The Allure of Sweets and Money

Tonight, I went to grab a coffee and dessert with my good friend, Lassie. Seems wholesome enough. But our little sweet stop was a sinister den of temptation, luring me toward employment.

Lassie and I strolled up to Ditmars Blvd. in our neighborhood of Astoria, headed toward a bakery she'd recently discovered. The streets were teeming with people, and though it was a Saturday night under a yolky-yellow full moon, I couldn't help but feeling something was up. 

As we approached the bakery, noting its full outside section, we saw what had drawn the uncharacteristically energetic crowd--a giant street festival, rivaling any typical street festival in Little Italy. It was a mesmerizing three blocks of arches of lights, an olfactory cloud of factory meats, and the obligatory layer of festival rubbish underfoot. Needless to say, we requested to sit inside.

Before the hostess sat us at the bar indoors, Lassie pointed to a sign posted on the door. "Hey look. Experienced server wanted." I felt a pang of temptation. I looked on approvingly as servers hustled from table to table, taking orders, dropping drinks, transacting cash. I could do this, for sure. A few days a week, and I'd probably make enough to offset any anxiety I have about spending money on frivolous but desirable things (like gelato!). 

The hostess led us past well-lit and well-stocked cases of cakes, tarts, cookies, cupcakes, and other treats that shall remain nameless. This is the treasure trove to which I could gain access, as an employee; I would have the key to the glass refrigerators. I fantasized about coming home with paper bags full of goodies, dripping with syrups and jellies, with boxes of pies stacked high in our kitchen.

I ordered a strawberry-banana layer cake, the size of which was obscene, and eating it was a gratuitous twenty minutes. All the while--as I said we were sitting at the bar, the hub of activity--I couldn't help but blurt out that sitting here made me miss working in a restaurant. That good frantic energy, the crossroads of coworkers and customers, the food...

Employment here called to me, like the street festival called to the neighborhood with false promises of joy and lovable freaks. But I knew better. It would be the siren song of my undoing. The ugly truth would be another period of my life exhausted, lost in the clamor of easy money and society. Feeling guilty and confused, I pulled out a $50 bill, no doubt evidence of my days at Cafe Gypsy, where good money is a given. 

We left soon after paying. When we got outside, the tents were coming down. The arches of lights, charming before, now seemed gaudy and mocked the refuse littering the streets and sidewalks. The smells had addled, the crowd had dissipated, and the carnies were no longer paying us any mind. The delusion had passed.

I walked home at a brisk pace, unemployed, but not uninspired.