The best writer job I ever had was Gonella bread. I worked the night shift and took the bread orders . Everyone spoke Italian and yelled at each other all night long. Men covered in flour with aprons would scream obscenities then go back and work side by side wall night long. The long loaves and short bread would float around the bakery on a conveyor belts and fall all night long with a plopping sound I can still hear now. The bread that fell would be kicked to the side by the baggers.
The baggers all had red ink on their tennis shoes. That's because they would hold the Gonnella bags with the red ink against their shoes while they slipped the bread in. They stood all night long at the end of the conveyors bagging hundreds of loaves. They were different from the bakers who worked upstairs and were covered with flour. They walked around in their white t shirts and ignored the baggers. When it got really hot upstairs the bakers wore little white 1970s shorts and strutted around with their potbellies.
Why you read all them fuckin books jack? That's what I heard all night long. I told them I was a writer and they shook their heads. The bread orders died down at about two AM and I could read the rest of the night until the drivers came in for their routes. They asked the same question. Why all you read them fuckin books jack? After I while I didn't bother to answer.
At the end of the night I stuffed my leather jacket with warm bread and rode through the streets of Chicago in the early light. When I got home I took the bread out and my wife and I had some before she went to her job in an office building. That was a good job.
http://www.billhazelgrove.com/
The baggers all had red ink on their tennis shoes. That's because they would hold the Gonnella bags with the red ink against their shoes while they slipped the bread in. They stood all night long at the end of the conveyors bagging hundreds of loaves. They were different from the bakers who worked upstairs and were covered with flour. They walked around in their white t shirts and ignored the baggers. When it got really hot upstairs the bakers wore little white 1970s shorts and strutted around with their potbellies.
Why you read all them fuckin books jack? That's what I heard all night long. I told them I was a writer and they shook their heads. The bread orders died down at about two AM and I could read the rest of the night until the drivers came in for their routes. They asked the same question. Why all you read them fuckin books jack? After I while I didn't bother to answer.
At the end of the night I stuffed my leather jacket with warm bread and rode through the streets of Chicago in the early light. When I got home I took the bread out and my wife and I had some before she went to her job in an office building. That was a good job.
http://www.billhazelgrove.com/
