Resurrection

 

Mr. Francis Hubbard was a creature of habit. Every morning, his alarm went off at 6.15 am. After performing his ablutions, he went for a brisk walk around the block, returning precisely at 6.45 am. His breakfast, consisting of two slices of toasted bread, buttered on one side, and one hard-boiled egg (boiled exactly for twelve minutes), was served to him at 7 am. He ate at the kitchen table whilst he read four different newspapers, paying special attention to the finance sections. At 7.55 am, he took a three-minute shower, stepping out of the bathroom in time for the 8 am news, which he watched in his bedroom as he dressed himself in an old-fashioned, black, double-breasted suit.

He'd never missed a day of work for the past thirty years, working even on weekends and holidays. 

His chauffeur arrived at half past eight and drove him to his investment firm. There, he spent his mornings making business calls, investing his own money and that of other people so it made more money. He took a break for lunch at 1 pm, which consisted of a sandwich (ham, egg and lettuce on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays; chicken on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays; cheese on Sundays), an apple, and a canteen of hot tomato soup.

Mr. Francis Hubbard lived by the idiom ‘time is money’, and was loathe to waste any time when he was supposed to be making money. So he ate his lunch at his desk, quickly and efficiently like he did everything else.

During the second half of the day, he attended business meetings, went over presentations, and listened to reports from his employees on how his competitors were doing. His day at the office concluded at 5 pm when his chauffeur picked him and drove him back home for supper, which consisted of meat and vegetables. He believed a brisk walk after his supper aided in digestion and unfailingly walked around his gardens before he retired to bed at 9 and read finance journals until 9.45.

To a casual onlooker, Mr. Hubbard might seem cold and unfeeling, almost Scrooge-like, but he was neither a cruel, nor a harsh man. He simply liked the rigid, disciplined schedule he set for himself, and did not expect his staff to follow it. In fact, many of his employees had worked for him for many years.

Nobody knew about Mr. Hubbard’s past or how he came to be one of the wealthiest men in the country. Being a man of few words and having no friends or relatives, he wasn’t given to regaling people with stories about his life. But people, especially his employees wondered. In fact, coming up with fictional stories about their employer’s life was one of the favourite pass-times at Mr. Hubbard’s investment firm. The most popular one was concocted by an ex-employee, who swore Mr. Hubbard was ex-mafia.

The stories were harmless, and although aware of the on-goings, Mr. Hubbard didn't mind.

When Mr. Hubbard woke up on the morning of 25^th November, he had no reason to believe that the day would be any different. He went for his walk as per usual, had his breakfast, read his newspapers, showered, and was being ushered into his car by his chauffeur at half past eight.

He rode the lift up to his office, and was walking the length of the short hallway to reach the door of his office when it happened.

His secretary had an open bakery box on her desk. Warm, decadent, rich aroma wafted from it, making its way slowly up his nostrils. He broke his brisk stride, pausing briefly at her desk, standing irresolutely for a second, before he forced himself to walk into his office.

Cinnamon rolls. That’s what was in the box. It had been so long that he had almost forgotten they existed. Oh but how could he forget? He remembered the first time ever he had a cinnamon roll...

"I said let it go, you scrawny little thief!" The big, burly woman who was setting up the display case at the bakery had a firm grip on little Francis’ arm and was shaking it violently. But Francis, having gone without food for two whole days, only held the cinnamon roll tighter, unaware that the fluffy bread was breaking into pieces and dropping to the floor. 

“I am going to give you a proper beating if you don’t let it go!” Her shrill voice seemed much louder in the quiet hours of dawn. Francis did not fear a beating; he often received them at home, but the same wasn't true for nourishment. His mother, an alcoholic, often forgot Francis existed. He didn’t mind it much when she was intoxicated—she simply slept most of the time.

But it worried him when she couldn’t buy booze. That was when she got really mean and accused Francis of stealing all her money. The verbal lashing was followed by a physical one more often than not. He was small and thin, and managed to slip out of her clutches most times; although sometimes she cornered him, and he couldn’t really do much except silently accept the abuse. The last time he received a beating was two days ago. It was so bad that he had run away from home.

He had been sleeping on the street, scavenging from bins for the past two days, but luck didn't favour him. 

This morning when he woke up after a fitful sleep on the cold, hard pavement, he smelt the most amazing smell coming from a stone building nearby. It was warm and sweet and made his mouth water and his stomach hurt with hunger. Pulling himself up, he followed his nose and reached the source.

Through the brightly lit window, he watched the men and women dressed in clean white clothes as they rolled out the dough, sprinkled something on top, rolled it into a log, and then expertly chopped the log in equal-sized pieces. So fascinated was he by the precision and skill that for several moments, he simply watched, forgetting his hunger. But the gnawing emptiness soon made itself felt.

He watched the trays being pulled out of the oven by a burly woman, and considered it a sign when she brought them right to the display case where he was standing. The only thing that separated him from the rolls was a thin sheet of glass. 

When she turned her back to fetch more trays, Francis knew he had to act quickly. He snuck inside through the partially open door, reached out and flicked one delicious, golden disc from the tray, his mouth watering, the sugary icing sticking to his fingers.

But before he could escape, the woman returned. He was caught!

“Get your filthy hands away from the trays!” she shrieked, giving him a whack on his back for good measure, making him cry out. "I said let it go, you scrawny little thief!"

Francis couldn't, wouldn't let go. Craning his neck, he tried to take a bite, when another man entered the room.

“Martha, what’s happening? Who is this?”

Francis caught sight of a stern-looking man dressed in a crisp white shirt and a tall white hat.

“He is a thief! Caught him stealing from the display case.”

For what seemed like an eternity, the man surveyed Francis from tip to toe.

“Let the child go, Martha.”

“But Mr. Sherwood...”

“You may leave us now.”

Even at that young age, Francis was impressed. Mr Sherwood made the woman listen without raising his voice!

“What’s your name boy?”

“Francis.”

“Are you hungry?”

Francis nodded mutely, not wanting to believe that he would get fed.

“Come on. Let’s get you washed up first.”

After a quick wash and a change of clothes, he was given a cinnamon roll. He still remembered the first bite. Soft and warm and yeasty with the sweet filling in between the layers; he clearly remembered the sense of comfort and security he had experienced in the warm bakery.

His life would be vastly different, had he not met Mr. Sherwood. 

Now, as he reflected on the deeply buried memory, he came to a startling realisation---so caught had he been in trying to make the best possible use of all that his mentor had provided him that he hadn’t even noticed when he had arrived at his destination.

Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes briefly, then called his secretary on her desk phone.

“Mrs. Burton, I want you to order a cinnamon roll for me please.”

“I beg your pardon sir, I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Did you say cinnamon roll?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, Mr. Hubbard. I’ll be on it right away.”

The news spread like wildfire around the office. Mr. Hubbard had ordered a cinnamon roll!

Joe from HR said he wouldn't be as flabbergasted if he looked out of the window and saw an asteroid hurtling towards our planet. 

Asteroids were known to hurl themselves towards earth from time to time. But Mr. Hubbard never deviated from routine.

Within moments, there was a betting pool going. The vast majority of them bet on him having a stroke. It fell upon his secretary to find out the truth.

“Was the cinnamon roll to your liking, Mr. Hubbard?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Dare I ask what the special occasion is? I hope we haven’t missed celebrating your birthday!”

A distant look came into Mr. Hubbard's eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I was celebrating the day I started living.”