He stares at me when he thinks Im not looking.
Nobody at the place talks to me any more, or kids around the way they used to.
It makes the job kind of lonely.
Thinking about it makes me remember the time I fell asleep standing up and Frank kicked my legs out from under me.
The warm sweet smell, the white walls, the roar of the oven when Frank opens the door to shift the loaves.
Suddenly falling…twisting…everything out from under me and my head cracking against the wall.
It's me, and yet it's like someone else lying there— another Charlie.
He's confused… rubbing his head… staring up at Frank, tall and thin, and then at Gimpy nearby, massive, hairy, gray-faced Gimpy with bushy eyebrows that almost hide his blue eyes.
"Leave the kid alone," says Gimp.
"Jesus, Frank, why do you always gotta pick on him?"
"It don't mean nothing," laughs Frank. "It don't hurt him.
He don't know any better.
Do you, Charlie?"
Charlie rubs his head and cringes.
He doesn't know what he's done to deserve this punishment, but there is always the chance that there will be more.
"But you know better," says Gimpy, clumping over on his orthopedic boot, "so what the hell you always picking on him for?"
The two men sit down at the long table, the tall Frank and the heavy Gimp shaping the dough for the rolls that have to be baked for the evening orders.
They work in silence for a while, and then Frank stops and tips his white cap back.
"Hey, Gimp, think Charlie could learn to bake rolls?"
Gimp leans an elbow on the worktable.
"Why don't we just leave him alone?"
"No, I mean it, Gimp—seriously.
I bet he could learn something simple like making rolls."
The idea seems to appeal to Gimpy who turns to stare at Charlie.
"Maybe you got something there.
Hey, Charlie, come here a minute."
As he usually does when people are talking about him, Charlie has been keeping his head down, staring at his shoelaces.
He knows how to lace and tie them.
He could make rolls.
He could learn to pound, roll, twist and shape the dough into the small round forms.
Frank looks at him uncertainly.
"Maybe we shouldn't, Gimp.
Maybe it's wrong. If a moron can't learn maybe we shouldn't start anything with him."
"You leave this to me," says Gimpy who has now taken over Frank's idea.
"I think maybe he can learn.
Now listen, Charlie. You want to learn something? You want me to teach you how to make rolls like me and Frank are doing?
Charlie stares at him, the smile melting from his face.
He understands what Gimpy wants, and he feels cornered.
He wants to please Gimpy, but there is something about the words learn and teach, something to remember about being punished severely, but he doesn't recall what it is— only a thin white hand upraised, hitting him to make him learn something he couldn't understand.
Charlie backs away but Gimpy grabs his arm.
"Hey, kid, take it easy. We ain't gonna hurt you.
Look at him shaking like he's gonna fall apart.
Look, Charlie. I got a nice new shiny good-luck piece for you to play with."
He holds out his hand and reveals a brass chain with a shiny brass disc that says Sta-Brite Metal Polish.
He holds the chain by one end and the gleaming gold disc rotates slowly, catching the light of the fluorescent bulbs.
The pendant is a brightness that Charlie remembers but he doesn't know why or what. He doesn't reach for it.
He knows you get punished if you reach out for other people's things.
If someone puts it into your hand that is all right.
But otherwise it's wrong.
When he sees that Gimpy is offering it to him, he nods and smiles again.