Shorts4Dinos
Shorts4Dinos
Pushin’ Biscuits
wc: 4151 2025
We’d barely gotten started on the first five batches. The special gluten-free predawn special. Then glutenated plain, vegan, cheese, cheesybacon to come, his hands awhirl, Jacob, eyes on the dough, shaping and slicing and me standing to watch, no explanation—we were behind.
We had met at 6 that morning, more like 6:10, after Bez the cook had let me in with their “new guy?” and let me sit and wait until Jacob showed up finishing a cigarette, already ruddy and whirring an apology and explanation about his friend in need last night and a breakup and a forest of mushrooms and beer just a little more milk, just a little, like that. Perfect. So I was like fuck yeah we’re gonna get fucked up tonight. We didn’t end up deciding to do all that, I think we’re gonna save it for another night, but we still stayed out pretty late and I slept through my alarm and the thing whirred and the sun was still only visible conceptually out the bay windows.
He walked around twisting oven dials and rolling the cart and retrieving the giant mixer and whisk from the back and I just followed him, nodding and trying to remember where the utensils in my hand were from. “I put one and a half of these and then here the directions are off, you want a cup more, but I was like yeah, I’ve been there, as low as you’ve gone, I’ve been there. I actually used to work this job five times a week but it was too much, it’s so stressful even at like, 32 hours and I was being a real asshole to everyone and hearing voices so for my own mental health I moved it down to four. But yeah they said if he wants to have a girlfriend maybe he should date a woman, yeah that’s good, see how it sticks to the sides of the bowl? And even then they were crying and so of course I sat there with them because I know how it goes, you know? Put some flour out like this. Fuck that guy, yeah. Okay so now we dump and shape nice and long, sprinkle, and feel it, feel how it breathes?”
It gave, almost warm, under my palms and he looked me in my face for the first time “They fell asleep not exactly in my arms but yeah every five inches gets a tick, five wide too but then like I walked around the lake and was like oh I’ve got four hours but it was really three in a. half which is why yup in half, then half again. So unless someone else gets their heart broken I should be on time tomorrow.”
He took over, his hand like a river through, around the dough, occupying all the liminal space, fluid, dancing, the dough too, a miasma of flour rose to his chin then the sheets were full and in the oven and we were back to the mixer and the shuffle expanded and we were glutenated and the boss and the line had joined Bez and was watching us and the sun was casting shadows and people were jostling and a little kid said “these are the best biscuits ever” and Jacob literally guffawed and muttered “hockey pucks” at me.
It didn’t help his darting eyes that they had placed the bakers in full spectacle behind a thin wall of glass like we were classy or pastries not wearing whatever and crinkly, splattered aprons from a baker only Bez remembered, shoving biscuits into the oven in the basement of a three-store plaza below the market, highly trafficked with the curious and vacationing stopovers, tourists, locals on a date. But and still the customers loved to compliment or comment or stare as Jacob tried his best to teach me the process. He was lean like a shadow, Jacob, undoubtably Anglo-Saxon, he wore a hat and had long bronze hair pulled back and tucked up underneath it, a few grey strands milked his temples. Not quite a baker’s hat but something you’d see on a British street corner outside a bar or bakery sometime before either of us were born. A checkered shirt.
We chuckled over the [dumbass] kid and gawkers on the first break, the blindness and stupidity and lack of respect. We weren’t a [fucking] sideshow, we were just working, just—we stood on the splitting sidewalk, grass tufts fermented the cracks. He took the first drag from his cigarette. He’d already offered me one.
I could tell his mind was humming by the way his cheeks trembled. Well, not his cheeks so much as his cheek bones. The upper part, just below his eyelids. And his fingers. Fingertips. Hummed or trembled. It just seemed like his bones wouldn’t stop vibrating, or couldn’t, or he didn’t want them to which was only clear when he wasn’t using them—when the butt was in his mouth and his eyes softened, the fingertips went wild. Nothing to occupy their vibrato, flaked in dried dough, but still not wringing his apron. When he smiled, I remembered his name was Jacob. I knew it was Jacob, I just also remembered it.
“We’re a little behind, but you’re doing great.” Jacob said.
“Thanks.”
“Just make sure to add more buttermilk.”
“Okay, sorry, thanks.”
“No, it’s good, I do it all the time but usually too much. We’re on, like, either side of perfection.” He chuckled and looked at me, his blue eyes and broom twine moustache became anchors for the concept of his face, which I hadn’t fully grasped yet. It was like I still couldn’t see him three hours into meeting him, like his face was there but it wasn’t yet a person. Just minutiae or something, new ideas that took time to understand but made it hard to look away. People flowed around us. “How are you holding up? You’ll get used to the pace, but don’t worry today you’re just following me.” The cigarette found its way back into his mouth. “A heads up, I don’t usually take a full lunch, just a bunch of small breaks.”
“Whoa, really?” That sounded awful, but seemed appropriate.
“I mean I smoke, so I take some breaks then. But not, like, full ones. Don’t worry, you can take whatever breaks you need.” His voice was not quite raspy, almost warm. His front teeth overlapped like mine. He took another drag and held it there, a pride in the way he stared up the street at the people streaming down towards us. I looked at the bench across the street. A squirrel was scratching at the seat, a nut in its mouth.
“How ya like it so far?”
“It’s good.” Which was not the first word that came to mind. Necessary maybe, or the only job that’d gotten back to me.
I turned around to take in the workspace from a distance. It was a high-ceilinged affair, the majority taken by the brewery’s boasting fermenters, bench seating and long bar. Biscuits and chocolate were pushed into opposite corners as strange little square ships that buffered the flow of people until they ordered food or reached the shared veranda, which overlooked the stadiums and aquarium, wharf and piers and iconic mountain. We were behind and below the famous Market, with its flying fish, gatling pigs, and handmade puppets. Polka drifted through the air, somebody sneezed.
“I don’t have any formal experience either, I was just on the line and wanted to learn. It’s cool that you just do it as a fucking hobby.”
I shrugged, “You ever bake biscuits at home?”
“Not really, that seems kind of masochistic.” He chuckled. I smiled too. “Masochistic biscuits.” There was another pause “How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.” He put the cigarette out on his shoe and searched for a trashcan.
“Seventeen.” The squirrel was trying a different plank. I would’ve guessed he was thirties.
“The boss said nineteen.” I shrugged.
We passed Orien on the way back in. He greeted us, and continued on. Jacob thought of something and told me to wash up while he told Orien something. It took a while for Jacob to come back. When he did he was alone.
Jacob went to the boss first, who appeared concerned but didn’t leave his post at the register. Then he went to Bez who went to the line who sent concerned glances out the window and Bez put some bacon aside. Otherwise, the constant flux of customers continued the churn. The oven beeped, I sliced, people lingered.
A firetruck arrived. Jacob was by the giant mixing bowl. It was on, but his eyes were on the vehicle. He motioned for me to check the oven and met me there.
“He’ll probably have to go home—they could use another minute, just turn them around—he said there was a shooting outside the pharmacy so he couldn’t get his meds.” There was something wistful in the way he said one of those things, but I was rotating the oven batch and burned my forearm, making me jump. The mitts were too short and the baking sheets were large.
“Careful.”
“What happened?”
“Hot and wobbly, behind.” Bez sped a bucket of gravy by.
“I found him towards the end of it. He’d already rolled onto his side and was reaching out into the space in front of him like there was something to grab. Shit man.” He broke eye contact with me and his jaw shimmered again. “He didn’t lose his tongue which I was afraid of. He was able to answer the question ‘Are you okay?’”
“What’d he say?”
“I’m having a seizure.”
It probably wasn’t helpful to say I knew a fast route to the hospital. The firefighters brought Orien to our corner of the capacious miniplaza, taking vitals in a nook between the shop and the floor to ceiling windows that enclosed us all. He was well out of my view, not that mine could much waiver from the new type of biscuit, relayed to me still, apparently, very much behind schedule. So when a customer lingered then pried “what happened” Jacob replied “None of your [fucking] business.” In a tone so harsh the manager briefly pulled him aside but all that did was have him come back shaking his head and move two steps faster. My feet and back were beginning to hurt. I thought I heard the boss say to Bez it was nice of him to do it out there. I wondered if we would have closed down or taken an hour or something if Orien had died.
“Get three cups of coconut milk, three teaspoons of vinegar, a half batch of the flour mix—”
“Corner!” Bez again.
“Thank you, but make sure it’s the one with the green lid. It’s in the fridge on the left side in the middle next to the vegan butter which should be in there,” he pointed at the fridge, which was closed. “too on the middle shelf behind the”
“Corner, back around.” Bez.
“let me know if we’re out of”
“CORNER!” Lev this time, loud as hell but across the kitchen, on the line. It was noticeably louder, the brewery we shared the space with was seating people.
“and I can get some more from th—”
“BEZ.” Like we were sharing a shirt.
“—rage, have you seen”
“BEZ!” Arm holes, neck hole, right up in the cochlea.
“Feel free to add”
“YOU NEED THIS?” Box of oranges or something.
“and Orien”
“NO? COOL.” Lev walked away, a masonic tattoo on the back of his neck. Something like TURGID underneath.
“as much added in while you’re mixing, I’m going to go grab a spatula and talk to.” And he was gone and I didn’t remember how much vinegar I needed.
He had taken it out though. It was nearing noon. I stood by the ingredients and searched the space for a recipe. I opened the oven and checked a batch, but the temp went way down and they needed more time. I tried to change the timer and was able to stop the count but couldn’t figure out how to start it. Bez whizzed behind me. I felt the peeling eyes of the manager and disappeared behind the fridge.
Jacob approached already speaking. “Going on prep next, I’ll scoop the shortening. It’s so gross.”
“I can do that.”
“No, I want you to learn the basics first, like the flour ratio. Trust me, it’s really gross.” He began to walk away then turned around. “Wait, do you want a lunch break? I just looked at the time and was like, whoa, you’ve already been here like five hours, you should take a break.”
It seemed like a test. I looked around and caught the manager still watching from the far side of the kitchen.
“I can, um, it doesn’t matter.”
“No, don’t worry, I’ve got that. You should take a break.” He smiled at me and his eyes were friendly, the tremor beneath them kind. I accepted. He brought me around to where the biscuits were reheated and turned into sandwiches. Lev was humming heavy metal as he slathered a biscuit in jam, turkey. PUTRID his neck read.
“Grab one.” The line cooks were buzzing, short a worker. Lev and Amelia and the other one I hadn’t met yet but was really tall and seemed like she played drums. The three of them moved with such coordinated speed, there was barely space for us to reach a hand in and grab a fork. Like a ceiling fan on medium-low.
“It’s okay, I brought a lunch.”
“Oh, you did? Okay cool. Usually, you can grab one but maybe not this time.”
“No worries, I’ll go get my lunch. Can I just go right out there?” I pointed to the bench on the veranda, where I was sure to see the view.
“Oh yeah, for sure. Do that dude, wherever you want. Fuck yeah. Enjoy.”
I smiled and went to collect my lunch which I’d kept in my backpack I’d dropped off to the side when I’d first arrived. It was still there, just next to the firefighters. And Orian. Mostly Orien. Like right next to Orien. In the small space between him and the wall. He was bent near prone and a firewoman sat next to him, whispering into his ear. I asked the one that was standing around with a lazy smile and eyes on the menu if I could grab the lunch, pointed. He shrugged.
I approached until they acknowledged me, or fell silent and looked up, a glare making clear my intrusion. That acknowledgement felt like permission though, so I took a couple pointing and stammering steps toward my lunch until I was leaning over Orien, bent at the waist with a hanging claw on his far side and another smudging the glass for balance for what felt like a groping, looming, eternal silence until I made rustled contact with the bag and tried to withdraw and I had to shove off the window but I didn’t push hard enough or I was still kind of off balance, so I stumbled a little and avoided Orien but bumped into the crouching firewoman who lost her balance and fell into Orien, catching him with a knee in the back of the ribs. Orien definitely grunted, which didn’t make anybody look good, especially the firewoman whose sharp look I did my best to ignore as I took my lunch past her permissive coworker, who nodded and said, “Got it, nice.”
On the bench a sigh overwhelmed me. Biscuit dough splotched my arms and mind. I wiped my face. It felt well into the afternoon. I could see city, water and trees—good. I groped in my paper bag. It was so early all I’d packed was a loose sausage, an apple and a whole carrot. As I chewed my lunch, I relived finding the unmarked and empty bakery nestled below the tile mural and main drag, veranda empty and sky an especially vibrant and vivid blue. I checked and rechecked my directions from the assistant manager who’d interviewed and hired me, decided not to text the boss in solidarity with my mysterious, tardy coworker. The edge of the city was welcoming, the calm salty Sound reflecting the beauty of the sky, the islands speckled in evergreens and early summer deciduous. What was this? A job? A lifeline? Desperation or calculated risk? Pops was out of the hospital, but he’d be back soon. I took in the same view now, the sky paler, surrounded by the excited buzz of people. I chewed my deconstructed salad. Drank some water. Stared into the middle distance. Thirty minutes happened. I went back inside.
Orien was nodding and sitting up when I returned. The firefighters were packing up and ignored me. I felt the manager’s eyes. Was I late? I joined Jacob in the back, he noticed me glancing at the manager, the impassive eyes seemed beadier with distance.
“Oh no, you’ll be fine. They’re just stressed because they’re down a worker.”
“I made the firewoman knee Orien.” I grimaced at the handprint on the window.
The customers clapped and watched as the firefighters led Orien out the door and sat him where I’d just had lunch. Great minds.
Bez asked “Do y’all smell something burning?” Their mischievous grin at odds with their still slicing knife as they gestured their crown towards the oven. We opened it to find the biscuits I’d forgotten to time before lunch. Jacob hadn’t been using the oven, so busy with prep.
“Oh no!” He threw on some mitts and took them out, knocking them with a fist once they were on the counter. They sounded like planks of wood, “Nice.”
“Hard candies!” Bez said.
“I WANT ONE.” Lev from the line.
“Ah, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t figure out how to put the timer on then forgot to tell you before lunch.” Jacob carried them to the compost bin and slid them in.
“THAT DOESN’T GO THERE.” Lev.
“I didn’t put it there!” Bez. The two chuckled to each other.
“These have been here, what, forty minutes? How did I not notice?”
“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.”
“Don’t worry about it, I do that all the time. Look so if you press this button the time starts, same button resets it then if you press this one then the one next to the time you want to change you can press the up and down arrows to change the time, then back to the start button to set it.” I nodded, staring at the timer. “Is there a way for Orien to get home?” He wondered aloud.
“Huh?”
We stared at him through the translucent coworkers bouncing along their line, the manager doing paperwork at the counter, around and up and back again to the poor man hunched on the bench. “Shoot, I should offer. I don’t drive but maybe we could organize a taxi.”
“I—” but he was gone, by his side in a heartbeat, consoling fingers atremble, dancing on his shoulder. I was relieved, they both seemed to relax a little, slow, decompress. Nodding, reassuring, genuine repeated concern and honest, completely sound alibi. Jacob rejoined me as I joined the process of preparing the dry ingredients for the next day.
“The firefighters let his closest contacts know, they spoke on the phone. He’s got family in town, his mom is actually on her way to come get him.”
“Oh, great.” Seemed appropriate, even under the circumstances.
“Yeah, glad we don’t have to figure that shit out, huh?” He laughed a side eyed laugh and turned back to the spinning machine but only for a moment. He turned to me “You want to get a Fribawdi after this?”
“Um…” I was planning on going home. Lying down. Telling a wall about the day. Wondering when I could quit. What other flavor of job I could apply to. But it was sunny and warm and “sure.” I wasn’t sure what a Fribawdi was.
“There’s this great little community garden a block away. I’ll show you.”
“Great, yes, good idea.”
“Okay?”
“Thanks, yeah. Sounds fun.”
“Great.” His tremoring smile had begun to feel familiar. “Probably only need to fill a couple more bins anyways.”
We did in a blur, followed by a trip to the storage fridge; a dank and unwieldy chamber in the multilevel underground parking structure below the building from which I registered endless buckets of sour cream, pyramids of boxed shortening and a cohort of floral arrangements whose source I assumed had stake elsewhere in the sprawling market. The crowd made way for our foul aprons and beleaguered cart, returning promptly to find Orien had finally left and there was nothing more to be done, truly, nothing, go wash our hands. I smelled sour and soggy, like a chewed up old shoe. As I scrubbed, Bez approached with a handful of bacon, “see you tomorrow?” they asked.
I took a strip, but they kept their hand extended and I accepted the rest and returned their grin. I thanked them and departed for my backpack, where the manager pulled me aside. “Great work today.” A southern gummy bear drawl sparkled his reserve, “We would love to have you back tomorrow, is [minimum wage] okay?” His eyebrows raised and his chin shifted back, I could have sworn he held his breath. It seemed a gamble to find out if I believed I had worth, or knew what it was or maybe he knew my real age or desperation or just that was just business, and yeah I needed the job but he needed to make money and but like what was the difference in that and a few dollars an hour but it was a restaurant but minimum wage seemed low for being a full on baker even if it was just an endless array of well-placed biscuits. The longer I paused the less realistic more money felt, and I acquiesced. I guess I was more desperate or afraid or lonely or young or stupid. Regret burned me a hole in my stomach as he beamed and shook my hand.
I met Jacob where I’d taken lunch and followed him to a bodega where he grabbed a couple of tall, colorful cans marked Fribawdi from the bottom shelf of the beer fridge. The guy didn’t ask for my ID.
He led me down the hill past an apartment building and into a lush garden contained by a chain-link fence. He opened the can with a click and leaned against the retaining wall, I did the same. He withdrew another cigarette and nodded to me. “If I could pick a way to go, if I figure there’s nothing left here, I’d choose heroin.”
“I hate needles.”
“I hear it’s worth it.”
“I think I’d sky dive.”
“You’d have to get certified, you’d be attached to a professional.”
“I’d jump past them. I’m pretty quick.”
“I’m afraid of heights.”
“But then you’d be flying.”
“Same with heroin.” We shared a laugh and Jacob’s eyes unfocused as he took a drag. “What’s your sign?”
“Sagittarius.”
“I knew it.”
“What? Why?”
“Me too, that’s why we get along so well.”
I looked up at the sky. Still a cloudless day.
“This is just bonkers in the sun.” I motioned to the flowers, garden et al.
“Right? I can’t wait for you to get to know everyone, Mandy and Damien weren’t even there. They’re both so great. You’ll be here tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, I think I should be. It won’t be like today, right?”
“Well, Sundays are when the cruise ships come. There was just one today.” It seemed he had more to say but when he saw me grimace, he decided to pivot. “It’ll be fine. You did well. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to do Sundays alone.” He took another drag, sipped his beer. “That first batch, I asked if you felt the dough breathing.”
“You said good biscuit dough felt like it exhaled.”
“You never answered.”
I thought about making an excuse to leave. I took a small grey stone from beneath a flowering scraggle of weeds. My father had had tubes stuck down and into his throat for days at a time. When it was dark and he lay prone, his eyes shut, the only certainty he was alive was the steady electronic beep. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Sure.” He nodded, his expression vast, as though I’d said something meaningful.
I tossed the stone into the garden, it landed with the smallest of thuds. The beer was cold, bitter and watery but still pricked my tongue with carbonation. The garden smelled of petrichor and cigarettes and city. We were quiet. A car drove by. I thought about leaving. I hadn’t tried the biscuits and I didn’t want to. But of course I would.