When One Can

"Ten times the butter doesn't get you ten times the rolls, Matthew," Rolf the Baker chided in his honeyed-barbed tone.

Matthew still couldn't make any sense of what it meant. It bore the weight of wisdom, but coming from the flour-spattered, unshaven Master Baker of the Wilted Rose Patisserie, while he was bent over an oven door poking at a croissant with a bejeweled sausage of a pinky finger while on the phone with various suppliers, there was far too much else in the scene for wisdom to weigh in.

"Easier to break a yolk than break a yoke, Matthew," bounded forth another hopeless riddle.

"A professional kneads nothing but patience," came another.

He wished he'd knead his ears shut, some mornings, particularly after a night out with the others at the shop. Last night, the wine bar down the street had a tasting event going on. By donning their best clothes, they'd drunk half their fill for free before the winery rep started giving them looks.

Still, a single voice to drown out was a cheap price to pay for a solid gig in the city, especially given the state of things. Just six stops off the metro, down two streets, and he could lug his poisoned body over to work no matter how early the hour. Provided he didn't miss his alarm.

"The early baker earns twice the proof," cast Rolf toward the battered soul of Matthew.

The man who worked near 14-hour days, who was never not with his hands full of dough or flour or doing his patented danger-sweet-talk to suppliers, always trying to cut himself a deal, would be the death of him. Of the two times that Rolf managed to get invited to drinks with his team, the first time he talked Marnie's ear off about a new yeasting process he was close to unlocking. The second time he got drunk in the first hour and had his wife pick him up (tequila - we've all been there). The next morning he was in before anyone else, already fast at work.

At nine, Matthew snuck one of the proofing bagels and grabbed the little jar of marmelade he'd hidden behind the buckwheat flour that near never got touched, save for that one Russian party week in September every year. He waited for Rolf to head back toward the kitchen table he called an office to make his morning supplier calls, and slipped out the door to the alley. Two fire escape ladders later, his most-morning ritual had begun.

The early sun cast a shine on the New York skyline in a way that no other time of day could come close to. He slathered his bagel - whole, not sliced - with the apricot marmelade and soaked in the sights.

The last crumb of his breakfast - large enough to care about - slipped from his hands. He missed twice as it shattered into bready shards on the roof. Debating the merits of the five second rule, he gave up hope after seeing the largest of the chunks landed atop a spent cigarette, while half-consciously musing that among the bakery employees, he only knew Rolf to smoke.