Short story: He has risen, by Jack Marshall

2026-01-30 - 16:08

Rick liked to drink. Never too much but always enough. Even at work. Rick liked it this way and so did everyone else. He seemed nicer, placider, contenter. Then came along Mr Koshy, “The Little Indian”, all the way from Bangalore, India, to take over the Kansas operations of The American Institute of Baking—Rick’s workplace. Mr Koshy was a short, brown man who spoke just as loud as any American. He kept instability behind his eyes to make the trigger-happy Southerners think twice. This was the 1970s and the South was not used to an Indian in charge. America was busy but at least it was quiet here in Manhattan, Kansas. They drank and talked weather which suited Mr Koshy. He made a solid claim on being the biggest drunk in the state. Back home, he frequently rode motorbikes and even the occasional camel while blackout drunk, and even he knew Rick shouldn’t drink around heavy machinery. The Little Indian was in charge during daylight hours but at 6pm the machines took over. Flour and water were mixed in Vat A, while the sponge — a yeasty starter — rose and bubbled in Vat B. An hour later the two were married in Vat C and the magic started. Rick loved the smell of bread. It was the reason he’d kept the job for so long and the reason he kept it even after he wasn’t allowed to drink at work. He loved the smell of dough rising, the sour notes of yeast through the building, the smell of baked brown. For all his faults Rick was an excellent cleaner. The vats were polished and the floors spotless. He’d clean until 11pm then head to the Rusty Nail to refresh. Rick walked into the bar and sat next to Charlie. In comparison to the cleaner, Charlie was a good man. A high school science teacher who enjoyed beer more than he did grading papers, which is how he and Rick became friends. He went to church and kissed his wife slowly before work. Rick sat down and ordered two beers. “You’re here late for a school night, Charlie,” said Rick. “Do you know why civilisation exists?” Charlie replied. “For beer?” “And bread, but mostly beer,” said Charlie. “I was reading about it today in the National Geographic. They’ve found pottery in the earliest known habitations, and everywhere shit for making beer and bread. Pots for brewing. Pots of drinking. Pots for pissing. The only reason people stopped running around after deer and antelope or whatever was so they could sit down and drink a beer.” “And that’s why you’re here?” “Beer and bread are the reason we became human. We grew grains and we made bread and beer,” said Charlie. “I am merely carrying on that tradition this evening.” “A drunk like the rest of us.” “Bread and beer are one and the same. They bubble and rise, make alcohol and carbon dioxide, and you get something worth leaving the jungle for. We evolved for this.” “There’s alcohol in bread?” “No. It gets baked off. But as the dough rises there is alcohol. Beer is watery bread with hops for flavour. Your bakery is basically a brewery.” Satisfied with his lesson, Charlie finished his beer and left Rick with a pat on the back. The night buzzed off four and a half beers. Most days were a bore, so anytime the warmth fell Rick was happy to bathe in its light. He knew better than to try clasp it, for that is a sure way to lose anything. Better to bask than squeeze it to death. “Hello, stranger,” said a woman’s voice. She took a seat, a beer, and a look at Rick. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said reflexively, trying to process her appearance in the vacant space. Jerrica worked at the bakery with Rick. She the day. He the night. He’d only ever nodded and smiled when they crossed at sundown. He’d thought of her often but had not planned on speaking to her. “I got thirsty and bored. I’d go mad if I stayed at home.” Jerrica gave an extended look at Rick. “I’ve seen you at work for years now and you’ve given me anything more than a smile.” “I’m not a big talker.” “No,” she said. “You never said nothing either,” said Rick, looking at her. “Yes,” Jerrica smiled. “A shared mistake.” Jerrica picked at her bottle’s label. They talked family, a topic as popular as the weather in Kansas, about escape and why they never would. They spoke and drank quickly. There are only two kinds of people from Manhattan: Those who stay and those who leave. Those who stay never leave and those who leave never return. That is, apart from weddings and funerals. Both parties preferred it that way. It takes time to acclimate to living in Kansas and like a caterpillar turns to a butterfly, there’s no coming back from change. Jerrica laughed at something Rick said and almost stumbled off her chair. She slurred and smiled: “It’s bed for me. Unlike you I have to work in the morning. I’ll see you.” And she was gone. Rick sat quietly in blank thoughts. He’d need a few drinks tonight to mull over this meeting. Jerrica was walking joy. He had thinking to do. In a moment of perfect distraction, a group of twenty-somethings-year-olds bundled into the bar, taking up seats, space and eyes. Two of the boys made their way to the bar. “Two badgers, please,” a boy asked the bartender. Rick’s face crumpled in confusion at the request. The bartender nodded and began preparing the drink-cum-show with a shot of violent, volatile Italian liquor, a shaker of cinnamon, a flame, and a straw. The other twenty-somethings came to watch. The bartender lit the liquor and the alcohol produced a flame undulating yellow and blue, like a puddle of petrol. The bartender grabbed the cinnamon shaker and began dashing it onto the burning booze. Specks of light sizzled and sparked as the spice burned. A wave of burnt booze and cinnamon filled Rick’s nose and his eyes dilated. The bartender gripped an upturned water glass and held it a short distance above the flame, winding it around the yellow and blue, capturing the gaseous booze, and moving it lower and lower until the flame burnt itself out. The twenty-something-year-old took a straw and slid it under the glass, sucking out the trapped gas, steadied himself on the bar, rocked back and forth, and gingerly put the formerly flaming shot to his mouth, testing the temperature on his lip, and threw it back. “Shit,” said the drinking boy. “That’s a goddamn drink.” Everyone, including Rick, fell over with laughter. Rick looked at the bartender. “What the heck was that?” The bartender laughed. A twenty-something himself, in slacks, a Van Halen tee and topped with a whole lot of hair. “That’s a badger. Gets the alcohol in the air. It will fuck you up. Straight to your lungs without any inhibitors. Very clean.” Rick nodded. “Gimme one. I’d like to try that.” The bartender gathered his tools and began his work. Rick grabbed a straw and took a long drag under the glass, rolled back and smiled. He put the straw in his pocket. “Another.” Rick woke to a horizontal world. Blackout curtains kept the sun away while he dozed the day away. Not an unfamiliar scene. Dust danced on the light. Rick rose, brewed coffee, chewed painkillers, poured a little whiskey and drove to the bakery. He didn’t bother to look at the clock, the sun hadn’t set so he wasn’t late. Jerrica was on his mind. He needed more than hello. Rick’s silent mind clicked into lower gear and he circled around his issue: What to say? What did you do today? How was your day? Coming out tonight? Where did you go to school? Do you like the bakery? Banal. Banal. Banal. Motoring along the back roads, Rick held the wheel with his knee and rolled a cigarette. He thought of turning around. You miss 100 percent of the chances you take if you’re a fuck-up, thought Rick. The smoke felt good and he relaxed. At work he sat in the staff room, drank coffee and waited. Jerrica would finish soon. Maybe she would sit. Rick sipped and the minutes dripped. Six o’clock. The mug went in the sink. He tried to smooth his shirt and gave up. He stepped onto the bakery floor and stood in between the great machines but couldn’t see Jerrica. She usually finished work, walked the bakery, they would see each other and smile. But she was not there and Rick did not smile. He started work and told the thump, thump, thump, in his chest to be quiet. It was at this point the Thirst began. He was already looking forward to a visit to the Rusty Nail. Rick stared at the erect vats and saw towering beer bottles, the bread booze inside bubbling away. He worked, as he always did, by organising his mop, broom and vacuum cleaner next to each other. The floor was quiet after the last workers departed and left Rick with the dough, fermenting sensibly inside their stainless steel towers. He wiped Jerrica from his mind. The American Institute of Baking was housed in a long building built for hot American efficiency. Flour came in by the truckload at the southern end and left via the north in golden shelf stable loaves to feed the American populace. The bakery had a nice hum to it. Too many night jobs allowed too many thoughts in the dead quiet. The bakery was packed with noise-making machinery. Mixers, water tanks, proofers, dividers, monster ovens and wirey cooling racks. Rick progressed through the building. He sat a moment to rest, crouched with his back against a towering dough vat. Tuning into the machinery, he listened to the flour, water, and yeast as it turned into a canvas for one’s preferred breakfast spread, into an encaser of meat and cheese, into the wheaty backbone of the world’s greatest country. Sat there, contemplative like, Rick looked up at steel walkways suspended above the vats. He took a break, climbed the stairs, and made his way to the top of a humming dough vat with a porthole-style window to look inside. Rick leaned over the window and looked down. Nothing. He spotted a button saying “light”. With a press the vat flooded yellow. Below he saw a beige blob, covered in bubbles like a boiling pot of cream, frozen and suspended in time. The light flicked off. Rick’s hand felt through his pocket. A straw. He pulled it out and placed it between his teeth and put his weight against the heavy clasp holding the porthole closed. Saliva collected behind Rick’s teeth. He worked the window open a crack, slipped in the straw, and took a long drag. His eyes shuttered and his world concentrated on the tip of the straw. He inhaled, held it, exhaled, paused, and began again. Capillaries and pupils dilated. Skin sank with calm. Shoulders fell. Good, thought Rick. Good. Lying against the vat, hope popped into Rick’s head. He realised he looked forward to tomorrow. To see Jessica. He licked his lips and tasted the yeasty, boozy residue. He still had Thirst. Rick stood and readied himself for another draw at the boozy vat. The straw was gone from his hand. He looked down and spotted it twenty feet below. No matter, thought Rick, one big whiff and be done for the night. He put his hip against the window and pushed open the hatch. Warm bready boozy air wafted to Rick’s nose. The hole was just big enough for a man to fit in. Rick leaned forward and took a deep breath into the blackness. Eggs hit the pan. Water boiled. Coffee brewed. Bread turned to toast. Jerrica sipped and sat and daydreamed. She lived alone, a small mercy, but one that swallowed her at times when the sun didn’t shine. She longed to sleep next to a body. That was her usual headspace but today was different. Today she was thinking about a car, specifically, her need for one. The day prior she drove her father to hospital. A man, pissing blood, unhappy. She’d left work early, slightly hungover from her drinks with Rick, and dropped her father and the car at the hospital. He would drive himself home. She straightened her shirt and turned her mind to work. She’d been a baker’s assistant for four years now. Long enough to take on the maximum amount of responsibility while being paid the least amount of money. This didn’t bother Jerrica, she knew her work and finished each week content enough. She stepped out of the house and walked to a bus stop. Her work day started by sorting the loaves creeping out from the oven. The machines worked overnight while man slept. The dough was mixed the day before, fermented, divided, proved and baked. Hair netted, Jerrica stared down the oven, watching a glint of flame visible through the hanging heat-proof flaps that quivered as the machinery grumbled. The smell came before the sight. There was the usual aroma of golden brown but this morning it had an acrid note. Burnt porcelain and mutton fat. She knew a thing was wrong when the first loaf emerged. The bread was black instead of brown. The oven must be too hot, thought Jerrica, and picked up the loaf. The bread crackled as the crust adjusted to the cool air. She tore the bread open and saw the soft red insides. Her scream filled the bakery. The building shut down for good that day. The Kansas Department of Health and Environment ordered the bakery shuttered and the equipment destroyed. No one wanted bone in their burger bun. “Poor lady, she up and left after she found him in the dough, or at least what was left of him,” said Sam, sitting down for lunch after pulling down one of the ovens. “Poor her? I feel for the guy. Baked into bread! Looked like a beetroot fell into the mixer,” replied Max. Sam took a bite of his sandwich: “What happened to the lady?” “Moved to Texas the next week, I don’t blame her. Her father died the same week she found a man baked into bread. I’d leave too.” Sam leaned forward: “The Little Indian told me they scraped the rest of the man out of the machines as dough and baked him.” “No!” Max sat back. “Why would they bake him?” “Stop the fermentation. The dough kept getting bigger. It wouldn’t stay in the coffin.” The two men quietly chewed at their sandwiches. “There is something quite biblical about this isn’t there?” said Max. “You’ll have to explain that to me.” “Even after death, he rose again.” Asked what his intentions were when he wrote this fun, action-packed romp, the author replied, “While I was living in Bangalore I made friends with the wonderful Mr Prem Koshy, a stalwart of old Bangalore who runs Koshy’s Restaurant. As a young man, his father sent him off to Manhattan, Kansas, to learn how to make bread at scale using modern equipment and techniques at a top bakery school. If you visit Bangalore today you can still stop by Koshy’s Automatic Bakery for some top notch baked goods. But while he was in America there was an accident...”