Hungry Boy

Tommy stood in the kitchen, trying to muster the bravery to ask his mother about his birthday cake when she hollered, “Can you make some popcorn? The show’s starting in five minutes.”

Over the sound of the bag exploding in the microwave, he decided he’d ask during the St. Judes’ commercial. She probably wouldn’t say no.

The blue light of the boxy TV thrown onto the wood-paneled walls made the living room look like it was underwater, private and uninterested in the rest of the world. He swam towards her and whispered, but she didn’t hear him over the noise of the TV. He had missed the commercial. A laughtrack sprayed sound into the room.

His mother asked, “Did you do extra butter and salt, Tommy boy?”

“Yes. Mama—”

“Good.”

“I was thinking—”

“What? What, Tommy boy? Come on! Spit it out. Do you have popcorn stuck in your throat?”

“I just—I was thinking about my birthday—”

“Oh, Tommy, please. This can wait, can’t it?” Her mother placed a cool hand on his cheek. She smelled faintly of menthol cigarettes and tea. “Don’t worry. I’ve got tomorrow all sorted out.”

Tommy went to bed feeling pink and happy. He knew no one would be coming—the only family he had besides his mother and sister was a PTSD-hardened grandpa who refused to make the drive from the Adirondacks for birthdays— but he still hoped for a cake. He wasn’t sure how his mother knew, but he had faith that he would wake up to a rose-flavored cake. He had read about it in the silky pages of a magazine at the library. Perhaps it was just because he had been hungry as he was reading, or because someone before him had dog-eared the page, but he hadn’t been able to forget about the frosted cake since. His mother must have noticed. The thought made him slip to sleep within minutes. He drooled onto his pillow and dreamt of a cake the color of dying clouds.

Tommy bounded out of bed before his alarm and ran into the kitchen. On the creaky card table was a chocolate cake slathered in brown icing.

His mother walked in a few minutes later. “Happy birthday!” She cried through her grogginess. “Chocolate. Your favorite, just like daddy. I told you not to worry, see?”

When he dragged out the garbage that night, he made sure to throw the cake mix box and the container of icing into the road, so they would be mauled by the truck in the morning.

The next year Tommy turned 15. He ate funfetti cake made by a girl named Marion. Tommy wasn’t sure he liked her, but when she smiled at him he got the same feeling in his belly as when he dreamt of Tyler at night. He kissed her and she tasted like vanilla. “I put this on, just for you.” She wiggled the vanilla Lipsmacker in his face. He went home at 10 pm to find a plate with chocolate crumbs on the table.

When he turned 16, his mother said, “You didn’t want cake this year, did you?”

Instead of cake on his 17th birthday, Tyler bought him chocolates. He ate an orange-filled truffle; he ate two raspberry-filled orbs in his car. When he left, he finished the rest and dumped the empty box into the trashcan at King Kullen. The flickering red glow of the sign made Tommy’s hair stand on end, and he ran back to his car (a used green toyota, donated by Mr. Kevin, who was moving to the city). Two cops were driving by, looking for trouble, and decided to see who was dumping trash into a public can and running away. Mercer found the box crushed neatly on top of banana peels and carcasses of lotto tickets.

“What is it?” Her partner, Ray, asked.

“I don’t know. Looks like a hungry boy,” she said.

“Smell anything? Cheating? Domestic abuse?”

Mercer shrugged and said nothing.

When he turned 18, his mother told him to get a job to help pay the bills. He walked around town and applied to Rund’s Bakery. Ms. Rund hired him on the spot because he had a round face and wore second-hand clothes and to her, this meant he was what she called, “malleable.”

“You’ll be the face of our bakery,” she told him. “So tell your mom to iron your shirt for your first day, yeah?” He blushed and made sure to spritz his clothes before bed while his mother slept on the couch, still in her work clothes. He turned off the lamp and the living room was darker than the sea. No life forms detected. He walked to his bedroom with his arms outstretched, fingers splayed.

The next day, his mother said, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, some people can never be satisfied.” She patted him on the cheek and said, “See you later. Leftovers for dinner. And take the garbage out. You forgot last night.”

He dragged the bin to the corner. Small bits of paper flew into the air and settled on the neighbor’s roses. He didn’t bother to clean up. He was going to be late for his first day.

When he arrived at the bakery, he said, slightly out of breath, “Um, hello? I’m Tommy—I’m—I was just hired. Yesterday.”

“Okay,” says a girl with strawberry-colored acne. “Come around the back.”

Tommy stepped behind the counter and breathed in the scent of sugar and almond extract.

“I’m Polly. What’s your name? I’m horrible with names—”

“Tommy.”

“Tommy. Okay. Come with me and you can have an apron. And then I guess—Ms. Rund’s at the bank, so until then you can stick with me.”

Tommy fiddled with the strings of his apron as Polly took him around the back. “This is where they make the bread—and over there, that’s for the whipped cream.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah,” Polly cracked her gum. “Obviously.”

“Well—” He hesitated. “Do you—do you sell anything rose-flavored?”

“Rose-flavored?” She looked at him. “We make custom cakes with roses, out of icing—”

“No, I mean—the cake tastes like rose.”

“Oh.” Polly wrinkled her nose. “No. Why would anyone want to eat that?”

Tommy shrugged. “I’ve—I read about it, once, and I thought it sounded—”

“So girly!” Polly giggled and poked him. “Go to the city for that. We’re simple here at Rund’s. We do chocolate, vanilla, and a double layer that’s chocolate and vanilla. Be grateful! It’s less to remember. Now let me show you our ‘merchandise.’” She smiled and shoved a cookie in her mouth before pulling him back to the counter.

The first customer was a woman who said, “Black coffee and crumb cake.”

“Easy first order,” Polly smiled. “Coffee cups here—make sure to use a sleeve—always use the paper. Hygiene.” Tommy nodded and worked with his head down.

“Want to try the next one? They aren’t so bad around this time of day. In the morning before their caffeine fix they can be a pain, but at this time they usually just want a snack or two.”

Tommy was hesitant but nodded anyway.

“Say, 'hello, how can I help you—'”

“Hello,” said Tommy loudly. “How can I—”

“I want a dozen donuts. 2 chocolate yeast, 2 jelly, 1 chocolate cake…” Tommy’s head spun. He fumbled for a pen and paper.

“You can use this box,” Polly said.

The man shook his head. “Excuse me—I don’t want that box. I want that one.” He pointed to a smaller one.

“That box only fits six donuts. So—so we can do two boxes of six each—or I guess, layer the donuts on top of one another—” Tommy stammered.

“No. I want that one box.”

Tommy looked to Polly, who was busy scraping smashed sprinkles out of a crack in the counter.

“Uh—I don’t know if I can do that. Polly—”

“Jesus!” The man cried. “Can I have someone over here who knows what they’re doing? Get a different job, kid. You’re wasting my time.” Polly stepped in and Tommy’s face grew hot.

He watched Polly finish through watery eyes. When Polly nudged him to help the next customer, he stared at the faded counter as his mouth formed around the words, “How can I help you today?”

“Well first, you can forget about that other guy.”

Tommy looked up. An old woman smiled at him. “I’d like a buttercream cake.”

When they rang her up, she winked at him and handed him a slightly damp piece of paper. “Here. Good luck at the new job.”

Tommy unfolded the paper—it was a check, for $20,000.

“You can just fill our your name. You’re welcome,” she smiled.

“Thank—thank you. But I don’t think I can take this—” He glanced at Polly, who had looked up from her project of scraping the sprinkles off the counter. Her jaw was hanging open.

“You kids can split it,” said the lady. “I used to work in a bakery and—phew!”

Tommy looked at her. “You did? Do you—do you know anything about rose cakes? Rose-flavored, I mean—”

“Yes. Why? Are you looking for a taste tester—”

“No. I mean—I want to try it. I’ve been wanting to, I mean. For years.”

“You’ll have to go to the city, I’m sure. This is the only bakery around—I’m sure you know—”

Tommy did know. He had looked it up years ago, opened his little black notebook to a new page, preparing to make a thorough list of all the bakeries in the surrounding area. It turned out there was only one. The rest of the pages of his notebook remained blank and eventually became overgrown with dust and his hesitancy to travel beyond the borders of his hometown.

A week later, he and his mother were on the way to Manhattan. They drove through traffic and squeezed into a parking spot before walking through the doors of the bakery. Tommy tried to contain his excitement as he walked up to the counter and said, “One rose cake please.”

“All out,” said the old man behind the counter.

“What?”

The man cracked his gum and rolled his eyes. “We—are—out.” Each word took a bite out of Tommy’s strength. “Sold the last one right before you got here.”

“When are you getting more?”

“Uh—next week, see; when they get more rose water. Come back then.”

Tommy spun on his heel and ran out into the street. There were people everywhere—who was the one that stole from him? He turned and turned and eventually his mother told him they had to go back home. She had work in the morning. $20,000 covered a lot, but would not last forever. She had the future to think of. She said this with her eyes on the road. Underneath her words Tommy heard, Stop dreaming, Tommy boy.

***

On his 21st birthday, Tommy called Tyler because his mother said he had to celebrate, even if he didn’t celebrate his last two birthdays. They drank beer in his bedroom and ambled in circles in the street. When night fell, Tommy realized he was drunk. There were two moons in the sky, the color of old teeth. They walked in the springtime air with their arms outstretched, fingers splayed. They crashed into the neighbor’s roses. Both boys fell and though thorns pricked them through their jeans, Tommy and Tyler remained speared on the bush. Tommy nibbled at a rose petal. Tyler giggled and did the same thing.

“Gross!” he shouted.

Tommy shushed him, but then laughed too. He ate another petal. It was disgusting, but he couldn’t stop. They tasted like soap. He ate until he felt like his mouth was full of suds. He spit onto the ground and rubbed a petal between his fingers. Two moons watched the boys giggling until three shots rang out. The night shattered. One moon was left.

Mercer and Ray pulled up as the stars were fading.

“Look what they did to my roses!” The neighbor howled. “I thought they was animals! Deer, or something—”

“I knew that boy was trouble,” Mercer shook her head. “Hungry boys are trouble.”

Ray nodded, not realizing he was the same age as Tommy. “They are indeed.”