Nami Bakery, 7th Street, Phoenix, Arizona
5 PM, Good Friday, April 18th
Veronica was concerned about her nutrition. She had stayed late at work to tidy up Edwin’s office. Being a paralegal had been her dream. But, thanks to Covid, making her afraid of school, she settled for being a book keeper for Edwin, the most adorable legal weed broker in Phoenix. Now, what she did most of the time, was worry about her health while trying to clean Edwin’s office. Why he didn’t drive around and do business on his phone like Alfredo, his partner, had mostly to do with the fact that he was a self-proclaimed “fat ass,” who drank coffee and ate doughnuts until after lunch.
‘Thank goodness I don’t smoke weed or I’d already be fat.’
The smell of the doughnuts drove her crazy, and the smell of coffee drove her to doughnuts. So she starved, drank tea and cleaned Edwin’s office with her N-95 mask on with a fabric softener sheet taped over it, before leaving.
Off to the Nami Bakery she went for her green goddess smoothie. There, there was a problem, two problems, White Karen and Black Karen, arguing in front of her. Black Karen had been quizzing the cashier, who was nice enough, but was not a baker and did not know all of the ingredients used in the pastry the demanding customer had ordered. Every specific ingredient had to be subdivided: the flour, was it wheat, rice, oat, almond, soy? A blend? Oh, what proportions? Each flour in the blend, was it organic, local, processed in a facility that processed dairy?
This had gone on for some time, some minutes, perhaps five, that Veronica, and the others, including the nice, tall—so tall—man behind her, would never get back. Then, as Black Karen had perhaps gotten to within two minutes of her obsessive finish line, White Karen, with white hair, a deep tan and paper thin skin, interjected, “Could I please place my order?”
That was enough to light the dark fire of the heavy set lady of color, “Oh, because you’re white, you’re better than me, and because I’m black I need to step aside!”
That was good for another couple minutes until White Karen sat down and Black Karen took her phone and started video recording her rival. The cashier held up well and called on Veronica, “Your order, miss?”
“A green goddess light, with whipped coconut, please.”
The cashier looked at her again, “Veronica, right?”
“Yes, thank you for remembering. You’ve only been here for a week and its so busy, such an eventful job?”
She cringed as she said this, for Black Karen was following White Karen around with her phone and White Karen was calling for the cashier, “Miss, please make her stop! This can’t be legal.”
“Miss, please, please stop videoing!” barked the cashier from under curled brown bangs.
The ladys stopped like two children caught fighting before breakfast in Mother’s kitchen and the cashier gained control, “Thank you, ladies. The manager will be right with you.”
White Karen had yet to order, and Black Karen seemed to have lost interest in her own order.
The cashier smiled and whispered, “Veronica coming right up,” then looked over her shoulder to the polite man behind her and said, “Sir?”
“Certainly, Riley Dear, I will have what Veronica Vegan Star is having. The green goddess light will go perfectly with my Vitamin C infusion.”
Veronica had to turn and look, noting how tall, healthy and handsome this man was for a person her father’s age—well, mother’s age, presumably having been knocked up on Somebody Saturday in Costa Mesa, California by a man roughly her own age. He must have been fifty, had all of that comforting grace, but was athletic, with almost yellow blond hair and clear blue eyes. He had nice, even skin: not tanned, freckled, sun-damaged, pale, pink or sunburned. He had perfect skin.
She smiled, “Holy C! I thought about infusions during Covid but was afraid. Besides, they’re expensive.”
“Oh,” he smiled softly, “I own my own clinic—it’s what we do.”
“Oh, ah… that’s so nice…” she trailed off embarrassed, knowing she couldn’t afford such a thing.
The drinks were being made by the cashier while she briefed the manager. The manager, a tall ginger fellow, picked up Black Karen’s order, took something else from the case, and the man narrated, “A complimentary offering for White Karen, you may be sure, Veronica.”
She smiled, surprised a business owner recalled her name after seeing her beat up refurbished phone close up. They watched, and it was so.
“Wow, you certainly know people,” as she noted he was really muscular, though on the thin side, his striations showing through his silk shirt as he reached over her head, with a yet softer smile, for what turned out to be their orders. The cashier was super, “Veronica, Mister Sanger, have a wonderful evening. The clouds are beautiful. We might get rain tonight.”
Handing her her drink, he smiled more softly, “Oh, I have been in business for some time—one comes to know people with the passage of years.”
After placing her cup precisely in her hand, he reached into his crisp, white shirt pocket, too crisp, extracted a business card, and handed it to Veronica, who took it in the two fingers that were not occupied by her phone. She saw an image of lilies on the card, but was too polite to stop and read it, tucking it instead against her phone.
Self conscious of her poverty, having just charged her drink, she began to control the damage, “Oh, thank you, but, I—”
He placed one caring hand on her shoulder and pulled her away from a sweaty, long-haired delivery man, coming to pick up an Uber Eat order. He assured her, smiling more softly still, barely creasing his strong, granite jaw, which had not a bit of stubble upon it to match his perfect, narrow, Clark Gable mustache. His voice was reassuring in the sublime, “Veronica, for a video testimonial, for which your pretty smile and demure shoulder language are perfectly suited, your infusion shall be absolutely free of charge.”
“Really,” she looked up at his eyes, which opened their narrow space almost to oval and winked as he spoke, “My Dear,” and she felt oh so dear in that heady instant, as if she were finally appreciated for the clean living woman she had striven so long to be, “Nami Bakery is an auspicious place for clean living people to meet. Here I have made new customers, even recruited most excellent associates. Veronica,” he said with an easy grace as he held the door for her and guided her through, nodding to a blacked out Tesla, “my associates and I are having a transfusion party, tonight—it is Friday night, after all. Feel free to follow. If you loose me, the address is on the card.”
Veronica stood staring after him as he swaggered to that ugly Swastikcar, the vehicle by contrast casting him in a brighter light than his black shoes, slacks, tie and somehow starched white silk shirt would otherwise suggest—except for that yellow hair shining in the lowering sun.
‘Veronica Vegan Star?’
“What a line, girlfriend!”
‘And aren’t I the lucky one, a dumpy duckling who has to settle on her critical conscience for a best friend. I’m in.’
“I told you so, Dumbalina!”
Veronica forget all about the drink in her hand, but not the card, as the green slush hit the sidewalk and she hurried to her 2002 Camry, about on her last leg.
