A Chef’s Dream

“Would you look at the audacity of that man down there?”

“Do not be so hard on him. Every human wishes, after all.”

“But the dreams of that man…”

“So? In the darkness I admire a humans’ tenacity and willfulness.”

“Not their equal stubbornness and pride?”

“Stubbornness and pride demonstrate opposites of the same facade. Look down again.”

“I see malcontent, and misery by the light of day.”

“Do you?”

“Resentment and dismay, too, I dare say.”

“And his tears…?”

“A reflection only of what you have seen.”

“Let us watch again, shall we? You by day, myself by night. Let us see the life of our most vexed character…”

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Shuffling down the dirt road, the man hiked up his coveralls and wished he had a belt to hold them up on their own. His pouched stomach had seen better days, if he did say so himself, and his mind dreamed of layered cakes, cajun shrimp, and spiced rice.

With shoes worn through, he walked the thoroughfare towards the baker’s shop gleaming like a beacon at the end. The sign in the window claiming “Help Wanted” shone all the brighter. He hesitated as he pulled back the door. A bell ringed through the shop.

Ten minutes later— his shoulders lowered, eyes cast down to the hole in his right shoe where his big toe popped through— the man continued shuffling down the lane to a shack surrounded by red poppies. The door was shut, its broken hinges teetering the door at a lopsided angle that someone had long ago tried to fix. Screeching greeted him as he knocked wearily upon the door, and dead silence followed as it was slammed shut in his face.

Drifting back through town, he fled the hounds and coppers looking for trouble, and headed down to the river. The river where others like him lived. The river were no one judged and everyone sorrowed.

The water was cold. He ignored it. Pushing his flesh in even strides across the riverbed, he crawled out near his pack and blanket, and settled against an oak. The moon rose steadily above. With one hand, he reached down for the luminous white caught beneath the moon.

A chef’s hat. His hat. Plopping it onto his head, the man leaned back against the tree and stared up at the moon. Wind whistled through the trees, and the hour grew late. And the man cried, his tears glistening on his face…

*Inspired by my own dream, a further reflection on legacy and the future

Authorial style inspired by Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game