The Harold Reinhardt and Associates Law Firm lies in the heart of Philadelphia, where bustling streets and commerce scuttle beneath the sound of papers flying in the legal offices above them. The 13th floor has all of the interns, where suddenly all the pens have fallen still as a stout, well dressed man walks out among the rolled up sleeves and pastry crumbs. He sort of mumbles, as he methodically places a stack of files on each of their desks. One of the interns spots another from the window- A blonde young man sporting a pinstripe suit and clubmaster glasses is sprinting down Locust Street on a single speed road bike. His glasses hide the dark eyebags on his face, but they don’t do a very good job. In the elevator, he opens his messenger bag, checks his manilla folders, and walks out with two folders full with Post-its and plastic markers out the side. His first stop, though, was with another intern’s desk. He had a weird tie, and thin circular glasses. The blonde tapped his chair with an outstretched pen.
“Hey Reagan. So I read your notes that were in the folder for review. You know, the one for the Carey case?”
“Why’d you read that? Doesn’t a different department check those?”
“Hm, not too sure. Anyway, there were a lot of grammatical errors in it, and the summary was a little lacking in detail about how we can actually get the folks from the city to look into it.
“Sorry, I’m a bit bu-”
“Oh, it’s alright, I got it edited and submitted into the folder for review.”
“What I’m trying to say is, this is like the fourth time this week you’ve edited someone’s work this week, man! We’re just trying to do our jobs!”
“Sorry about that I guess. Just, you know, the c-”
“The custody cases getting boring?”
“Yeah, the custody cases getting boring. Won’t happen again.”
“Geez man, get a hobby! All you do is work, eat, and work on other people’s stuff. Go read the Times and actually do the crosswords for once in your life! Not everything’s in case studies, you’re not in college anymore.”
“Uh, I am.”
Reagan sighed, and said with light humor, “Alright, alright. Now, shoo off, be productive.”
The blonde then sets the stacks on the stout man’s desk, and with a grunt of approval, the blonde man walks over to the desk with no name card. To his surprise, there is a note on the table, along with a paycheck addressed to Jacob S. Fruehauf. A couple men, with shoulders seemingly wider than the desks, walked toward him with footsteps heavy like soft timpani mallets. He began to clean his desk, and put his remaining folders through the shredder. On his way down the building, he unhooked a name tag from his keys, apathetic to the hot stuffy air in the elevator. He ignored the secretary’s open hands. Instead, he left the card on the table top without losing eye contact with the spinning glass doors.
Fruehauf, after walking out of the lobby, sort of wandered down the sidewalk and passed his bike sloppily locked to a light post nearby, as the people around him parted the way for him to pass. He subtly nodded the whole way down the streets, looking up and down the other people that would pass, almost as if to size different people up to guess what they would amount to. Having grown bored of walking, he happened upon a coffee shop and walked inside. Promptly, he ordered a croissant and a latte, walked to a window seat, unbuttoned his bottom button, and sat down. It was strange, the idea of coffee in a ceramic cup as opposed to a paper one. Having realized he left his laptop at his apartment, he simply sat there, without as much as twiddling his thumbs. And then he heard this loud noise, like glass shattering against a marble counter. They never stopped, and every so often, some different, almost creative sound would break the peace in the cafe. Thrice it was something metallic, the last sounded like a case of flour against a wall. A man of similar build stormed out of the kitchen just as Fruehauf walked up to put away his plate and cup, but his curiosity of the noises intrigued him, and led him to the door of the kitchen.
Cautiously, he opened the doors, and didn’t notice a portly old man behind him as he walked into the middle of the kitchen. The baker snapped in a thick New York accent, without looking up.
“Get back to work, son.”
Fruehauf whipped his head around, and replied like a trespassing cat as it sees the cop’s dog.
“I just wanted to check on th-the loud th-thuds?”
“Yeah yeah, and they’ll stop once ya get to work. So I suggest ya start working, boy.”
“But, I don’t really, uh, w-work here?”
“Shut it kid, lest ya want me to kick your tail outta here, ya hear me?
With sweat beading down his forehead, Fruehauf reluctantly rolled up his sleeves.
“W-W-Where is the recip-cip-cipe?”
“Countertop. Left of the sink. Don’t let it get wet. Page 226. Should be open. Now don’t cha’ make me waste my voice.”
He considered just running out- but the baker was still there, like a doberman lying in wait for someone to try and climb the fence. The old dog had yet to raise his head from his notebook, and was still writing with his pen caked with dough. Fruehauf began to read the thick recipe book, and quickly went to go fetch some butter after being urged along by a whisk that touched his hair as it flew by. As he came back from the other side of the counter top, he noticed the Baker’s thick coke bottle glasses in a far corner. Before he could make much of it however, a wooden spoon knocked the butter out of his hands.
“Wash ya hands, Davey. What’re you on, some kinda’ hangover?”
“No, I haven-”
“Gah, whatever. Shut it and work.”
“That’s not even my na-”
A frying pan launched into the ceiling beckoned for Fruehauf to listen again. And thus, he did. He spilled the flour all over the countertop, spent nine minutes measuring out the water, wasted about two tablespoons of butter by letting it melt in his hands while trying to read the scribbles in the patchwork recipe book. When he dropped the dough on the floor, he heard fourteen turnips nail the window as he ducked under the table. It wasn’t really surprising, it was routine at this point, as earlier he had gotten pegged in the back by some house keys, and struck in the knees by an old (but not empty) vinegar bottle. Whenever he did something remotely imprecise, something would smack the wall in dramatic action, and the other times Fruehauf wouldn’t know where the object would hit him. Each time, Fruehauf ground his teeth a little harder and bit his lip.
“Oy! How many times da’ gotta tell ya that’cha can’t skimp the temperatures ay? Ya do that one more time this week an’ I’m gonna show you what else we use the ol’ bread knife for, ya hear?”
“Sir, I don’t think you get it, there’s some kind of misunde-”
“Son, ya say I’m misundastandin’ somethin. Well lemme do a little undastandin’ for ya, boy. I wrote that book, it’s perfect, you ain’t, now make like a grade schooler and learn yourself how to read some English, how-bout-it?”
“No sir, there’s a different probl-”
“Why don’t ya tell me a problem that ain’t your sass, boy.”
With sweat fogging up his clubmaster glasses, Fruehauf threw his rolling pin down and into the marble workspace, and ripped off his glasses.
“I don’t work here, sir. That’s the problem.”
“Ya tried to pull that earlier, Davey. Can ya learn how to be an adult already?”
“My name isn’t Davey and I don’t work here, so why don’t you listen to anyone else for once in your miserable life, you failed patissier Mr. Something or whatever?!?”
For the first time that day, or at least it was the first time Fruehauf noticed, the baker looked up.
“What in god’s name are ya tryin’ to pull now?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you see for yourself?”
Fruehauf chucked the coke bottle glasses across the room toward the kitchen doors. The baker picked them up and took a good look at Fruehauf, who wasn’t the other blonde who stormed out a couple hours ago. After a gallon of milk shattered against the standmixer, Fruehauf diligently cleaned it out of habit, but then hastily made his way out of the kitchen.
Fruehauf arrived at his apartment after 15 minutes of frantic biking, ran into his suite, and slammed the door behind him. And for the next hour or so, he just sort of sat. His laptop was out of battery, there were papers all over the floor, and none of the tabletops were visible. But, in his rut of boredom, he cleared the countertop, took out a paper and pen, and began to write, and every so often would look up and out the window and gestured with his hands. As it got dark, he threw his pen at the light switch and took out some ingredients.
The next morning, at the law firm, a stout, well dressed man walked out to find a small bag of shortbread cookies at each person’s desk. There was also an email notification from 2:03 AM that morning:
From: (address no longer exists)
To: HRA PrepDept elist
Sorry about the cookies, I hope they aren’t burned. Kinda new at this.
Sincerely, JSF