The Baker Brandon

Chapter 1: Well Ain’t That Peachy

Every working day, Elijah Clayton III waited in line at Colleen’s Ice Cream Shoppe. In service on a slow corner in Burner, Georgia since 1987, the parlor was founded by Colleen Bodenheim, who at the time was the young widow of veterinarian Dr. George Bodenheim, who passed in tragic boating accident at the age of thirty-seven. She inherited a fairly large sum by virtue of her deceased husband’s will, enough to fund her dream of becoming a vendor of frozen desserts, a dream she explored to “keep the people of Burner happy and smiling during these dark days,” verbatim. Originally named George and Colleen’s Ice Cream Shop, a move to preserve George’s legacy in the town, the parlor did well for nearly three years.

The shop stopped doing well when several former pet owners, seventeen as reported by local news outlets, came forward to cite numerous instances of abuse and harassment instigated by Dr. Bodenheim, as discovered by reviewing old security footage from the his office, and gossip. Frenzy broke out throughout the town. Allegedly, the owner of one particularly traumatized French bulldog orchestrated a mob to take out Colleen Bodenheim for, allegedly, keeping her deceased husband’s tendencies a secret from the community for so long. Colleen maintained her innocence; notably, she claimed to know little about her husband’s business, apart from what he told her. The story failed to reach national news on account of people not being riled-up enough to take down George Bodenheim posthumously, and there was far more pressing national news to be dealt with at the time. But that didn’t stop the local townsfolk from abandoning Colleen’s parlor in light of these recent discoveries. The shop-owner’s efforts to regain her former prosperity, including changing the name of the parlor, adding the ‘-pe’ to draw a clientele attracted to the town’s quaintness, did little to bring in new customers. These days, regulars who are friends with Colleen Strawson – she changed her name considering the allegations – and the occasional traveling family are the only patrons of Colleen’s Ice Cream Shoppe, which is a shame. The ice cream is pretty good. Not the best, but the best in town.

Tending the cash register of Colleen’s Ice Cream Shoppe was Elizabeth “Beth” Strawson, the only daughter of Colleen Strawson and the infamous George Bodenheim. Beth was just two years old when her father died in that boating accident, which is contemporarily less-than-tragic. Beth remembers little to nothing about her father and has been told by her mother nothing but praise for what he did for the community, as was previously understood. Beth said nothing publicly about the allegations; she allowed the public to believe that minimal thoughts on the subject entered her mind at all. The public, in turn, allowed her to exist peacefully as Ms. Strawson, third-grade teacher at Alexander H. Stephens Elementary. Summers, and occasionally weekends, Beth put on a nametag – she wouldn’t wear the hat her mother bought – and worked the shop.

Between Beth and Elijah Clayton III was a middle-aged woman with black-licorice colored hair, a perplexed look on her face, three small sampling spoons in her fist, and one dangling out of her mouth, as though she were a swamp lizard detecting changes in the weather. She requested another sample of “Raspberry Rodeo” since the taste of her first sample of “Raspberry Rodeo” was masked by the subsequent samplings of “Coconut Sunrise” and “Banana! Banana! Banana!” The woman slid the spoon out of her mouth and considered the concoction of sugar, milk, ice, and all-natural flavors for more than a moment.

“Ah yes, that’s lovely,” the woman sighed with a crow-footed grin. “That’s such a full flavor.”

Beth, transfixed on the buzzing fly tapping against the glass storefront and largely ignoring the ponderings of the customer, nodded in agreement. “We sell a good bit of it, yeah.”

 “I would think so! I have not had anything like it in quite some time,” said the customer, waiting for Beth to make a comment. Before it appeared that she would, the patron continued, “I was in Italy – well, not just me, my husband and his sister were there as well – and we were in Rome, and we found this gorgeous little gelato vendor who didn’t speak a lick of English but thank goodness my husband’s sister had this Italian-English dictionary and could translate. The gelato-man hands me a bowl with three big scoops of, well, I’m not quite sure what flavor it was! But it was purple and uh-may-zing! Best I’ve ever had, but yours is a close second.”

The woman topped her ramblings with a hearty and especially lonely chuckle, but one done out of earnestness. As for her tale, it wasn’t true. She lied. She did go to Italy, three or four summers ago; however, her and her party never made it to Rome, on account of her sister-in-law meeting a man in Florence, whom she would later marry, then divorce, and imploring that the entire party remain in Florence for the remainder of the trip. Upon returning home, the customer would claim they had gone to Rome and, in response to friends and family wanting to see pictures, would claim that she had spent the time “taking in the moment, and not taking photos.” The reason for her deception is unknown. Also, the gelato vendor was real, but he was in Florence. And the gelato was good, exceptional in fact, however she tends to leave off from her story that she only had two spoonfuls before tripping over a bicycle and spilling the frozen treat on the cobblestone. Then she cried.

Beth, intrigued but not enough to maintain interest, allowed a complementary and well-rehearsed half-smile to adorn her face and said, “That all sounds great.”

 “Doesn’t it?” responded the customer, expecting more but content with what she awarded to her. Silence attempted to stretch its arms while the customer gathered her next thought, but that silence was blocked by the hum of the milkshake machine, which alternates rising and lowering its pitch by two steps every fourteen minutes. It was about due.

“So,” started up the customer once more, “I’ll take a gallon of the ‘Raspberry Rodeo’, and how long would it take for y’all to make it into an ice cream cake?”

“We don’t make ice cream cakes here, unfortunately.”

“You mean you don’t make the cakes yourself, or you mean you don’t have any at all?”

 “No cakes at all.”

 The customer let out a heavy sigh, and the cashier held her breath so as not to inhale the hot air. “Alright.” smacked the customer, the sticky residue of her ice cream medley palpable. “Just the gallon then, thank you.”

 “We don’t sell those either, the most I can give you is four scoops,” Beth said as the woman reached for her lavender wallet, buried somewhere within her off-lavender handbag.

 “Four scoops?” The milkshake machine hum rose. “What am I supposed to do with four scoops?”

“I’m sorry I can’t help, but that’s our policy.”

 “Well, it’s a ridiculous policy, quite frankly. What am I supposed to do?”

It was at this point Elijah Clayton III burst into a melee of coughs and gurgles, directing the traffic of mouth debris into a balled-up fist. His heavy frame bobbed with every heave and, considering he was the last in queue, he paced a bit. His withering eyes darted between Beth, with a look of both genuine concern and relief, and the customer, with a look of astonishment at the perceived disrespect on behalf of the gentleman behind her.

“Do you mind?” asked the customer, eyes like discarded oyster shells piercing. Elijah, in his best attempt to be a mannerly socialite, drew a deep red cloth handkerchief from his right back pocket, bringing it to his mouth to muffle his sounds of distress.

The woman turned back to Beth in exasperation. “Look, I’m hosting a party for my niece’s third birthday, and I need a cake, and I just thought I would support y’all’s small business. Isn’t there something you can do?”

In response, the cashier on duty let out a short stream of unsure noises, then answered “They just put a BJ’s in the town over,” her way of telling irate customers to get bent. This has happened numerous times before and her mother didn’t like her using such language.

Elijah let out the last of whatever tickle was caught in his throat as the disgruntled customer smacked all four sampling spoons against the glass counter, slid the strap of her handbag onto her shoulder, pointy and exposed, and marched away from her adversary. Clacking her heeled sandals on the linoleum flooring, the customer first pushed then pulled the door into the outside world, and headed left. The fly missed its opportunity to exit alongside.

Elijah sauntered to the counter, grinning through salt and pepper. “Ice cream cake and make it quick.”

 “Shit. I hate city folk,” said Beth, sweeping the discarded utensils off the counter and onto the floor, where they should be swept up later. “Good for nothing’ but traffic.”

“How you know she’s not from ‘round here?” asked the gentleman, knowing full well that the woman in question is not from that there county, no more than snakes are from the South Pole.

“The entitlement. And they don’t sell shoes like hers anywhere in Burner.”

“Well,” replied Elijah, inspecting the colorful tubs of ice cream through the glass like a kingfisher. “Ain’t we all entitled to a little respect?”

“You would think. Whaddya have?”

Before he answered, Beth took up the black and silver scooper by its rubber handle and rinsed it off in a pool of sanitation water. He had been to the store enough Thursday mornings to fashion a regular order, but Beth always asked for his order, just in the off chance he felt like a gambling man. One time, Elijah broke tradition by getting a scoop of “Coco-Crunch” and a scoop of “Birthday Cake” in a waffle cone, because it was his birthday. The day after, he came into the shop looking green and hunched over, coping with serious abdominal pains. He claimed that switching from his normal order caused him to spend that whole day on his back, and that whole night “with his ass on the porcelain,” verbatim. Truth be told, he was suffering from a bout of food poisoning he received that previous morning from a pair of poorly cooked bacon strips from Continental Coffeehouse, where Elijah, more likely than not, can be found enjoying an early meal he swears is better than anything he could make himself. His typical order, but not so typical as to be called his ‘regular’, is a slice of French toast, topped with sliced strawberries and powdered sugar, a single egg (scrambled, with cheddar cheese), and a side order of bacon. The negligence of a new employee, the teenage son of Continental Coffeehouse’s manager’s girlfriend, is to blame for the under-prepared pork. His mistake was never caught.

The gentleman customer thought a moment for aesthetic purposes, before ordering what he nearly always orders: two scoops of “Well Ain’t That Peachy” and one scoop of “Thrilla in Vanilla”, topped with waffle cone crumbs, all in a paper bowl.

As Beth prepared the order, exerting some significant effort into scraping the remaining peach-flavored treat from the bottom of the tub, Elijah noticed, late at this point, just how quiet the shop was, barring the humming drone of the milkshake machine and the light buzzing of a perplexed insect. Something, or someone, was missing.

“How’s your mother doing? Where’s she at?”

“Oh, she’s good, she’s good. Out. Picking up some things for the shop, taking some cash to the bank.”

This brought a smile to Elijah’s face; sounded like some much-needed good news for Colleen and her shop. For years, perhaps decades at this point, he’d been a customer of the shop, and that didn’t slow down in light of the allegations. Elijah had been one of the few citizens of Burner to continue visitation to the parlor. When the story first broke-out in the form of a half-page article in the town paper, he was the first to call Colleen to make sure she was coping well-enough.

“Sounds like some good business,” was all Elijah replied, but in his own way this is a very high sentiment.

“I’ll say, we almost got enough saved up to fix up the arcade,” said Beth, nodding towards the two arcade machines (Galaga and Donkey Kong) tucked away in the front corner of the shop.

“Yea, it’s about time.”

“And I see business is doing well for yourself,” she said, darting her eyes forward and through the glass wall. “Or are you just running’ on empty?”

Parallel-parked by the curb outside Colleen’s Ice Cream Shoppe was Elijah’s 1972 GMC 1500 Sierra Grande, in forest green and rust. From the side and facing right, it looks a bit like a crocodile crawling uphill onto the shore, with its tail still floating in swamp water, or an upside-down, long-barrel Smith & Wesson. Surface-level corrosion has engulfed 85% of the hood, but the remainder of the frame remains unmarked, barring a few leopard spots, and a bullet hole just above the back-right wheel. He received the pickup new, a Christmas gift from his older sister, Mary, now deceased. The truck runs fine or fine enough, and switches between the two states frequently; more likely than not, the engine resembles firecrackers when started, but shifts into a low growl after a few seconds. The belly of the truck suspends relatively high above the ground. This is usually not the case, as the long cargo bed is often stacked above the brim with watermelons; at this time, however, the bed was completely empty.

“On ‘E’, unfortunately,” he answered, looking behind him to inspect his vehicle. “Gotta fill the old girl up.”

“Well, you best get a move on then.” Beth slid the bowl of freshly prepared ice cream across the glass and toward Elijah, who then reached for his wallet. “Uh uh, your money’s no good here, Mr. Eli. You know this.”

“You know that ain’t how you make profits, right?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

. . . . . .

Having made it to his driver’s seat, and having strapped his safety belt across his waist, Mr. Eli rested his bowl on the empty seat next to him, paying close attention to its position as he pulled onto the road. There were a few bites already gone, and there will surely be more taken out before he reached his next destination; that is, if it did not melt under the warm southern sun. The air conditioning in his truck blew out the summer before, but he had gotten used to driving with every window down. The feeling of Georgia summer wind on his face was a comfort only because he knew he could control the speed at which the air brushes his skin. Sometimes, when the roads are open, as they are now, and his truck barrels down smooth asphalt, as it is now, Mr. Eli’s heart sinks to his stomach. He has a fear of falling. Falling uncontrollably, if you could imagine, is much like pressing on the gas with the windows down; however, as long as he doesn’t blink, and can see the road and the tunnel of pines and his hands on the wheel, he feels in control.

And when Mr. Eli is in control, he can do almost anything. Such as, without looking, reach to his right and collect perfect spoonfuls of his ice cream, which he then brings to his mouth, all while keeping a secure grip of the wheel and a watchful eye of the road. Such a feat could not be accomplished without significant practice. He’s taken this trip untold times before. Heading east, the roads far from Colleen’s Ice Cream Shoppe feature sporadic potholes and nicks as they stretch into farmland. The pines turn to peach-trees, whose roots spider into the asphalt. The roads narrow recklessly, so squeezed by the surrounding orchard that two vehicles going opposite ways could not feasibly pass by bends in the road without mutual deliberation.

Further down the road, the surrounding area becomes flatter and flatter; trees turn to bushes, and bushes turn to grass and moist dirt. By the end, where Mr. Eli had just arrived with his empty flatbed was a short, non-essential, closed gate separating the road from a well-driven pathway. To the right of the gate, a massive sheet-metal sign read:

WELCOME TO WAVEWOOD FARMS
est. 1869