Yes, it has been a long time... too long

My first short story, based on Z himself, has just been made available in the Kindle Marketplace.  Take a look:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AXDELIQ

~A.C. Parry

Rise and Shine

No sooner did my mind drift off into the sweet oblivion of sleep than it was torn back to reality again by a sudden explosion of cackling. The screeching bursts of noise echoed out, filling the room, and boring progressively deeper and deeper into my skull with each successive concussion of pure sonic hate. 

Oh fuck you, alarm clock.

In the moments of blurry thought in between detonations of sound, I contemplate launching the offensive chunk of plastic across my room, reveling in that brief moment of silent flight, and the satisfying crash that was sure to follow.  However, the energy required to actually do that was well beyond me.  Worse, I knew with absolute certainty that an attempt would lead to little more than knocking the damn thing onto the floor.  Still attached to the wall, the cackling would, of course, continue unabated- mocking me, and punctuating my feeble attempt to silence it.  So on it goes,

screeching and

cackling and

begging and

annoying and

ordering and

demanding me to

open my eyes and

sit up and

get ready and

get moving and

 God DAMN IT shut the hell up! 

Sitting up in bed now, blankets half on the floor and hand still clutching the alarm clock, I begin to make the slow, arduous transition from being simply awake, to actually conscious. The silence left in the wake of the alarms insistent cry hangs heavy in the air around me, a weight that threatens to crush me back down into the bed, burying me deep into the mattress and pillows. My body begs me to give in to that weight, too- a desperate plea that, for a moment, I give serious consideration- before finally forcing my crusty, bloodshot eyes open in defiance.  The dark, blurry room around me slowly comes in to focus, and as soon as I can make out a clear spot on the floor in which to land, I lurch in to motion.  One foot peeling out from under me leads the way, sliding off the edge of the bed and down toward the floor, until it plants itself onto an open patch in between articles of clothing haphazardly shed a few hours earlier.  Summoning what little energy I have, I lean my body over, and, with a little help from gravity and an involuntary grunt, manage to pitch myself forward.  My other foot comes crashing down on top of a shoe, far to the left of where I intended to step, and I stumble wildly before righting myself, weight swaying uneasily between my two splayed feet.  Ok, I'm up... hard part’s over.

Muscle memory and instinct take over for conscious action as I go through the rest of the morning routine: stumble to the kitchen; switch on the coffee maker and drop a bagel into the toaster; over to the bathroom for a five minute shit, shower and shave; stumble back into the bedroom to get dressed; back into the kitchen to collect my breakfast; and 20 minutes after the alarm sounded, I’m out the door.  Morning after morning, week after week.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Driving at 3am offers little in the way of mental stimulation, which is probably for the best, as coherent thought would no doubt give way to introspective thought. Introspection would eventually mean questioning why in the living Hell I put myself through this day after day, and to that question, I know I wouldn’t have an answer.  Not a reasonable one, anyway.  Rationalizing working three jobs, eighty-some hours a week, often operating on only two or three hours of sleep would be difficult enough, but rationalizing it after 96 days and counting without a day off would be damn near impossible. 

In a few weeks, exhaustion and a nice case of walking pneumonia would lay me out for a while, effectively ending my self-flagellation-via-work, and forcing me to take on a more civilian schedule afterwards.  Until then, however, the grind continued.  I’m still not sure exactly why I was so driven to work the shit out of myself like that, though.  “I’m young, gotta do it while I can” was the only explanation I would offer others when they asked, and somehow, that flimsy answer became a mantra for me- something I’d repeat to myself over and over throughout each day, giving me the motivation I needed to keep pushing on.

Well, I suppose telling myself I had to do it while I could was easier than asking myself why I had to do it~

~ZtB

Chasing the Dream

      It started out innocently enough.  Fresh out of school and brimming with knowledge, working a great internship-turned-job, taken under the wing of an amazing pastry chef, and making contacts all over the industry.  Living the highlife, I thought, with one fist pumping the air in victory and the other gripping life by the balls.  I was on top of the world.  Then, I caught a glimpse of her: a stunning vixen leaning back against the bar- my dream.  My eyes locked onto her and I stared, captivated by her beauty, her perfection- everything I wanted, everything I strove for, and hoped to achieve embodied there in that one perfect vision. 

And wouldn’t you know it, she was staring right back at me…

      “If it seems too good to be true…” a faint voice echoed from the back of my mind, “then you’re probably still sober.”-  Words of caution from a chef instructor of mine. I realize now, of course, that she was right, but at the time her advice went both unheeded and misunderstood.  Drunk as I was on ambition and idealism, I watched as my dream cut a languid path toward me, and saw only perfection:  her radiant gaze blazing with the promise of success; lurid lips whispering all of my achievements to come; and her hips swaying like the inexorable tick of a clock, assuring me that her arrival into my arms was only a matter of time.  Even as she drew closer- almost close enough to reach out and touch, before sliding past me and strolling off in the most flirtatious of ways- even then, I caught only the sweet scent of victory rolling past me in her wake. 

Had I been a bit more sober at the time, a bit more humble, I’d have seen that old cougar for what she was- desperate, attention seeking, preying on the young and foolish, and with no intention to deliver on the seductive promises she gave out so freely.  But no, ambition is one hell of a drug, and I was blind, stumbling, non-verbal drunk on the stuff.  So up I stood, and off I went, to chase after that hopelessly immaculate dream, and to hell with anything that would stand in my way.

      Now, don’t get me wrong, I fully support and encourage people to strive for the loftiest goals that their minds can conjure.  Aim high, aim often, aim for your every desire, and anyone that tries to deride you be damned.  However, you should at the very least give some thought to those goals, and to whether achieving them is actually possible.

I didn’t.

My aspirations were filled only with the most perfect of lies, flawless in every aspect but their absolute impossibility.  That last little detail eluded me, however, either through willful ignorance or youthful arrogance- likely both- and I was left chasing after something that simply could not be caught.  Anytime I came close, I managed to convince myself that I was not quite close enough, and I’d push on, push harder, push past where I was and on to the next place, desperately hoping to finally catch up with her.  I never did, of course, but that never stopped me from trying. Even once I recognized the impossibility of my pursuit, I still kept at it- too conceited to admit how foolish I had been; too proud to stop and admit defeat- I am nothing if not stubborn.

      Though my drive and ambition pushed me far in the industry, with each goal I achieved there came a twinge of disappointment.  That old cougar would slide up beside me, and coo into my ear how much better things would be if only I’d leave with her, follow her somewhere else.  Inevitably, I would tilt my head back, drink deep that ambition until she looked good again, then stand with the unassailable confidence of a drunk, and agree. And damn it, each and every time her response was the same:

“Go on ahead,” she’s purr, “I’ll catch up with you.”

~ZtB

Speaking of Firsts...

“Do you like frogs?”  My hand, held extended and waiting toward the executive chef standing before me, slowly fell back down to my side. His eyes flicked toward me for only the briefest visual acknowledgement before returning to the two tickets dangling in front of him. My interview had just taken an unexpected turn.

“Well, yeah, I suppose.  Alive, and cooked.” I offered an awkward smile, but like my hand, it fell away unseen.

“Good, I’ve got three in my office.  You mind feeding them for me?”  A second glance up, this time awaiting a response.  The woman behind me, the pastry chef actually conducting my interview, forced out a laugh as she took my arm.

“Come on,” she said, chuckling as she turned me around, “I’ll show you where the office is.”

As we rounded the corner and made our way down stairs, something about that whole meeting left me feeling uneasy.  The inordinate amount of attention he paid the three plates of food before him; her nervous laughter and quick departure; the complete lack of interaction between the two of them; it felt as though I was a small child caught in between two bickering parents, their former affection for one other having long since completed a downward spiral into mutual hatred.  Within a year, I would come to fully understand the tension I felt between the two of them, but at the moment I was completely bewildered. 

Now, I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had just been introduced to the very first douchebag of my professional career.  Besides the aforementioned awkwardness, there were warning signs aplenty: the dismissive and condescending demeanor; the $90 department store slacks; the custom made waist-to-ankle apron; the fact that he informed me, later on in my interview, that his pants cost $90 and his aprons are custom made; a plethora of red flags that, in my ignorance, I passed off as simple eccentricities I thought inherent to the industry. I was young and stupid, ok? My rose-colored lenses of idealism had yet to be marred by experience.

Thinking back, it’s funny how my feelings toward that place have evolved over the years:  my blind ignorance and optimism when I started; my growing disappointment as the gap between my idealism and reality began to grow; my frustration as I realized just how ignorant I had been; and my relief when I finally gave my notice.  And now, finally, I am simply wistful.  That place in the heart of the city, my internship-turned-first-job right out of culinary school, to this day remains the best damn job I’ve ever had~

~ZtB

Another Beginning Come and Gone...

     There are few things that one may encounter on a daily basis that can incite more uncertainty and trepidation than beginnings.  The first time, starting something, kicking things off, taking the first step, making the first move… call it what you will, but nothing puckers the asshole in anxiety quite like a new beginning.  For me, it's a matter of perfectionism... and an almost crippling fear that I won't meet the nigh-impossible standards I set for myself.   This fear is not completely unfounded, mind you, as I will inevitably fall short of my own lofty expectations, and my initial fear will then be replaced by some degree of disappointment and self loathing.  Every.  Single.  Time.

Well, we all have our little quirks.

     See, this is the problem for me:  the foundation of each of these new beginnings is the culmination of every achievement that has made them possible.  Every goal I reach, every high bar I set and somehow manage to claw my way over, the absolute pinnacle of my every effort and accomplishment suddenly becomes the baseline starting point for this new beginning.   And frankly, it scares the shit out of me.  Granted, just how much shit is scared out of me is dependent upon what the new beginning is, but never the less- whether I’m facing a grand, life-changing beginning or a virtually insignificant one, the bowel-voiding terror, to some degree or another, remains a constant. 

     I only raise this topic, and my less-than-admirable issues with it, because my career has been replete with firsts.  First days at countless new jobs, or new positions; decorating my first wedding cake; catering my first party; hiring my first person; firing my first person…. more firsts and beginnings and new experiences than I can ever hope to remember, each with its own unique brand of debilitating anxiety .  However, each and every one has also been overcome.   I’ll admit, it wasn’t always pretty, but one way or another I always managed to push forward.

     This latest endeavor to chronicle my time as a baker- a time that spans the better majority of my life- represents another in a long list of beginnings.   As such, to say that I’m hesitant to make my first post would be a gross understatement.  Fortunately, this is not my first beginning, and over the years I’ve picked up a trick or two to help me work through them.  The most effective of which, or at least the one I have decided to go with for this particular venture, is pretty simple:  acknowledge my anxiety, admit to and accept my fear of failure… then say screw it all and plow forward at full speed.  If I make a complete mess of things to begin with, I can always go back and clean it up later~

~Z the Baker

Introducing: Z

First and foremost, welcome to the world of Z the Baker.  What follows is the mental drippings of Z, a baker and pastry chef who, to the very core of his being, is tired. Tired of the industry to which he has dedicated so much of his life.  Tired of the delusions of grandeur, the egos, and the arrogance of his colleagues.  Tired of the politics of the business. Tired of the deceit. However, despite his bone-weary disposition toward the industry, his passion for the craft itself remains.  Z's love for the art of baking lives on- as the smoldering coals of what was once a radiant conflagration of hope and idealism- but it burns on none the less. 

Now, I can guess your foremost thoughts at this moment:  "That's all well and good," you're likely thinking, "but just who in the hell is Z, anyway?" Well...

Z is, essentially, me. He represents all that I have done, and all that I hoped to achieve.  He shares my memories, and has lived my dreams. Z embodies everything that I aspired to be, everything I wish I did, and everything that I feared I would become- he is every iteration of my life as a baker and pastry chef... past, present and future.  That being said, what follows is my own mental drippings, musings, and memories, as seen through the eyes of Z.