greeted us with napkins, silverware, straws and peppermints. Others came to our table with Ranch Delight salads and garlic rolls. The same woman was tottering batches of whipped and ice cream and whooping in her weird bakery incantations, similar to the Salishan dialect of the Puyallups of Tacoma, Washington.
Obsidian smiled while reading over a recent inspection report,
“No sanitation violations! If they’ve passed their health and safety inspections, how bad can eating here really be? The staff must be doing their jobs. Anybody want a garlic roll? There are more than enough here for everyone.” She exclaimed to Jasper, “This food sure is delicious!”
“Yes, I know! Now do you see why I want them to cater my wedding cake? Do they do funeral cakes?”
Jasper asked,
“Funeral cakes?”
Obsidian continued,
“Sure, why not?”
“It depends on who’s dying I suppose,” Jasper gaffed back.
Mr. German surprised,
“Most certainly, we do! You will surely come back again! Enjoy the samples! They’re positively to die for! Of course, you’d be the first customers to sample and order individual key lime servings for a wedding! Carry along my loves! We’ll be right here waiting for you bellas if you need anything! Ciao!”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I ranted. “He’s not supposed to tell you that! Funeral cakes?? Are you guys serious?”
“Shhhhhh!” Amethyst quelled as though orienting everyone toward an impromptu meditation session. “It’s bad enough that we couldn’t get a hold of you, Jewel. Now you’re acting very disturbingly, a little like the narcoleptic brats on Elm Street. Oh, Jewel we must turn you away from that kind of negative thinking! It’s not good for the chi. Ask Carnelian and her little boy. What a happy family they are. Inhale … ummmm … and exhale…. Ahhhh! This is what you must do to avoid the funeral cakes…ummmm…Ahhhh…”
“She’s got a point,” Jasper agreed. “You don’t have to be in this wedding. It’s not written in stone,” she explained while handing me the diary, which Blitzen had just given to me, and a food journal. She continued, “Do some of these written activities to get to the root of your problem. What are your dreams and wishes? obsessions? fears and worries? Have you suffered any pain or deep loss? Remember you have the five us. Call us. We don’t bite. Excuse me,” she smiled while contradictorily excusing herself to a hearty helping of coconut truffles from a dessert station near the front door.
At that moment I realized what it all meant. I realized that many years ago, I’d made a terrible mistake. And I realized that when I made that terrible mistake, I gave up my dreams. It’s no wonder I’d been having nothing but nightmares.
“Sweet mother of Jesus! What the frack? You guys walked in the door at four o’clock. Now look! The sun has gone down. It is black outside and all you’ve done so far is eaten appetizers!”
In tears which stemmed from anger I ranted back,
“I KNOW! I KNOW WHERE WE ARE! This is 34th Street in Homestead, Florida dammit!”
I got the silent treatment.
“Fine! I’m leaving,” I cried. The curtains disappeared into a door-less, window-less red cement wall after we entered the private room. By this time, I already knew what I needed to get out: a weapon.
Running toward a security guard, I snatched an M1911 from his waist and fired through the walls in the shape of an exit door. I walked along the bakery aisles and nearly stepped on a pair of black loincloths that read ‘Dancer’ stitched in yellow. As I continued further, I found another pair that read ‘Prancer’ in green. I knew that I wasn’t crazy! Searching for the other pairs, I found black loincloths for Vixen, Comet and Cupid all in their respective colors. Near the front counter I found ‘Donner’ and an oversized loincloth for Blitzen. I didn’t expect to find one for Dasher Schultz. Twenty-odd customers stood in the doorways as I eased through the line onto the curb on the street. Just outside the door there was a guy dressed in all black: a black visor, a black t-shirt and a black loincloth. He even wore black shoes and black socks with a Dasher Schultz name brand logo etched into his apparel.
Handing me a business card and shoving his way through the crowd he exclaimed,
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Please come again! I’m Dasher Schultz, CEO. Not to be confused with Wesley Schultz, the baker. I develop and construct machines like the ones in the movie Avatar. Have you ever seen that movie? …” he tried to greet me by holding out his hand.
“Kiss my tush!”
At the stop, I waited for what seemed like forever for any bus to arrive. I needed to find a hotel to rest since I couldn’t depend on my stupid friends. But I knew that I could find somewhere to rest with the GPS on my phone, which was flashing one-hundred missed calls.
“Frack!” I fussed as a bus driver shot me an evil stare to hurry up and board the bus. Showing the rail and bus pass to the driver, I remained starved for answers. So, I asked him, “Where does this bus go?”
“To Coconut Grove,” he smiled.
“What a horrible, horrible name!” I sassed while remembering Jasper’s coconut truffle binge at the River of Cream. As I looked for a vacant seat, I finally sat down in the only vacant seat next to an old, dirty, toothless man who had fallen asleep with his mouth wide open. I guess he was singing Silent Night with Freddy Krueger and the Elm Street kids in his own nightmare. Having narrowed my search for a hotel in Coconut Grove, I finally arrived at a Holiday Inn. The time was 1A.M.
“One AM already?” I doubted. “Thank goodness for the 24-hour check-in!”
“Room 163-1 is available,” a clerk advised. “It’s a smoking room but it is VERY accessible.”
“Perfect. It’s been a long day. I need all the access I can get,” I replied out of character disregarding the number 1631 which was my cabin number.
“Very well!”
“May I have some extra towels and loincloths… I mean, extra washcloths please?”
“Certainly. Let me send in the request and Boss will… I mean, MY boss will …get back with me. Then I’ll send them right up to you.”
“Thanks!”
Inside the elevator I was terrified! There were one hundred sixty-three floors in this hotel! I pushed number one hundred sixty-three on the elevator. It was a long, scary elevator ride. At times lightning bolts struck and nearly missed me, the lights blinked on and off and cyclones threatened to spin me around and around, slamming me from the floor to the ceiling. I finally exited the elevator on floor one hundred sixty-three.
“Finally!” I sobbed while swiping the room card and gazing down both ends of the hall. A maid far down on the left end was pushing a cart with soaps, washcloths and towels and knocking on each room door. I didn’t mind 24-hour housekeeping as long as I got what I wanted and needed.
Locking my door shut and plopping onto the window bed, I found the TV listings. On the bed near the door there was a business directory and a room service menu.
“I definitely don’t need this!”
In the bathroom there were shampoos, mouthwashes, peppermints and lotions. Pulling back the shower curtains I found three heart-shaped chocolate key lime cupcakes with my name spelled on them: JE-WE-L. It scared the hell out of me, but I was terribly hungry.
Too tired to remove from the eerie room, I started eating the ‘J’ cupcake while watching TV. Drifting off to sleep at 1:15, I sensed that there was knocking at the door. Biting into the ‘W’ cupcake and staring through the peephole I could clearly see that it was a maid pushing the cart of soaps, washcloths and towels. Opening the door, I smiled vibrantly. After all, I was well-rested and I’d quickly finished my chocolaty chew.
“Good morning, dear! Welcome to Coconut Grove! Here are your towels. The clerk expedited your request and I got here as fast as I could.”
Using peripheral vision, I gazed upon the clock: it read 11:15P.M. Accepting the towels and slowly turning my head toward the sheer cream-colored window curtains where a slightly cracked window allowed fierce winds to blow tiny pieces of green tree leaves onto the bed, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a bright sunny day. In horror I quickly turned back around and dropped the washcloths and towels onto the floor, and I gasped at the woman. She was not a woman at all: she was a man holding a silver-plated platter of little baby Jesuses.
Beneath a lightly sprinkling sunny sky, the man and I were floating together in a yellow raft on a river of cream. The unpredictable ebb and flow of the river, its milky color and its density clouded my thoughts and added to my terror as the ferocious nine-hundred pound liger that Dasher Schultz apparently missed killing, surfaced with a roar that almost killed me in my sleep!
Reaching for the silver-plated spoon, I grasped it tightly and poked a gaping hole into the raft until it deflated. The mysterious suitor drowned and sank beneath the currents as the nine-hundred pound beast lifted me onto his back and swam me safely to the shore.
Suddenly, a familiar, jolly, merry and Christmas-like voice laughed up to the highest heaven as bells jingled in the distance. The beast vanished into thin air, sparing me just enough leverage to allow my bottom hit the ground with a loud thud. I turned around and raised an eyebrow. Santa? Jesus?
“BOO!” they exclaimed.
“You two are responsible for this ghastly nightmare?”
They laughed,
“Well, who else did you think was responsible?” Jesus said. “I am the reason for the season.”
“Goodness!” I gasped.
“Exactly.” Santa chuckled. “And I have officially come to town!”