She meant nothing untoward by it, but suddenly I felt…I don’t know, like I didn’t belong. Like I was here to take advantage of this disaster, that this terrible thing that happened to other people was an opportunity for me to do something I could be proud of.
Just then a team of volunteers came in, dusty from work. They ordered their lunches. If the story stopped here, it might be perfect. There would be this little shop, cranking out these sandwiches, feeding the noble volunteers who would go back out there and fix this neighborhood right back up. And through the drama and the struggle and the glory of coming together in common cause, there would be this little bakery in the background, fueling it all. The story would be beautiful and wrapped up neatly, which would be nice because it was a great moment, an exciting time and place to be, and Le Bakery is great shop, run by great people, and it sells great sandwiches.
But this is what I mean by inadequacy. It would be nice for the story to end there, but it can’t. Sue’s comment reminded me that those dusty, sweaty lunchtime rushes can’t tell the story of this place before the storm. They can’t tell the story of where the place is now, after all the house gutting is done, when the neighborhood has to settle in to the long, bleak, unsexy work of permanent rebuilding. A few more places for food have re- or newly-opened since, and, two years on, the throngs of volunteers have diminished to a few bands here and there. The work is still going on, in some ways better—more professionally, more far-reaching than ever—but lunchtime at Le Bakery can be pretty slow now, a couple of orders here and there, some people coming by just to pick up some loaves of bread to make their own sandwiches.
Pinterest
