I remember the Song that was Playing

I remember the song that was playing when I died. It was “Only the Lonely” by Roy Orbison. I was looking into one of the heavy duty ovens in back to see how much longer Mrs. Alberts would have to wait until the Cinnamon Buns she wanted were ready to be frosted, when I felt a dizziness accompanied by a sort of sweaty feeling.

My left arm went numb, and I started breathing heavy. I fell backwards into one of the rolling tables and at the same time, knocked over a sack of flour which poofed up into the air like a tiny mushroom cloud.

All those years of red meat,and gravy, fried potatoes, and fatty Danish had caught up with me. I had been busy all morning, non-stop since I walked through the door. Little did I know it would be my last day on earth.


Mrs. Alberts never did get her cinnamon buns. I could smell them starting to burn as I heard her faintly calling with mild concern, into the back as I lay there on the floor. I was mostly unconscious. But I could hear her watery distant calling, as if from the bottom of a well, and I also remember hearing Roy fading out and “Last Kiss” starting up, by Jay Frank Wilson.

I could see pigeons flying in a blue sky out beyond the open row of high, ancient, wire-meshed windows that ran just below the roof in the bakery, designed to release heat. I could hear muffled engines and distant voices. I was thinking about life. I was thinking about living.

It was the bright, sunny morning of July 18th, 1974.