by Thomas J. Kunz

When I arrived at a Freehold bakery one Sunday morning, the smell of fresh pastry clung to my nostrils. Fresh bread steamed from the window display. A man filled jelly donuts behind the counter. A folded, red handkerchief hung from the back pocket of his blue, denim jeans. A white cooking coat, two sizes too big, hugged his body. My eyes scanned the cookie sheets as I waited for him to assist me.

"Excuse me, "I said. "Need some cookies, please." When the man turned around and my eyes met with his, a childhood dream came true and fell apart at the same time. He stood with his crooked baker’s cap and slapped flour off his hands.

"Mr. Springsteen!" I said. "I don’t understand. Why are you working in a bakery?"

"I’m not just workin’ here, mister. I’m the boss."

"But…you’re Bruce Springsteen. You can sell-out twenty-five shows at Giants Stadium in twelve minutes."

"You feelin’ all right, mister?"

"Are you?" I nearly tripped over my own feet.

"I’m flattered, but this isn’t some brilliant disguise. I’ve been twenty-five years burning down the road in this bakery."

Bruce placed candles on a birthday cake and raised his head at me.

"So, what can I get ya, mister," he said.

"I…I don’t know."

"Well, everybody’s got a hungry heart. There must be something."

"You see? Right there. Hungry heart."

"I don’t understand."

"Hungry heart was one of your biggest hits. Come on, you know it!"

"I’ve been sayin’ that expression for years. Look you can try to prove it all night, but I’m gonna need a reason to believe."

"Okay, where are the cameras?" I looked around the bakery. "This is some sick joke on the fan, right. The VH1 crew is messing with me. Hello?" I turned around in place and waved my arms.

"VH1?" Bruce laughed. "I try not to watch too much TV. Always fifty-seven channels and nothing on, anyway. Look, I’m gonna tell you point blank. I have a bakery to run. Yes, sir." Bruce glanced at the decorated cookies that rested behind the polished glass displays. "Mister, I was born to bake."

My mouth dropped. Num fingers twitched at my side. "What if I can prove it? When do you break for lunch? I want you to come with me somewhere." My mind wandered a few blocks down to the local music store that carried all of his records.

"Well," Bruce scratched the scruff under his neck, "Little Steven comes in at noon to work the register. Probably around then, I guess."

"Little…never mind. So promise me, then. Lunch?"

"Fine. I’ll meet you at Candy’s Room. It’s a restaurant near the bus stop on 82^nd Street, next to the factory. The township’s been working on the highway since a water main broke last night. There might be a detour. Cars were getting lost in the flood and had to take the backstreets."

"Stop!" I screamed. "I can’t take it anymore."

Bruce iced a tray of heart-shaped cookies. I stood in awe, watching the boss take such pride in his design.

"Try one of these," he held up a cookie. "Let me know how they are."

I bit into the cookie and the red icing dampened my lips. The sugar ruptured on my tongue and sent sweet tickles to my brain. "Wow, Bruce. That’s a fine tastin’ cookie."

"Have another. Two hearts are better than one."

I rolled my eyes. "Have you always wanted to be a baker?"

"Well," he said, removing his cap, "lots of bakeries in this town went bankrupt over the years. I guess mine was tougher than the rest. My mother used to drive all night just to buy me some fresh rolls. I always had a love for fresh bread. The bank never agreed to cover me with a loan for the first year. I guess it’s the price you pay for starting a business. I try to keep my prices low, unlike the other bakeries in the next town, but it’s hard to be a saint in the city. I guess growing up at my father’s house taught me a lot. Still, sometimes I feel like my best was never good enough," he dropped his head.

"Don’t say that, Bruce. You run a fine shop here, and the cookies are fantastic."

I felt bad for him. The man made cookies better than any song on Lucky Town or Human Touch. Honesty danced in his voice, the same passion that cried to me on his albums.

Bruce frowned at his worn hands. "Sometimes working this job breaks the bones in your back. It’s a death trap."

"You got to get out of here while you’re young, Bruce. Maybe you weren’t born to bake. Ever considered a career in music?"

"Always loved the guitar. My mother and I saw one in this window display outside a store once. Wouldn’t buy it for me, though."

"Imagine if she did."

"Well, that’s in the past, now." He glanced at his watch. "Look, I’d love to stand here and talk to you all day, but I got a job to do."

We stood stone-like, suspended in our masquerade, and all of the memories I had of his music—the long drives, summer barbeques, the sound of his voice in a sold-out arena, the weeping cry of his harmonica—rang through my ears.

"You take care of yourself, Bruce." As I walked out, I bit into another one of his delicious cookies. "Hopefully someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny."