Daily Bread
by Annabelle Batista

I’ve gotten used to the bizarre. Never really traveled the world, but I don’t need to. We’ve got enough whackos right here in Huntsville to last a lifetime. Like Jerry, for instance, our newest inmate. I heard he got all dressed up in ninja clothes before slashin’ the hell out of his victim with a home-made sword. Took his girlfriend with him, too and made a date out of it.

Now, I’m no crazy church-goer but I am a God-fearin’ man in principle. I don’t come here to judge these people because that’s for Jesus to do, right? I’m no self-righteous prick like some of the prison guards, thinkin’ that I’m protecting the country from evil. To me all this is like a circus. I hear literally the most outrageous, unthinkable things in the world. I mean, these guys are literally out of their minds with the stuff they do. And all I’ve got to do is cook three meals a day to hear it.

Whichever way, it sure is a step up from working at Roberta’s. That was my last job, and it did not pay well, I’ll tell you that. However, it did give me trainin’, and I’m thankful. I wouldn’t call myself a gourmet chef but I do like to think I bring a little something spicy to even the sweetest pies. If you know what I mean. And I don’t like to brag normally but maybe that’s why they asked me to serve death row. The last meals. It’s nothin’ hard, to be honest. Usually just a good broiled steak or fried chicken. And I don’t think too much into the morbidity of the situation. I mean, I’ve got to stay upbeat. It’s just a job, after all.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Randall Fly before his time ran out. I still don’t know who he is or what he did exactly to get himself in here. I’d never heard of him, and that’s pretty rare for me. All I know is that the man ordered toast for his last meal on Heavenly Earth. 5 pieces, slightly toasted, with jam on the side. No butter.
In all my 5 years workin’ here at the penitentiary, I’ve grilled a lot of hamburgers. I make great gravy, too and a French onion soup to die for (beg pardon). Among meals like those, a plain old piece of toast can be downright striking.

It’s not the food that’s so strange. It’s more like…why on Earth? What could toast possibly mean to this killer? I tried to think who used to make him breakfast like that. Maybe Mrs. Fly, or the girlfriend, used to sit down with him every mornin’ for coffee because it was the only free time they had together. Or like, he had a kid or something back home that’s much older now, but 14 years ago he loved making toast with his Dad before school. Poor Mr. Fly wants to go home and he just can’t.

But you know, I guess he’s right in one respect: eatin’ breakfast right before he starts a new day in God knows where. They do say it’s the most important meal, after all.