Yeah Toast.
“George! I want toast.”
“We’re out of bread.”
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water, chilling my bones and stealing my breath. “What?” I asked in disbelief.
“We’re out of bread.” His stoic face and a few crumbs on his shirt told me what he had done.
“How can we be out of bread?” The words I spoke seemed so empty and futile when spoken against the farce that my life had suddenly become.
“I’m sorry,” His voice was low. The sadness in his eyes was genuine, but genuineness doesn’t fill an empty stomach.
“No, George I don’t want to hear it.”
“I can’t help it, Lizzie. This is a stupid addiction...”
“Well we have to get more. I can’t just… not have bread.”
“Lizzie you shouldn’t do it, you don’t need it.” His eyes pleaded with me.
“But the cravings, George. They’re so bad. I wake up in the night and all I can think about is toast.”
“I know, baby, I know. But we can’t afford that. Its such a bad habit… we have cereal, isn’t that enough?”
His words made me angry. “No, you don’t understand! You never understand!” Tears sparkled in my eyes as I stood in the middle of our kitchen floor.
“Lizzie,” he sighed, “I do understand. But we can’t afford it.”
“So? We can just do what we’ve done before.”
He studied my face. “Is that what you really want?” He asked softly.
I nodded.
“Okay.” He said.
“Yay! Thank you!”
“Right. Now… we need a plan…”
Later that night we walked down to the corner grocery store, taking back-alleys and shortcuts. We doubled back a few times, just in case we were to be followed. We came to a stop in front of the store, and looked at each other. Without a word, I took my place behind George.
George looked back at me and nodded, and braced himself against the doorway. “Lets go!” he said, and jumped in front of the door. It slid open with a gentle woosh and we ran inside. I headed straight to the register.
I leapt over counter and took hold of the cashier while George went to the back of the store, towards the bread aisle. The cashier was slightly stunned but took hold of my hands, which had a death grip on his green Grocery-Mart polo shirt, and tried to pry my fingers away from him.
I threw him against the wall, as hard as I could. “Take it and run!” George shouted, and tossed me three bags of bread. I headbutted the cashier and caught the bread as he slumped to the floor, in a complete black out.
I ran to the front of the store and paused in the doorway, just long enough to glance behind me at George who was now using the bread ties around the unconscious cashier’s hands and feet. He looked up at me and his eyes locked into mine, his lips moved in what seemed like slow motion to form the words, “Run! Toast!” The world snapped back into focus and I darted out the doorway (woosh) and beat feet back through the gritty alleys back to our apartment.
Running through the Broadside Street alley, I saw a figure hunched in the dim square of light that oozed from a nearby apartment window. I stopped in front of the character, my chest heaving as I strained for the oxygen my burning lungs called for. The thing stood from its crouched position and came towards me. I could just make out a homberg hat and long trench coat, mere shadows against the bricks behind him. I saw his eyes clearly, though I’ll never know how they became so illuminated. He spoke, looking me up and down, saying with a gravelly voice, “What do we have here?”
I looked down. I was still wearing the outfit I had worn to the store; black tank top and ripped jeans. My typical street wear, it doubled as crime vestige when we ran out of bread. Then I realized his gaze was not where I assumed it would be, but on the bags of bread I held in my hand.
Movement in the corner of my eye called attention to his hand creeping up toward the bread. I heard him say, “Yeah… toast,” and I swung out as hard as I could with the lead bucket in my other hand. Where the bucket came from, I’ll never know. But it was there when I needed it so where it came from really doesn’t matter, right? So I dropped the bucket and began to run, faster than before, and made it to the apartment in record time.
When I got to the apartment I didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, just ran to the kitchen, tearing the bread tie off a bag as I went. I dropped the bread in the slot, filled all four and pressed the lever down. I began pacing the floor in anticipation. When it finally popped up in all its golden-brown perfection, I threw more bread in the machine, making piles and piles of toast.
When George came home, he found me in the kitchen. He dropped the change and receipt on the floor in shock. I was sitting on the counter surrounded by toast, topped with everything from jelly to cat food. Crumbs were everywhere and I held a piece of toast in my hands, nibbling it as I rocked back and forth. He took one look at me, shook his head, and reached for the broom. “You see,” he said. “This is what happens when I let you have toast.”