old bread
“Hello! Is this a bookstore! It’s a bookstore!” A tiny, shriveled, old man pulled open the door to our coworking space, struggling with the room divider we used for shade, and stepped inside. “Hi! Are these the books you have for sale?!” He eyed the single floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the corner of the room.
Alexis stood up politely and began his canned response. “Hello. [big smile] It’s not a bookstore. This is a coworking space. It’s a gallery and performance space at night, and by day it’s a place for people who work from home to come in and work together. Like an alternative to a coffee-“
“Do you want to hear a story? Have I got a story for you! I am talking about HISTORY!”
I looked up from my computer and thought about whether or not I should be annoyed. I was on a tight deadline, happy to sit in the quiet sunshine of the coworking space. Not so happy to be interrupted. But I liked stories. I looked over the tiny old man, his oversized glasses, brown suspenders, hunched frame and wide mouth. He hadn’t heard a word that Alexis said.
“Did you know!” He creaked over into one of the desk chairs, “Did you know that I was born in this very building over 90 years ago??”
The four of us looked at each other, then at him. “Is that so?”
“In this very building!! I can tell you stories!”
The door pushed open again and an embarrassed-looking woman stepped inside. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m his daughter.” She blushed and looked out the window. “He tends to gets emotional when he comes back here.”
“This whole neighborhood used to be Sicilian.” The old man didn’t hear her. “And the different mobs used to fight each other. Down by the park!”
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said again, smiling big. “You must all be really busy.”
“And my mother used to send me down to the store with a note all written in Italian and tied with a string around my neck. A list of all the things she wanted at the store. I would give the note to the man who would take the money and give me back the change.”
“Wow,” Alexis said. “Do you want to see the rest of the building?” gesturing at the door.
“Oh, no need, no need,” the man’s daughter said, she looked at the street longingly. “We’ll be on our way soon.”
“And did you know?!” The old man leaned back. “That building over there, that restaurant? It used to be our bakery. That’s where everyone got their bread. But every once in a while, the bakery would shut down. See the bakery also doubled as a crematorium for the mob.”
“What?” I turned to Alexis. “What did he say?” But Alexis wasn’t looking at me.
“It was a crematorium?” Alexis asked. “Like, they-?”
“Once in a while, the bakery would close its doors. And nobody could buy any bread that day. Then black smoke would come out of the chimney. We all knew what that meant. A few days later, they would clean it out, and open it back up again.” He leaned forward in his chair and looked at each one of us. “But the bread always tasted different.”
“Well! We’ve really got to go!” The daughter said. “It was really nice meeting you all.” She lifted her father out of the chair, and ushered him out the door while we stared, dumbfounded.
After he had gone, we looked at each other.
“That can’t be true,” I said. “I’ll bet that’s what they told little kids back then, to scare them.”
“I don’t know,” Alexis said, peering at the restaurant suspiciously.
“It could be a rumor?” I said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true,” said Jeff.
I called my mom later that afternoon, and told her the story: “And he said they used it to cremate people! And the bread always tasted different!”
Alexis told Jason: “And they used it to cremate their victims so no one would find out!”
Jason told the drunk guy on the corner: “Every weekend, they would close the shop and the mob would cremate people.”
Alexis and I looked at each other, then at Jason. “Every weekend?”
“Do you see how this is starting?” I said to him.
“Every weekend?” Alexis said to Jason.
“See!” I got on my bike. “It’s only been three hours. That guy had been telling that story for 80 years. It must have been a rumor”
“No, I think it’s true,” said Jason.
“Every weekend!” I waved at them as I biked away.
“Every weekend!” Alexis shouted back at me, waving goodbye.
Alexis stood up politely and began his canned response. “Hello. [big smile] It’s not a bookstore. This is a coworking space. It’s a gallery and performance space at night, and by day it’s a place for people who work from home to come in and work together. Like an alternative to a coffee-“
“Do you want to hear a story? Have I got a story for you! I am talking about HISTORY!”
I looked up from my computer and thought about whether or not I should be annoyed. I was on a tight deadline, happy to sit in the quiet sunshine of the coworking space. Not so happy to be interrupted. But I liked stories. I looked over the tiny old man, his oversized glasses, brown suspenders, hunched frame and wide mouth. He hadn’t heard a word that Alexis said.
“Did you know!” He creaked over into one of the desk chairs, “Did you know that I was born in this very building over 90 years ago??”
The four of us looked at each other, then at him. “Is that so?”
“In this very building!! I can tell you stories!”
The door pushed open again and an embarrassed-looking woman stepped inside. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m his daughter.” She blushed and looked out the window. “He tends to gets emotional when he comes back here.”
“This whole neighborhood used to be Sicilian.” The old man didn’t hear her. “And the different mobs used to fight each other. Down by the park!”
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said again, smiling big. “You must all be really busy.”
“And my mother used to send me down to the store with a note all written in Italian and tied with a string around my neck. A list of all the things she wanted at the store. I would give the note to the man who would take the money and give me back the change.”
“Wow,” Alexis said. “Do you want to see the rest of the building?” gesturing at the door.
“Oh, no need, no need,” the man’s daughter said, she looked at the street longingly. “We’ll be on our way soon.”
“And did you know?!” The old man leaned back. “That building over there, that restaurant? It used to be our bakery. That’s where everyone got their bread. But every once in a while, the bakery would shut down. See the bakery also doubled as a crematorium for the mob.”
“What?” I turned to Alexis. “What did he say?” But Alexis wasn’t looking at me.
“It was a crematorium?” Alexis asked. “Like, they-?”
“Once in a while, the bakery would close its doors. And nobody could buy any bread that day. Then black smoke would come out of the chimney. We all knew what that meant. A few days later, they would clean it out, and open it back up again.” He leaned forward in his chair and looked at each one of us. “But the bread always tasted different.”
“Well! We’ve really got to go!” The daughter said. “It was really nice meeting you all.” She lifted her father out of the chair, and ushered him out the door while we stared, dumbfounded.
After he had gone, we looked at each other.
“That can’t be true,” I said. “I’ll bet that’s what they told little kids back then, to scare them.”
“I don’t know,” Alexis said, peering at the restaurant suspiciously.
“It could be a rumor?” I said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true,” said Jeff.
I called my mom later that afternoon, and told her the story: “And he said they used it to cremate people! And the bread always tasted different!”
Alexis told Jason: “And they used it to cremate their victims so no one would find out!”
Jason told the drunk guy on the corner: “Every weekend, they would close the shop and the mob would cremate people.”
Alexis and I looked at each other, then at Jason. “Every weekend?”
“Do you see how this is starting?” I said to him.
“Every weekend?” Alexis said to Jason.
“See!” I got on my bike. “It’s only been three hours. That guy had been telling that story for 80 years. It must have been a rumor”
“No, I think it’s true,” said Jason.
“Every weekend!” I waved at them as I biked away.
“Every weekend!” Alexis shouted back at me, waving goodbye.
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