In spite of a constant lack of sobriety, Fletch Carnoustie was one hell of a pastry chef. Pies, cakes, little tarts with cherry fillings and sugary crusts that melted in your mouth, he invented his own recipes and baked them all day every day.
A product of humble beginnings, he had stayed in the house and baked as other kids in his neighborhood played ball or tortured each other. He reached his dream when he was accepted at the prestigious L’Ecole de Cruste, located in Upper Wannagannsett. He was tossed out of the school at the start of his second term, when it was discovered that he was more interested in the tart instructor’s buxom wife Lulu than in showing up for class. It was an ideal setup, for a couple of weeks, anyway. The instructor, one Arti Klann, simply couldn’t accept the fact that his wife or any other woman could possibly want to have an affair with this....this Fletch character. Fletch had buzz cut hair, wore thick lenses, and being only five foot three, looked up toward everyone with a myopic, one-eyed squint and a snaggletoothed sneer. It was disturbing until you got to know him.
Even with his suddenly shortened education, Fletch retained all he’d learned and went to work for a couple of fancy restaurants. Eventually he opened his own catering service, and began to build an impressive list of clients.
Fletch drank. A lot. He’d start the day with vodka, orange juice and toast ( once in a while he’d substitute vegetable juice; better for you, more antioxidants), followed by a mid-morning chaser of toffee liqeur. Lunch was three beers and a green salad, then he’d finish up his cooking day and head home. He’d read Epicurean Magazine and watch the Cooking Channel until....Bam!..his head hit the floor or sofa or bed. The next morning he’d stumble out of bed to do it all over again.
His sometime drinking buddy, Ralph Weirnd, a would-be gigolo, was practicing his male strip routine one day, soliciting constructive comment from a completely soused Fletch, when a brilliant idea struck.
"Fletch, can you bake a big cake that I can fit into? I want to do a surprise thing for my cousin Lesmeralda’s bachelorette party. All her girlfriends and a photographer will be there, and this could be a real career opportunity!"
"Sure, Ralph, when do you want to do it?"
"Two weeks from Saturday, seven p.m. at Lesmeralda’s place. I’ll need you to set me up and get the music started."
"OK, Ralphie, but this is gonna cost you."
Fletch worked on the cake for two days before the party. Ralph ok’d the icing and motif (quasi wedding-white cake with a little sombrero on top) and practiced getting in and out of the big cardboard cylinder in the center. He perfected his leap out, clad in a red thong, gyrating to the insistent and sexy beat of "Make That Thing Swing."
Saturday opened bright, sun splitting sky and nature abuzz. Fletch drank his breakfast and just because the day was so beautiful, had a couple more. When Ralph came by at six, Fletch told him, "You’re the goddamnedest best friend I ever had, god dammit, so les’ go to the party!"
"OK Fletch, I’m ready to roll, let’s load up the van."
"What’s the address, Ralph?"
"Nine Sixty-Six Oak Street."
"Alright, you get in the cake, and when we get there I’ll wheel you out of the van, and set up. Your cue to do your thing will be the music."
"Gotcha, let’s go."
"Bestest buddy ever."
Fletch’s speech was slightly slurred, but he walked steady and they got the cake into the van, Ralph into the cake, and a singing and whistling Fletch started the van, gunned the engine, and headed for Lesmerelda’s. Fletch was happy, and just to ensure continuous euphoria, took a couple of nips from the little bottle he kept in the glovebox. Dreamily, he guided the van toward Lesmerelda’s house on….where was it?….oh yeah, Elm Street.
Turning off S20 onto Elm, he saw the balloons and ribbons flying from the gate a few doors down, pulled up on the curb out front, and prepared to unload. He vaguely noticed that there was a lot of noise coming from the house, and a couple of festive
tables were on the lawn. This party must be well underway. He rolled the cake carefully through the gate and positioned it near the porch, where he could plug in the big boom box.
People crowded around, watching him as he tested the equipment. He scanned the tables for something to drink, but all he saw was soft drinks and fruit juice. What kind of a party was this?
A young lady swam into his vision.
"Hi, I’m Susan. Watcha got?"
"A surprise for the lucky girl." Fletch was clever. Didn’t want to give away the surprise.
Great, thought Susan, smiling. My ex decides to send a huge cake. Weirdo.
"All right then, we’ll be ready for the cake in five minutes. Let me get everyone to the tables."
Fletch was floating. This was gonna be the easiest money he’d ever earned. All he had to do now was turn on the music and Ralphie would do the rest. He staggered out to the van, had one more slug, and somehow made it back to the porch, the visual detail in front of him fading to a colorful haze.
The tables were full now, the din was earsplitting. He looked over at Susan, who winked and nodded.
Fletch fumbled and hunted for nearly a full minute, then finally found the button that said "Play". The bouncy hip hop intro boomed out, bass thudding…whoomp, duh duh whoomp, duh duh whoomp!
The top of Fletch’s latest masterpiece burst open and Ralph leaped out, his best exit from a cake yet, writhing in air, right on beat, padded red thong prominent.
The last picture in Fletch’s brain before he passed out was of a near-nude Ralph, puzzlement clouding his face, and Susan screaming while ten big-eyed and slack-jawed sixth-grade children stared in silent amazement.
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