Who Needs It?

am Kramer smiled pleasantly as he bagged a dozen seedless rolls and passed them across the counter.

"Some Babka, maybe?" he asked.

"Thanks, no. You charge too much." The female plunked three dollars on the counter and turned to leave.

"And eighteen cents for tax," Sam reminded her.

"Tax, schmax," she spat at him. "Who gets the money, you?" With quick, staccato movements the woman fumbled through her purse gathered the change, then tossed the coins on the counter. She snatched the bag of bagels, turned on her heels and strode out of the bakery.

Sam trudged to the back of the shop and grumbled in the direction of his partner, Irving Kissel. Irving was a specialist in pastries and sweet rolls, his forte complimenting Sam's bread and rolls. Between them they coaxed a living from the little shop.

"What did you grumble? Speak up. You know I don't hear so good," Kissel said.

"I said who needs it?"

"Needs what?"

"Business, that's what." Sam pulled a wad of dough from a tray and tossed it to the counter. "For thirty two years now I got to listen to complaints, take insults, work sixteen hours a day and struggle to keep in my mouth a little food. Who needs it?"

"Needs what, food?" Kissel was barely listening. "No, dummy, business." He carried a bowl of flour to the counter spreading a thin layer on its smooth surface. "I could make more money would I work for some big chain bakery like Friedmans. I could be a person."

"Never," Kissel said, nodding his head sagely.

"Never what?"

"Never a person. Bakers aren't people. Look on the facts, Sam. You're a baker like your father and his father before. Baking and customers is all you know, so how could you do anything else?"

Sam looked up from the rolling board. "Working for someone else I could have some time off. Sarah would like that and now that my son is a big deal Psychogamist,"

"Psychologist," Irving corrected.

"Whatever," Sam ignored the interruption, "and we are alone, she would like to have me home more."

"Why?" Kissel asked.

"How could I explain to you?" Sam asked. "You never been married so what would you understand?"

"My brother was married," Kissel said, "and he never had trouble with my understanding."

"I know. That's why he threw you out from his house, you should live by yourself and give him some peace."

"It was my own choice," Kissel corrected.

"Hah," Sam snorted and began to fold rolls from chunks of dough.

At two A.M. Sam and Irving turned down the ovens and closed up shop for the night. They walked in silence for several blocks on Ninth street before Sam finally found the courage to speak what was on his mind.

"I talked over with Sarah the other night, Irving. We decided, how I feel, you should buy me out my share of the business and I get a job by Friedmans."

Kissel stopped short and stared at Sam. "You who?"

"You heard me, Kissel. Buy me out my share the-"

"I heard, I heard," Kissel said, his hands waving in the morning air, "but your words I don't believe."

"Believe them, Kissel. I mean it."

"But Sam," Kissel protested. "Twenty seven years?"

"Is enough, my friend!" Sam finished. "You will buy me out?"

"You're sure, Sam?"

Sam nodded. "I'm sure."

Sam Kramer and Irving Kissel were partners in the bakery on Ninth street and Sixth avenue for twenty seven years. During that time there had never been a contract. The entire operation began with a four thousand dollar investment and the partnership sealed with a handshake. They never had a misunderstanding nor a doubt about each other. Now, at three A.M. on a city street, Irving bought Sam's share for two thousand dollars; half the original investment.

The next morning Sam entered the office of Henry Goldman, personnel director for Friedman's Bakery. Goldman was a young, energetic, shrewd man with a quick mind for figures and a more than fair ability to judge a man. He studied Sam carefully. He saw an older man who would be fairly tall if his shoulders hadn't rounded from years of being hunched over a baking counter. There was a paunch, not large, but observable. He saw gray hair, a pallid, seamed face, watery blue eyes, a bulbous nose, and wide mouth that turned up at the corners to meet seams etched into sunken cheeks. What impressed Goldman most were the hands. Thick, flat with muscular fingers and palms spread from years of kneading. Hands that said 'I know. I can.'

"You want to work for Friedmans, Sam Kramer?" Sam nodded yes.

"Bread and rolls, right?" Sam nodded again. "You're good?"

Sam didn't nod. Instead he said, "You bet I am."

Sam's first impression of Friedman's production facility was nothing at all like he expected. It was a huge structure with cavernous doors that swallowed up trucks and men in great numbers. Mingling odors of cakes, cookies, pies, and breads of all descriptions floated on the night air. Sam passed into the cavern with several others.

"Hey you," a man shouted as he ran over. "You Kramer?" Sam nodded his head. "Follow me," the man said, leading Sam to an area near the back of the plant. He pointed to a counter and stack of trays with cut pieces of dough. The stack was almost seven feet high. Sam removed his hat and jacket, laid them on a chair and pulled on a new, starched apron. He reached for a tray.

"Here, old man, let me help." A young man reached up and handed Sam two trays. He offered his hand. "Murray Freed," he introduced himself. "When you fill a tray for baking, ring that bell over there. Someone will run it to the ovens."

"Don't I get to do my own baking?" Sam asked.

"We don't even get to take a leak," the young man said.

Their shift broke at dawn and the pair headed to the bus stop.

"Why're you working at Friedman's?" Sam asked as they walked.

"To learn and save money so one day I can open a shop of my own," the young man answered. "And you, why are you there?"

"Because I was tired of owning my own." There was a wistful smile on Sam's face. "I was sick and disgusted with business."

"You owned your own shop and gave it up for Friedman's? How could you?" The young man was incredulous.

A bus rolled to the corner and Sam got on, ending further conversation. He paid his fare, waved bye to Murray, sat and closed his eyes. How indeed! He got off at his stop and walked toward home. Sam was exhausted. True, he worked just as hard in the little shop on Ninth, but he never knew pressure.

Keeping up was difficult, particularly since he was sixty three and his new associates were in their twenties. He thought of the old shop and a vague longing pervaded his feelings. He reached his apartment building and dragged himself up the stairs.

"It's you, Sam?" his wife, Sarah greeted him.

"You thought, maybe, it's the president," he joked. "Of course it's me."

"Breakfast's on the table," she said, ignoring his quip. "Eat something."

She sat opposite him at the table and watched as he picked at his food. Her rapport with Sam was strong, feelings shared without need for words.

"Tell me, Sam."

"Tell what?" He dropped the fork in his plate causing a clatter.

"Something bothers you," she said. "This, I know. What it is, I don't, so you have to tell me."

"I'm just tired, Sarah," he said, then left the kitchen. "Later, maybe, we can talk. Now I just want to shower and sleep." He spoke without looking back.

Sarah cleaned up and followed Sam into the bedroom. She sat at the edge of the bed and began to massage the muscles in his shoulders and back. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over and ran down the creases in her cheeks.

"Don't wait too long Sam. Not too long." Sam Kramer was snoring, caught up in his exhaustion.

A week later, Goldman visited to the plant. Curious, Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Goldman spoke first with the foreman, then with another old-timer who worked in the plant. After a few minutes, Goldman turned away as the old man removed his apron and walked toward the locker room. Sam knew the old man had been canned. His stomach sank as Goldman turned and walked in his direction.

"Hello, Sam Kramer," Goldman said as he neared. "How do you like the activity here in our beehive?" Sam was about to answer but the loquacious Goldman went on without stopping for breath. "Good to see you're keeping up your quota. Just had to let a man go. Fell behind too many times. Shame, too. He's been with us a long time."

"An old man you let go? What's he to do?"

"His problem," Goldman flipped. "Not mine. We got a quota to meet. If we don't meet it, there's trouble. Can't get too sentimental you know. Well," he clapped Sam's arm, "Gotta go. See you next week." He scampered off before the last words were out.

Walking to the bus that morning with Murray, Sam began to put little facts together, things he'd noticed at the shop began to make sense. Murray pulling trays, skipping lunch to help fold rolls, staying around to encourage Sam.

"I never knew we had a quota," Sam said more to himself than as conversation.

"Sure," Murray said. "All the time. The old man rarely filled his. That's why he was canned."

"He's no slower than me."

"He is too," Murray rebutted.

"So," Sam commented, " maybe he is slower because there's no Murray Freed working next to him."

Getting his paycheck was an odd feeling. Odd because it was the first time in his sixty three years he received one.

"Always when I needed money I took from the cashbox and put in a cash-out slip. Never once did I get a check," he told Murray.

He couldn't wait to show Sarah his check, but when she saw it, all she said was, "I'm not impressed. To me you give cash. That paper you give to the bank."

When he returned from the bank he put the cash in her hand. "That's better," she told him. To celebrate, Sam took Sarah to a restaurant and then a movie.

The next day he was off. By eleven he was on Sarah's nerves. By eleven ten he was on his own.

"I'm going for a walk," he announced.

She turned her eyes to heaven. "Go. Please!"

Sam strolled aimlessly in the warm afternoon sun. He had no idea where he walked and barely noticed the neighborhoods changing. After hours of wandering Sam was suddenly aware of his surroundings. He was staring into the display window of the ninth street bakery, admiring the cakes and pastries; wrinkling his nose at the bread and rolls.

He sighed, a deep, shuddering, resigned breath, walked into the bakery, and directly to the back room. The familiar warmth of the oven melted the tension and tiredness from his muscles. Kissel looked up from the paper he was reading.

"Sarah called. Says supper's ready soon, you should come home," he said.

"What made her think I'd be here?"

"How should I know?"

"How's business?" Sam asked.

"How could it be?"

Sam threw his arms in the air, a gesture of disgust.

"Why always do you answer a question with a question?"

"So who does that?" Kissel demanded.

Sam snorted. He moved around the shop, touching, holding, drinking nostalgia with his eyes and fingertips. "Who's baking the rolls and breads for you these days?"

"I am," Kissel told him.

"They look lousy!"

"You want artistry? Go to Friedmans!"

"I did," Sam countered.

"Good. I'll bake you a medal."

"Wise guy." Sam gave a mock salute. "Sorry I took up from you so much time. I'll go home and eat and leave you to your shop." He turned on his heels and headed out.

"Sam," Kissel called.

Kramer turned at the front door. "Nu?"

"You have something you want to say to me?"

Sam shrugged and pushed through the door.

The next morning, after a particularly hard evening, Murray suggested they stop for coffee before catching the bus. When seated and served, Murray looked at Sam and raised his eyebrows in question.

"What's up, Sam?" he asked.

Sam bit into a doughnut. "Up? Nothing's up."

"Not true," Murray prodded. "Well?"

Sam was silent for a moment

"I don't know for sure. Just nerves I think."

"It's Friedman's, isn't it? You don't like working for the company. You miss your own shop and your partner, er.."

"Kissel. I should miss Kissel?"

Murray nodded. This young man was wise beyond his years, Sam thought.

Another Friday arrived. So did Goldman. Another man was fired. Goldman approached Sam.

"Keep up the good work, Sam," he said. "You're proof I can still pick 'em."

He patted Sam's arm and was gone. When Sam picked up his paycheck that morning he quit. At the bus stop he shook Murray's hand and said thanks.

"For being so kind to," he groped for words, "for all your help. I wish you only good luck in whatever you do." Without another word, Sam Kramer boarded his bus and was gone.

"You got what I told you?" he asked Sarah when he entered their apartment.

"In the envelope next to your breakfast." Her smile was brilliant as she answered.

He ate, put the envelope in his jacket pocket, gave her a peck on the cheek, then left. Sarah watched him from the window as he trudged down the street, headed toward Ninth. She wiped her tear stained cheeks, turned her eyes heavenward, and and silently prayed: "Thank you, God."

Sam Kramer strode into the Ninth street bakery, threw his jacket on the bench in the corner, then tied on his familiar, worn apron. He smiled as he inhaled the fragrances of Danish pastries and layer cakes. Kissel glanced up from the cake he was icing.

"And what do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Your bread and rolls are terrible," Sam said. "I am back to improve the quality of the goods we put out. Maybe I can help salvage some business."

"And a little matter of two thousand dollars?" Kissel wanted to shout, to dance, but he kept a dour look on his face.

"The envelope is in my jacket pocket," Sam nodded toward it with his head.

They worked silently together for a while, each involved in his own thoughts. When the last loaves of bread were in the oven and all the cakes iced, Sam wiped his hands on his apron. He walked over and put his arm around Kissel's shoulders.

"Remember when I left here I said to you, who needs it?"

Kissel looked at Sam. "So?"

Sam's eyes were moist. "I do!"

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