Beyond Bread is the weirdest place I’ve ever worked probably because it’s the most “normal” type of job I haven’t had before. I’m lucky to be training in a special skill, which is baking, and waking up at 5 am comes along with that— all not-normal caveats and bonuses for many other food-industry jobs- but the store itself, its kind-of-corporate, kind-of-family-business shtick is like a step into a parallel universe.

The employees are characters designed simply to be written about. It’s an eccentric mix and this surprisingly-or unsurprisingly- leads to little drama. What beef could you possibly get worked up over with the ex-convict potbellied and high-voiced gentleman running the dish sink? There’s one lanky white man- one of the sandwich makers I think- who spooks me a bit every time he appears because it’s sudden—- and smooth. He’s just suddenly and casually there to flash a smile and disappear again. I like that he’s an ally, as a fellow coworker, and we’re not in a prison- not in a real prison. Beyond Bread has a policy of hiring ex-cons.

True to the restaurant industry the jobs are cut across class, race, and age. The sandwich makers are almost invariably male, and the young ones are hot. A twenty-one year old girl new to the store would think that though. But seriously, they’re all hot and we’re all busy doing our own thing- I’m pressing graham cracker crusts and failing to make them as hard-packed as Ana will want them- the scruffy ponytailed guy is slicing bread across the bench from me with an extremely zoned-out look on his face, that only increases his hotness because he is mirroring my own feelings-the gray-haired man next to me with a “what’s up dude” surfer voice that sounds like it belongs to a much younger guy kids with him: “I mean something’s wrong when it’s dark and I’m biking AWAY from home instead of to it, know what I mean? I mean there’s something wrong with that picture; I’m a night owl, man, this is not right” The ponytail guy I am in love with grins at him, yeah-yeah wordless, I can’t tell if he’s stoned, they’re probably all high, on life- yeah right- 

I am very aware of him slicing away just across from me, except in the moments I’m being bitched at for not folding in dough correctly or something- but no interaction passes between us except when I seriously stare at nothingness during a one-minute respiteand he flashes a smile in my general direction that I catch in the peripheral of my eye. Every interaction is so subtle here, at least with me, the new girl- the most I do is throw people deer-in-headlights looks every now and then as I trail around Ana being yelled at

The bakers are all Mexican- except for me; and all female, except for one guy who was there today and said probably 2 words total. There’s a girl who looks about 17 or 18 and most significantly is less than five feet tall, she’s actually 25 I found out today. A round cheery girl with snarky comments always on the ready to Ana- her name’s Teresa and she knows what she’s doing and I feel like a little high-strung elf running around messing up the fruit decorations and asking her questions

The cashier people are younger, college/high school students- except for one white woman who has this reassuring grittiness about her, she wears dark eye makeup and has the easiest smile and she seems like your nice, strong, seen-a-lot dive-cafe waitress- I like her; and there’s this girl I also like, because besides being cute she seems to like me; all into my 3rd day feeling stressed she reassures me it’ll get better; she slices my bread (that’s not a euphemism) 

I get queer vibes from her, and friendly vibes, and I like her. I eat my sandwich hurriedly staring at the counters waiting for urgency to appear and tentacle me back to the other side of the store; I only have 5 minutes to devour half of my enormous (and tasty) sandwich because it takes about 10 minutes to make.

Ana my manager is a nice and humorous woman who nevertheless has the anal-retentive quality that bakers, and managers especially, are required to have in spades. I see flashes of her joking personality in banter with the other bakers, or the occasional hug from other employees, but mostly with me I see her exasperated and resigned expression:

“No, no, no” she tells my firmly, brow furrowed and lips closed tightly around her braces-sporting mouth; the braces, plus purple eyeshadow, her ponytail, and her pink and red eyebrows (I SWEAR they are pink, and red; I think this is possible because in either case most of the eyebrow is shaved off and pencil liner defines it instead) make her look like an older teenager; the expression of annoyance adds to this

“No, no, no, I tella you again”- my Spanish might be better than her English, but I haven’t tried it yet so I’m not sure- what I do know is that instead of using nouns to refer to tools and equipment, so I never learn the names for actually anything I’m supposed to remember how to use- she says “like-a-this, use this, like this, down, up, like this” and her gestures are what I’m supposed to memorize.

it’s like 90% visual, and 10% trying it on my own, physical, tactile- how does the crust feel, how warm is the butter; measurements like words are apparently superfluous too; everyone keeps shrugging off “a teaspoon of vanilla paste” for the keylime-tart-frosting recipe, as they just pour a certain amount straight from the bottle into the mixing bowl- 

I try to capture what about that pour I’m supposed to memorize and replicate the next time; was it 4 seconds they poured? Was it two nickel-sized spots of vanilla? Should I just use the damn teaspoons, but where ARE they because no one else is grabbing them so I haven’t had a chance to find out?

Ana uses expressions to signal displeasure, and I jump in to offer the specific areas of needed improvement because otherwise I’ll never be able to figure anything out; and in terms of specifics she offers little. “Is too… too” she says and I say, “Not packed enough” because her hands are indicating I need to press it more;

“You want it…” her eyes signal “like this” as she crumbles graham cracker mix in front of me with her thumb and pointer and middle fingers; “Mixed like that. Warm?”

“Flat”- the dough. ”Up more”- the aluminum foil and Saran warp. “Not too burned”- the sugar on the creme brulee. “Even”- the dough. 

“I will only a show you this time, again, ” she mutters as she takes the spatula out of my hand and presses it down, “Like-a this, like-a- this, like-a this” and I watch her gestures with more concentration than I have ever applied to any sight before in my life-because I don’t know WHAT specifically I am supposed to pay attention to in what she’s doing, the crucial ingredient to replicate for success, so I try to form a mental video duplicate of everything:

how her fingers are clutched, the pace at which she pats down the crust, the bend of her elbows, the height at which she draws up the Saran wrap- pay attention, pay attention

I think if I only I could be as concentrated with this visual observation in an art class, I might’ve been a ten times better artist than I am

Memorize, memorize

I can’t believe it’s only 9 AM and I’ve been here since 6

I can’t wait until I know what I’m doing and I can throw more silent I-love-you looks at scruffy ponytail guy

Beyond Bread. My new job.