God’s Cupcake

Turn off U.S. 101 onto Redwood Drive in Klamath and follow to its end, and there you will find the Methodist Church. Under its shadow lay a large expanse of graying asphalt, a parking lot for Sunday service and shoppers and mail-getters visiting the Bazard’s Building.

The Bazard’s Building would lead me the long way around to the Methodist Church, a church I did not attend as I was Catholic. The redwood structure and its dominating size intrigued me, as did the steel-built Bazard’s Building.

Sometimes, I would find quarters or perhaps a dollar bill on the floor, usually on my dad’s side of the bed, where he took off his pants before bed. Other times, I could find a quarter or two, maybe pennies, nickels, and dimes, too, in his pants pockets that he left on the floor and did not bother to pick up when he changed into clean britches.

At nine, it was my job to vacuum the carpets and gather the dirty clothes. My parents believed we kids had to earn our living and that we should make good husbands and wives when we were old enough to move out.

Chores completed for that Saturday, I rushed down to the Bazard’s Building and straight for the bakery. Inside, I would pick out two German chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting and pay for them using my ill-gotten bounty.

From there, I’d slip out and over to the church, and the back door, where if you knew how to do it, you could lift the door by its knob, rattle it slightly, and it would pop open. Once inside, I sit on the floor by the altar and eat myself into a sugar high.

Being Catholic, I did not see this as a sin, as I always gave thanks for the two delicious cupcakes before devouring them. Suddenly, I heard voices at the front door and quickly scrambled to hide. 

Hugging my knees up to my chin, I sat in the recess of the altar, listening to the voices as they moved from one side of the sanctuary to the other and back again. Then, like that, I heard them leave.

Not wanting to chance again being caught, I crawled out of the sanctuary to the side room of the church and the back door. I listened intently for voices before I opened the door and sneaked outside.

Pulling the door closed, I swung my legs over the wooden porch and started to peel the paper cup from the cake. I realized then I had left the other cupcake under the altar.

As I was getting ready for my second entry, I was interrupted by my brother, two sisters, and one of their friends. Instantly, they saw my cupcake and wanted some.

Knowing I had one still stashed in the church, it was with a heavy sigh of resignation that I divided it into four pieces and gave one to each of the little beggars. They gobbled the treats down and then wouldn’t leave my side, so I wandered west, up the street to home with the four in tow.

Because I could never shake them, I was stuck at the house and never made it to the church again that day. That night, I lay awake thinking, wondering, and worrying about my treasured delight hiding under the altar.

I fell asleep, having promised myself to recover it after services, which we did not attend. No, we attended Saints Robert’s and Anne’s at the far southern end of Del Norte County.

After church and breakfast at the Beehive Cafe, we returned home. I quickly changed into my play clothes and went outside.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when the last churchgoers got in their car and drove away. Another 15 minutes passed before the Reverend and his missus began their short walk around the corner, past Jeff Morgan’s house, and to their congregation-provided home.

Trying to act nonchalant, I walked up the sidewalk to the now-empty parking lot, up the path to the ranger road, before climbing down the embankment behind the church. Quickly, quietly, and stealthfully, I jimmied the door, entering, rushing to the altar, only to find my cupcake gone.

Feeling sad and sorry for myself, I raced to the back door. As I started to go outside, I looked down into the trash can only to see my cupcake in the bottom, covered in dead and dying ants, aside from an empty can of Raid.

Later that day, my mom got a visit from the Reverend, and I got an ass-whipping. And as if that wasn’t the worst of it, the Bazard’s Building, having sold to Simpson’s timber company, closed the following Wednesday and never opened again, leaving only the post office operating.