Erika wondered what it would be like to not work at a yuppie bakery in the high end of whatevertown. She could imagine away a four-thirty alarm shoving her from bed, imagine away the layer of cake flower consistently cemented to her hands, imagine away the revolting stench of freshly baked goods, she could even imagine away the sub-par coffee provided for the employees of Fem-a-Baked, but Erika could imagine away her uniform. She had suggested a black slim fitting polo and slacks to Sharon, the owner and founder, but Sharon promptly replied that cake flower and black “do not mix” (cake flower would show up horribly on a black shirt and pair of pants).

So instead Erika sported a ballerina-pink apron trimmed with yellow lace the size of her fist over a hot pink tube top with a small caricature of Rosie the riveter punching a banana cream pie over a billowing sequence mini-skirt made even more ridiculous by the petticoats underneath. It was all pulled together very nicely by a ballerina-pink apron trimmed with yellow lace the size of her fist and matching platform shoes. Sharon explained to Erika that this outfit was a response to the role men forced upon woman (as was the intentionally poor quality of the baked goods). Sharon hoped to draw in a revolutionary and mold-breaking crowd with her sophisticated social commentary. Instead a few businessmen and starlets found it fetching. Before long Erika was ringing up 28.95 for a slice of mediocre lemon square. Sharon said nothing, but shot her costumers resentful and angry glares of the over top of her 30,000 dollar spectacles. So Erika suspected some sort of outburst, but nothing could have prepared her for September the 21st.

The day started as most others for the disgruntled worker, an abrasive wake-up call and unpleasant pastry fumes, except that Sharon decided to cover for Carla, the flighty co-cashier, who was “sick” again. (Sharon declined to wear the uniform, of course.) Erika appreciated the extra help, but knew any stray comment could send her boss fuming into the backroom, leaving her alone, yet again, at the register. So she warily eyed the costumers. The likely to set Sharon of seemed to be a suit at the moment. , who had just ordered lemon cheesecake for $68.95, who attempted to make small talk.

“I like your bakery,” he said, turning his lips up at the corners to reveal perfect teeth.

“Mhmm,” Sharon forced out as she entered in the price for the baked good. The suit would probably only aggravate Sharon instead of driving her to madness, so Erika turned her attention to the tables placed uncomfortably close to the cashier. A fresh-faced starlet, glared at an older woman stroking one of the many furs that adorned her body.

“You know,” the starlet began, “Some people might find your taste in clothing very offensive.”

“Would they now darling?”

They seemed to have even tones, perhaps Sweater Vest (a regular costumer) would set Sharon off? It wouldn’t be the first time. He talked loudly on his cell in front of a younger man with a purple tie. Purple Tie seemed to know Sweater Vest, but seemed reluctant to say hello. “Look,” Sweater Vest began. “I know we have a history and I do owe you one but, I’ve changed ya’ know? I have a boyfriend now and he’d flip way out if I had a one-night stand with you. He’s still a kid, ya’ know?” Purple Tie’s eyes seemed to brighten.

At the front of the line the suit laughed. “Sorry, sometimes I hate to talk to my costumers too, I do PR for a cooperation on the east end and you wouldn’t believe what I deal with!”

The absurdly dressed cashier felt her back unclench. While she still thought he should shut up, if anyone mentioned a hatred of costumers Sharon softened like butter. And lo and behold her employer began to finger the “Free give away!” blue cupcake on the countertop. Then everything seemed to fall into place.

She heard the woman with the furs inform the starlet: “These animals all died of natural causes sweetie.”

Sweater Vest lowered his voice and Purple Tie looked as if he would say hello.

Erika closed her eyes and took a deep relaxing breath.

“Besides, your clothes were probably made by slave children in Cambodia,” continued the woman in furs offhandedly.

“Okay fine, I guess if he didn’t notice the last three times . . .”

“I mean one woman was presenting to the board - the board! - and she brought pastries almost as bad as these-”

A splatter split the air, the bakery filled with a hollowed silence and every head abandoned their conflicts and turned toward the counter. Erika, against all of the wiser voices in her head, opened her eyes. She looked to her left, saw Sharon’s arm cocked, her eyes wild, her fingertips stained with deep blue frosting.

She did not look at the costumer.

Instead, mechanically slowly, not wanting to register the amount of danger in the air, Erika retrieved the cheesecake behind the glass display case.

“To go?” she asked.

“Here,” he replied.

Erika swore inwardly and placed the cake on a plastic pink saucer. He took it from her hands and picked in up with manicured fingers, and directed his last comment to Sharon which he said quite evenly:

“Fuck you and your mediocre cheesecake. I only come here for the slut uniform anyway.”

Sharon’s eyes widened and she let forth a shrill scream:

“IT’S A SOCIAL COMMENTARY!!!”

And the store awoke.

“I BOUGHT THESE AT ORGANO-FLOW!” The starlet launched her jelly filled donut at the fur-drenched woman.

“YOU CHEATING WHORE!!!” Purple Tie grabbed three brownies from an adjacent table and chucked them at Sweater Vest.

And Sharon let forth a primal cry as she launched herself at the suit, straddled him and attempted to force feed him said mediocre cheesecake.

“Call the police!”

The starlet got elbowed by fur woman’s escort and three men looking to play hero ran to assist her only to brutally assaulted by a tapioca pudding tossed by a old man with a mink stole.

“My cashmere sweater-vest!”

Purple Tie was brutal with his barrage of baked goods that everyone seemed to provide to him, shaking their heads and muttering, “That cheating bastard. . .” until a son of a local movie star suggested perhaps maybe we hadn’t heard the whole story and the attack redirected towards him. His buddies retailed with Italian sodas.

“You sexist pig!!!”

No one quite knew what Sharon was doing but a couple decided to help out.

Ladies fingers flew in the air, chocolate chip cookies exploded like grenades and the cherry jubilee made surprising distance considering the man who threw it was in a chokehold by an unexpectedly agile woman in stilettos. And soon no person could be distinguished from their lackluster desserts.

It was at this point Erika decided to take her leave. Among the powdered sugar, think glazes and frosting she walked out the front door. She wondered why she had stuck with Sharon and decided had had enough with this, daughter of the owner or not. She tore off her uniform, and examined her strapless black bra and matching underwear that lay exposed to the brilliant blue sky and soft, warm wind that collided with her bare skin. She then thought of cake-flower, on-lookers stares and decided, smiled and decided she really didn’t give a shit.