This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Roman Remains” Down in the Dirt, v187 (the September 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Stardust in Hand the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2021 issues collection book		get the 422 page Sept.-Dec. 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Bagel Store Rebirth

Becca Marr

    I have a theory that I was reborn at the age of eighteen. No, I do not actually think that I once again passed through my mother’s uterus then into and out of her vagina as a fully grown eighteen-year-old man. But I moved to Manhattan, which in essence, is the same thing.
    All the cliche statements about New York that people toss around in conversation are unfortunately true. The apartments are tiny, it’s dirty, people walk fast, the coffee is too expensive, and New Yorkers don’t give a fuck about who you are or what you’re doing, but underneath, some of them aren’t totally and completely horrible.
    I had been living in the city for a few months prior to the day of my rebirth in a tiny, roach-infested, East Village shoebox. Not surprisingly, but that day didn’t start out as magically as one would think an event such as childbirth would go.
    I was awoken by the guy who rides around the neighborhood on his bicycle with a speaker playing that one really famous Louis Armstrong song at full volume. I swear to god I’m gonna find that guy one day and throw his speaker into the Hudson because I have had it.
    Anyway, it was about 10 in the morning on a Saturday and I could tell that it was nice out by the way the light was hitting the floor in that way that seems more special than on any other wildly average day. I got out of bed, threw my shoes on, and began the walk to the bagel store that I frequented every Saturday morning.
    The bagel store was far enough that it felt like a significant walk, but not too far that it felt like too much of a hassle. I passed through Tompkins Square Park which is not as pretty and far less popular than Washington Square. But I still like it.
    I went to this one bagel shop because I loved the guy who owned it. He was a real asshole and he was bald. Not that being bald had anything to do with his “asshole-ness”. Although now that I think about it, maybe bald people are more jaded than non-bald people.
    Anyways. This guy was a jerk. He yelled at his customers when they stood in the wrong place and threw bagels at the wall when he got particularly angry. He didn’t even have any employees. I mean you would have thought that this guy would hire some help given how popular his store was. But no, he just yelled and threw bagels.
    I got to the shop and had to pull the door a few times because it was broken and the guy refused to fix it. There was a line per usual, so I stood there and looked at the ceiling which was covered in water stains that looked like somebody had thrown their coffee up there just for the hell of it.
    When I got up to the front, the owner asked me what I wanted in his usual half-yelling tone of voice. After scribbling my order down on a crumpled-up receipt, he proceeded to toast a bagel. This bagel must have had a mind of its own because it got stuck in the toaster so the guy had to shake it upside down until the bagel fell out onto the floor. His bald head turned red out of frustration and he threw the semi-burnt bagel at the wall and then tried again.
    While this was going on, I looked out the window and watched some people go by. The tourists walked slowly and subsequently got dirty looks from others as they were passed on both sides. Others walked by on cell phones, some screamed or cried into the microphone, and some talked in a reasonable manner. Groups of teenagers passed the bagel shop with beer cans hidden in brown bags that they give you at the bodegas. Couples walked hand in hand, arm in arm, or if they were fighting, one was a few steps in front of the other. I smiled as I watched.
    The owner brought me out of my momentary trance as he tossed my bagel to me from behind the counter. As I turned around to leave the store I heard his gruff voice say something. And then, I knew.
     “See you next Saturday, son”.
    I waved goodbye to him. And he nodded back at me.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...