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A Man at a Counter

Nathan C. Zackroff

    “Do you have any of that maple bread,” he said, pointing his finger forward.
    “I am afraid we are all out today Mr. Fredrickson.”
    He cupped his hand around his mouth and eyed the stacks of bread behind the counter like books in a library. The choices overwhelmed him: marble, pumpernickel, wheat, rye. His finger extended towards one but quickly retracted back to cover his mouth.
    “So you have none of that maple today?” he spoke muffled through his hand.
    “None left I’m afraid.”
    He rolled his shoulders forward and retrained his eyes. A line was beginning to form behind him. He lowered his hands to the ends of his tattered scarf and shuffled it back and forth across his neck. The thin piece of cloth flossed across his neck as if it might unravel due to the small amount of friction.
    “Maybe I’ll try the rye,” his eyes now fixed upon the loaf.
    “Good choice Mr. Fredrickson,” he smiled as the young bread baker reached for the loaf on the lower shelf.
    The waving of Mr. Fredrickson’s hand stopped him.
    “No, not the rye, not today,” his hand retracted again to his mouth. His eyes searched somberly.
    “What about the sourdough? It’s fresh,” the baker vowed.
    “How fresh?” Mr. Fredrickson’s eyes remained fixed on the bread behind the counter.
    “Just out of the oven sir.” The line grew two people deeper. The Impatience was obvious.
    “No maple though?”
    “No maple sir, not today sorry.”
    His hands moved from the scarf and his mouth and they reached into his pockets. For a moment they stayed there. He looked cold, the scarf around his neck and his hands tucked into his pockets. You could see his fingers move, his jeans struggling against his effort.
    With his right hand he grabbed his left wrist and drew his left hand from his pocket. He opened his palm and ducked his head down close. With his right index finger he moved around a quarter and two nickels. From afar it looked as if he was reading his own palm, his own destiny.
    His eyes rolled up from his slouched shoulders and neck. He stared at the baker with vacuousness.
    “No maple today then, eh.”
    The baker shook his head and leaned to the side to check the length of the line behind.
    “Well, maybe tomorrow then.” Mr. Fredrickson closed his hand around the coins and returned them back into his pocket. He turned and stepped away. His hand withdrew back to his mouth and his shoulders and neck never fully uncurled.
    “Maybe tomorrow Mr. Fredrickson—probably tomorrow,” the baker announced receiving the next customer’s order.

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