Cuckoo
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Joseph buys a lottery ticket every Thursday. He leaves five minutes before the cuckoo bird sings twelve times, flying out the bakery where he has been a pastry chef for ten years. Neighboring shopkeepers are familiar with the sight of his porcine figure, his few remaining strands of hair lagging behind as he races to the corner store.
This morning, Joseph will do his usual chores of whipping the egg white, freeing the rolls of butter from their wrappers, and giving the pile of flour collected in one corner another glance. He can clean that tomorrow.
“Good morning,” enters Mrs. Holly, waddling. The woman whose hairy chin seems to have receded into her neck has a habit of sticking her tongue out obscenely when she pauses for breath.
“Morning,” says Joseph, waving his oily hands, wiping them on his apron.
“Hmm.…Let me see,” says the crab-eyed Mrs. Holly, chewing on her lower lip, gazing hungrily at the colorful palette of pastries. “I think I’ll take three of those meringues and four cream puffs today. No....Wait.” She puts one finger in her mouth nibbling it like a pacifier. “Let’s make that five. Yes, I think I’ll take five of those. No, no, not the plain ones, Joseph, heavens forbid, the chocolate-covered ones,” she taps her wet fingers feverishly on the glass. “They look just luscious,” she said, scratching her sweaty neck. “How are your butter rolls, Joseph? Did they just come out?” She gave a little squeal, like a deflating balloon pinched at its lips. “I’ll tell you what, Joseph. I’m sorry. Let’s just make it four meringues and six chocolate cream puffs, shall we? I like even numbers anyhow, don’t you? By the way, please wrap them separately. Thank you, Joseph. You’re so kind.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Holly. What else can I get you today?” He sighs and looks at the clock, past Mrs. Holly’s hair, a tangled lattice of spun sugar shiny from coats of hairspray. “Where were you yesterday?” he meant to keep the question to himself.
Always ready for conversation, Mrs. Holly sets her purse on the counter, propping her chest on top. “Why, funny you’d ask. I was at my niece’s birthday party!” she says, looking at Joseph as if he had asked a stupid question. “It was the nicest party, I’ll tell you. Now, I wanted to get a cake from your shop but who was to know that someone else had the same idea? Getting a cake, I mean. Imagine! I wouldn’t think of putting my teeth through anyone else’s cake but yours Joseph. Anyhow, if it makes you feel any better, it was dry. I must say, you know...it lacked—it lacked sugar, that’s it. Your pastries...”
Joseph stops listening and blames himself for asking the question. Five minutes before twelve and he is still at the shop.
“…Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture. Quite the contrary, in fact, it was nice but just didn’t have the right—what do you call it? Like your cakes! It was...”
“What else can I get you Mrs. Holly?” interrupts Joseph.
“Oh,” Mrs. Holly, gasped, awakened from her sugary trance, “Well, I’m undecided about the butter rolls. I’ve just never bought one in all these years. I don’t know why. I just come and get pastries. I come and I get pastries, just pastries. Do you have other customers like me?” She stops and looks up in amazement. “Could I possibly sample one of those butter rolls? I mean, if you don’t mind. Say, you’re looking awfully pale there, Joseph. Are you all right? It is a bit warm in here, isn’t it? You need some air?” she says, scratching and scraping her armpit with a red acrylic nail. Her back seemed to be made of small pillows of fat squeezed into odd shapes by her tight undergarments. “Oh, thank you. That’ll do. That’ll do just fine. I just need an itsy-bitsy pinch. Oh, yeah. You’re so generous,” she squeals as an entire butter roll slips past her orange lips.
A burning tightness strangles Joseph’s chest. He feels cold and hot suddenly, his fingertips, frigid. “How—how many would you like, Mrs. Holly?” his voice sounding at a distance. His arms and neck feel as if an oven had landed on him.
Mrs. Holly’s jaw moves up and down, masticating on the butter roll. Her eyes heat up. “Mmm! Oh, mm! I don’t know how you do it, Joseph. You are one talented man if I’ve ever seen one,” she says blinking quickly and fluttering her arms like an excited hen. “Now I want ten of those if you don’t mind,” she says, her words muffled by cheeks filled with food.
Joseph’s breathing becomes shallow as he feels his excited heart punching under his chest. He finds it hard to grasp the butter roll with his hand, dropping the tongs. “Did she say six butter rolls?” he mumbles to himself, “Seven? Oh, God. What! Mrs. Holly!” he shouts. The pain paralyses his jaw. His vision blurs. Suddenly, Joseph falls backwards, knocking over a sack of flour.
A white cloud of flour forms. Mrs. Holly opens her mouth like a hippo, throwing her arms up, and knocking her purse to the other side of the counter. The cuckoo bird thrusts out of the clock, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” it parrots. “Joseph! Are you all right?” Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! “Oh, dear me. Oh, my! Oh, Lord! Somebody—anybody!” shouts Mrs. Holly, as she runs out the door, mouth still filled with food, leaving Joseph on the floor completely covered with flour, resembling an ancient marble statue, cold and still. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! His hair, having flown off his scalp, sprawls behind him like mashed cotton candy. A butter roll miraculously rests on his forehead, still warm.
The cuckoo bird thrusts out from its house, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” before it goes in again.
This morning, Joseph will do his usual chores of whipping the egg white, freeing the rolls of butter from their wrappers, and giving the pile of flour collected in one corner another glance. He can clean that tomorrow.
“Good morning,” enters Mrs. Holly, waddling. The woman whose hairy chin seems to have receded into her neck has a habit of sticking her tongue out obscenely when she pauses for breath.
“Morning,” says Joseph, waving his oily hands, wiping them on his apron.
“Hmm.…Let me see,” says the crab-eyed Mrs. Holly, chewing on her lower lip, gazing hungrily at the colorful palette of pastries. “I think I’ll take three of those meringues and four cream puffs today. No....Wait.” She puts one finger in her mouth nibbling it like a pacifier. “Let’s make that five. Yes, I think I’ll take five of those. No, no, not the plain ones, Joseph, heavens forbid, the chocolate-covered ones,” she taps her wet fingers feverishly on the glass. “They look just luscious,” she said, scratching her sweaty neck. “How are your butter rolls, Joseph? Did they just come out?” She gave a little squeal, like a deflating balloon pinched at its lips. “I’ll tell you what, Joseph. I’m sorry. Let’s just make it four meringues and six chocolate cream puffs, shall we? I like even numbers anyhow, don’t you? By the way, please wrap them separately. Thank you, Joseph. You’re so kind.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Holly. What else can I get you today?” He sighs and looks at the clock, past Mrs. Holly’s hair, a tangled lattice of spun sugar shiny from coats of hairspray. “Where were you yesterday?” he meant to keep the question to himself.
Always ready for conversation, Mrs. Holly sets her purse on the counter, propping her chest on top. “Why, funny you’d ask. I was at my niece’s birthday party!” she says, looking at Joseph as if he had asked a stupid question. “It was the nicest party, I’ll tell you. Now, I wanted to get a cake from your shop but who was to know that someone else had the same idea? Getting a cake, I mean. Imagine! I wouldn’t think of putting my teeth through anyone else’s cake but yours Joseph. Anyhow, if it makes you feel any better, it was dry. I must say, you know...it lacked—it lacked sugar, that’s it. Your pastries...”
Joseph stops listening and blames himself for asking the question. Five minutes before twelve and he is still at the shop.
“…Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture. Quite the contrary, in fact, it was nice but just didn’t have the right—what do you call it? Like your cakes! It was...”
“What else can I get you Mrs. Holly?” interrupts Joseph.
“Oh,” Mrs. Holly, gasped, awakened from her sugary trance, “Well, I’m undecided about the butter rolls. I’ve just never bought one in all these years. I don’t know why. I just come and get pastries. I come and I get pastries, just pastries. Do you have other customers like me?” She stops and looks up in amazement. “Could I possibly sample one of those butter rolls? I mean, if you don’t mind. Say, you’re looking awfully pale there, Joseph. Are you all right? It is a bit warm in here, isn’t it? You need some air?” she says, scratching and scraping her armpit with a red acrylic nail. Her back seemed to be made of small pillows of fat squeezed into odd shapes by her tight undergarments. “Oh, thank you. That’ll do. That’ll do just fine. I just need an itsy-bitsy pinch. Oh, yeah. You’re so generous,” she squeals as an entire butter roll slips past her orange lips.
A burning tightness strangles Joseph’s chest. He feels cold and hot suddenly, his fingertips, frigid. “How—how many would you like, Mrs. Holly?” his voice sounding at a distance. His arms and neck feel as if an oven had landed on him.
Mrs. Holly’s jaw moves up and down, masticating on the butter roll. Her eyes heat up. “Mmm! Oh, mm! I don’t know how you do it, Joseph. You are one talented man if I’ve ever seen one,” she says blinking quickly and fluttering her arms like an excited hen. “Now I want ten of those if you don’t mind,” she says, her words muffled by cheeks filled with food.
Joseph’s breathing becomes shallow as he feels his excited heart punching under his chest. He finds it hard to grasp the butter roll with his hand, dropping the tongs. “Did she say six butter rolls?” he mumbles to himself, “Seven? Oh, God. What! Mrs. Holly!” he shouts. The pain paralyses his jaw. His vision blurs. Suddenly, Joseph falls backwards, knocking over a sack of flour.
A white cloud of flour forms. Mrs. Holly opens her mouth like a hippo, throwing her arms up, and knocking her purse to the other side of the counter. The cuckoo bird thrusts out of the clock, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” it parrots. “Joseph! Are you all right?” Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! “Oh, dear me. Oh, my! Oh, Lord! Somebody—anybody!” shouts Mrs. Holly, as she runs out the door, mouth still filled with food, leaving Joseph on the floor completely covered with flour, resembling an ancient marble statue, cold and still. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! His hair, having flown off his scalp, sprawls behind him like mashed cotton candy. A butter roll miraculously rests on his forehead, still warm.
The cuckoo bird thrusts out from its house, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” before it goes in again.
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