But I don’t want to. When I was eighteen, I spent some time in homeless shelters. I’d rather not repeat that experience. I am never going to be that terrified teenager again. I don’t want to go back to that defeated mental state. I don’t want to even say the word homeless. I’m just between houses at present. At least this time I have a car. I’m locked in and safe.
That’s what I’m trying to tell myself, anyway. But sleep is fitful. Every little sound wakes me up. I’m parked behind a dumpster in back of a karate dojo. I keep expecting to see a police cruiser pull up with its lights flashing.
Also, my legs are numb, and whenever I try to roll over, I smack my knee against the door.
I doze fitfully. At some point during the darkest part of the night, my thoughts turn to my ex, Brian. He’s asleep in our bed right now, sprawled out and comfortable. His bed. It was never really ours. I spent three years loving him on his terms. Hiding our relationship in public. Feeding on the scraps of attention he was willing to give.
On some level I always knew he wasn’t capable of loving me back, even though he would sometimes tell me he did. But just as often he’d push me away. He’d “forget” about our plans, or change his mind at the last minute. He did these things just to keep me on edge—to prove that I wasn’t really necessary in his life.
Eventually I got clingy and threw down an ultimatum, which he pretended to consider. But then? He cheated just to make sure I knew he was in charge.
That’s the Cliffs Notes. And now I’m sleeping in my car, because he froze me out of our bank account the minute I left town. At a gas station in Massachusetts I realized he’d canceled my credit cards, too.
Forget my numb ass—it’s hard to sleep when you’re questioning all your life choices.
Dawn comes eventually. I blink my bleary eyes and make a plan. First I’ll hit the Colebury Diner for a cheap plate of eggs. Then I’ll brush my teeth and wash my face in the men’s room.
It’s a thirty minute drive to Norwich, where I did a one-month internship at King Arthur Flour after culinary school. I’ll get there by eight a.m., when they take their first break. My old boss is still listed on the website. I’ll dazzle him with my recent experience, and he’ll offer me a job on the spot.
And if that doesn’t work, I’ll cruise by every bakery in Vermont. Something will work.
Two hours later, I leave the fancy new King Arthur facility feeling discouraged. Gone is the cozy, undersized kitchen where I learned to bake sourdough. The new gleaming commercial space was as unfamiliar as the faces in it. My former boss has moved into management and works in a different building now.
“I’ll give you a great recommendation, Rod,” he’d said when I called the number they’d given me at the new bake shop. “Go ahead and fill out an application. But I know the baker gets several applications each week.”
“Great, I’ll do that,” I’d said, my heart sinking.
“Come back next month if you’re still looking. They always need seasonal help in the retail store.”
“Will do. Thanks.” I’d filled that application out, which took five minutes.
But now I climb back into my car again and crank the engine. I have never felt so untethered from the world as I do right now. I have no address. No job. And no real friends, either, because they’re all coworkers at the job I left behind in Tennessee, or—worse—pals of Brian’s.
The scary truth is that if I disappeared from this earth today, nobody would notice, or come looking for me.
Also, I need coffee. Nobody should be expected to solve his not-quite-midlife crisis while under-caffeinated, right?
So I point my car back toward Colebury. Chin up, I coach myself. I can’t expect my problems to be solved within the first hour of job hunting. I’m the kind of guy who always has to hustle for everything he gets. King Arthur is the biggest bakery in the area, but it’s not the only one that could hire me.
I hope.
It’s still midmorning when I reach the Busy Bean. When I step out of my car, I smell good coffee brewing. The scent of a strong brew on the piney Vermont air is like a siren’s song to me. I approach the door, already filling up with hope. Come on, Vermont. Give me something to believe in.
The first thing I notice is the acoustic guitar music humming off the wide-plank floorboards. The scent of coffee is stronger, too. And the place is adorable. It’s full of mismatched furniture upholstered in dark colors and animal prints. There are snarky sayings chalked onto the ceiling’s wide support beams. One verse in particular catches my eye:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I love my coffee
And if you talk to me before I drink it I will cut you
I let out a happy snort. Is it possible that I’ve found my people?
Cautiously, I approach the bakery case. I hope it’s not full of underbaked institutional cookies and rubbery bagels.
But, nope! It’s full of homemade pastries. They’re simple—mostly muffins and scones—but they look too good to have been dropped off by a food distributor’s truck. My stomach rumbles as I take in the offerings.
“Can I help you?” This question comes from a tall woman with dark, wavy hair. “I recommend the lemon muffins, because my partner just made them, and if you don’t have a couple, I’m probably going eat some more of them.”
“I would love a couple of muffins,” I say. Not only am I legitimately starving, but it makes opening up the conversation that much easier. “And a small coffee, black.” I pull out my wallet. Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I can survive this day without more caffeine.
“Dark roast or breakfast blend?”
“Dark roast. Breakfast blend is for sissies.”
The dark-haired beauty laughs. “That will be four fifty.”
That’s pretty cheap, honestly. I push a five-dollar bill toward her. After she makes my change, I drop the bomb. “Listen, if there’s any chance you are hiring, can I leave my name? I’m a baker by training. But I make a mean espresso, too.”
The woman’s hands freeze on the cash drawer. “You’re a baker,” she says slowly. “Are you looking for part time or full time?”
“Well, full time. But right this second I’m not picky. If I don’t find what I’m looking for, I’ll have to piece together a couple of jobs.”
“Did he say full time?” asks another voice. A sunny-haired woman appears suddenly in the doorway behind the counter.
“He did.”
The blonde emerges from the kitchen, dusting flour off her hands. “So I guess we’re talking about this now?” She steps out where I can see her. She’s a little thing and appears to be pregnant.
“So…” I’m not even sure what to say. “You might be looking to hire some help?”
“We really need to,” the dark-haired one says. “But we’ve been putting it off. I’m Zara Rossi by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Zara. I’m Roderick.”
“And I’m Audrey Shipley,” says the cute blonde.
“Oh, the Shipleys.” That familiar name perks me up. “I remember your family. They were always winning awards at school and running things at church.” Everybody loved the Shipleys. And there were a lot of them.