He remembered that sunny afternoon in March six years before, in the light of a small window, she, who was so unlike Martha, had walked straight around his computer desk, seen the misshapen flower he was struggling with on Paint and smiled. For that brief hour, the world was teeming with potential. She was alight with anticipation for the future, so full of promise, it had made Arwin feel like a kid invited to a secret clubhouse. His better sense fiercely adjusted its tie while screaming at him that she was a silly girl, but looking through her eyes the world transformed. Through the translucent bars of his desk, he could see life's essence, as if it had been sitting in plain sight all along and he had been too busy to notice it.
Arwin tensed his piping bag, shooting a glob onto the floor. He sighed. He could still taste the ghost of her turnover, rolling the bitter sting of crisp promise and apples over his tongue. Baking? Really? Compared to banking it had seemed all chocolate chips and flour fights. Well you got what you came for Leah, you loan skank, he thought, stamping on the unassuming glob.
If only he had known what he was getting into. Arwin had danced through the loan paperwork, gleefully packing his things, and before the air had cleared of cinnamon, Leah had her bakery loan and he had departed banking forever.
Six years, and a Pâtisserie and Baking Program diploma from Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts later, and he was Chips Ahoy!.
Then again, maybe working in a bakery would have been one big chocolate cherry if Martha Evans of Chantilly Cakes hadn't been the only the only business owner willing to hire him straight out of the program.
Watching Martha work made Arwin feel like a struggling infant witnessing the birth of a fawn, then seconds after birth, the fawn immediately rises to its fours and darts away, leaving him in her dust. Right now, Leah his muse was sitting pretty on the cash he’d approved and he, who had made her dreams possible, was playing fondant stooge to a bitch deer.
He wanted to march up to his boss and demand the happiness he deserved. This was supposed to fix everything. At Royal Bank of Canada he was promoted almost biweekly. Put in the extra hours, and they put out the cash and titles. After all, what the hell was everybody else always up to when he was working late? Here, however many cakes he iced or chocolate he whittled, he would never be Martha.
She was a flavor god, her dappled hands flying as she tossed this and that into the chrome mixer. He on the other hand, did what he was good at, doing what he was told. Often he would spy on her, as she hunched over her cauldron of sugar like a dragon atop of pile of treasure. He watched in desperation as she spun the boiling goo into delicate forms, and the sweet smell invaded the air.
Where do the ideas come from? Why do some people just know? He mused as he gingerly fitted strawberry halves into Martha’s cakes. He felt like a strawberry. He wanted to orchestrate, to know the grand design, not sit wedged in icing with blind delusions of the part he had played.
On Sunday, Mrs. Barnette with her rolling eggbeater thighs would arrive exactly ten minutes ahead of schedule to pick up a stately, six-tier cake for the Tuberculosis Society’s gala event, the Breathing Beauty fundraiser Aptly named, seeing as the walk from the cab to the bakery door left Mrs Barnette panting. All week, Martha had been breathing down his neck to crank out some cheap decorations so she could cater to a more prestigious client, the wedding cake of a local celebrity.
“Make with the fondant roses Arwin!” he could hear her yelling from her private workshop as he bit into his tiny “victory-cake”. He didn’t respond. The cupcake was constructed from company materials after all, and his muffled mouthful-of-cake-voice would be a dead giveaway.
“I don’t hear any piping.” She yelled.
“You can’t hear piping.” he scoffed to himself crumbs flying out of his mouth and onto the ground. He sighed, picking up the little dust-pan and broom by his station. He swept the crumbs expertly into the trash, scrubbed his hands, and returned to his work station, where the remains of his cupcake glittered gloriously in robes of icing just feet away from the unadorned six-tier that he was supposed to be working on.
By the time night rolled around, he had only finished the bottom two tiers. The designs were standard, but immaculate, and immaculate took time. Regardless of how much time was squandered away on cupcakery, he couldn’t devote any less to the customer.
He could hear Martha’s keys jingling ostentatiously as she moved from room to room locking every surface where two sides could come together. Arwin shifted his feet, looking up at the unfinished tower. It was Saturday night and the client would be there at nine.
Martha waltzed into the room blinking profusely as her eyes adjusted to the light from the dark hallway. “Arwin?” she started “Is this as far as you’ve gotten.” He nodded sheepishly, “There were some minor issues in the execution.”
Her eyes smoldered. “I for one, plan to sleep tonight.” she spat “Finish the job by eight.” The keys flew at his chest, breaking Arwin’s smart nod and he dove awkwardly to retrieve them before they could hit the ground.
He stood straight, and stared at the cake with a professional disinterest until he had heard the ping of the tacky bell on the front door, signaling that Martha had left.
He had already decided that tonight would be different.
He had gotten the idea that morning when a gust of wind from a window Martha had left open blew a stack of design templates on his work table into a swirling vortex. At first he had just stared, dumbstruck, and then, almost reluctantly, he reached for his front pocket pen and made a small jot in his day planner.
He flew into action. Aiming for Martha speed, he dumped a week’s worth of sugar into a chrome pot to melt, and dashed away from the stove. Strumming the frame of his glasses with his pocket pen he reached for his day planner and studied it intently. The note read: Sugar Wind.
30 minutes passed as Arwin stared at the cake, waiting for its imminent transformation.
He sat motionless, sizing it up until the smell of unemployment crept into his nose. “The Sugar!”
Stream rose from the tall pot as his golden opportunity burned away on the stove. He had used the last of the sugar, all of the suppliers were closed and the client would be arriving in 12 hours. Even if he were to find a source, replacing the sugar would be a day’s worth of pay, a hefty sum just so Martha could have her pat on the back.
He jumped up from behind his station in a mad attempt to save the sugar, his hand slamming against his work table and sending the remains of his celebratory cupcake spinning toward the ground. As he rounded the table towards the stove, his foot caught the gnache-y cake deposit and he slid uncontrollably on one heel into the porcelain stove. The thud was the most pain he’d ever felt, until the kinetic force upset the large pot and tipped over the vat of boiling sugar.
The hot acid bubbled over onto Arwin, paralyzing him in agony. The sugar seared his flesh and flowed through his every pore, simultaneously hardening and cementing him to the floor. Screaming and writhing the appendages that weren’t immobilized by hardened sugar, Arwin felt the sweetness engulf him, and he became one with his medium. He was inspired. Finally, he knew exactly what to do with the cake.
On Sunday, Martha walked straight into Chantilly Cakes without unlocking the door, followed immediately by Mrs Barnette. “Sorry about the state of this place.” Martha reassured her, stealthily sweeping cake crumbs under a decorating table. “As soon as you leave, I’ll let Arwin know that this is unacceptable.” With matronly purpose, they strolled into Arwin’s workstation. There he was, entombed in a sugary grave, and one with creation.
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