Not ten feet from a pair of
twenty-somethings celebrating their new roommate status over coffee
and Danish, and not twelve feet from an elderly man counting out the
pills he has to take with every meal, a collection of cakes and
pastries fill a small glass tower at the end of the linoleum countertop at the Marzipan Bakery. Arranged according to size and beauty, the
cakes are a kickline of chorus girls in canary, sunset, tangerine,
violet and robin’s egg blue. Artfully decorated with flowers and in
some cases warm sentiments set in careful, sugary calligraphy, the
cakes are attractive to all and desired by many, but together they
keep between them a secret: each and every one of them is an inedible
fake.
The cakes are Styrofoam forms shaped very much like tiny hat boxes, covered in flavorless wax and poisonous paint.
They're a tease of good things to come (through proper arrangement
with the management and a cash deposit) and like the cage dancers in
the foyer of a Nevada cathouse, they look better and promise much
more than the goods in the back room can supply.
This is a generally recognized
agreement.
The “working cakes” in the back
were baked days earlier and owe their moist, fresh texture not to
timely preparation or a mother’s love but rather to a cocktail of
preserving chemicals and an insulting amount of lard.
A tall figure stands directly in front
of the glass tower, his eyes fixed on a short, wide,
tangerine-dressed model wearing a yellow bow adorned with the words
“Happy Graduation Day Daughter!” A small white card marked with careful block lettering breathlessly promises that the cake will be "Delicious white cake marbled throughout with mouthwatering raspberry jelly". The tall man's jaw hangs open and his
shoulders slouch to allow him a better view into the case. He squints
and he tilts his head to the side, first to the right, then to the left. From deep
inside this man comes a low hum of contentment.
