The Cake ManDecember 18, 2007

(This is a revamped version of the story by the same name that I posted a few months ago. Feel free to leave comments and feedback.)

I pull the wrinkled paper from my back pocket and unfold it.  Alvis writes like a chicken.  Two weeks ago, when I received the letter, I had to decode each word.  Now, I re-read it for the hundredth time and hope that somewhere in it I’ll find a clue, something telling.  He wrote, How’s the acting business?  Don’t give up on finding work.  Dry today, maybe, but when it rains it pours. Alvis is reliable as the mail when it comes to delivering motivational platitudes.  Still planning to be in the neighborhood for Christmas?  Hope we can get together and talk, I could use your expert advice.  And here his handwriting got smaller, more concentrated: Hate to ask, but would you mind stopping by the place to make sure everything is ok?  Jim-Jim and Girl Spider Man are still in the back somewhere.  Find them a good home.  Signed, Fondly, Alvis Borgchild.  And underneath that, in careful print: Alvis Borgchild.

A trickle of sweat rolls down my crack as I lean on the flank of my truck in the empty parking lot.  Have I come to the wrong place?  Is this a joke?  No cameras are visible—if this is a reality show it’s not a very good one.  Taken in panorama, the familiar landscape is more lonesome than I remember: grassy land rolls out flat in every direction to a grey, tree-topped horizon.  The bakery I stand before is condemned.  The broad windows have all been shattered, shards jut up from the frames like broken teeth.  Bold white words have been spray-painted on the blackened, red-brick walls.  I inspect the graffiti closely, particularly the first “a,” and feel as if I am misreading the words:

“CäK Man BurnN HeLL!!!” 

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READ THE REST OF “THE CAKE MAN”