It was 6:00 in the morning. I had just finished the first part of my bakery job, the leavening was done. Finally, all the fucking leavening was done, and we can all get baked. I took this opportunity to open the cash register and take out my bong. Rings of smoke soon floated up to the ceiling of the bakery.
Also, floating near the ceiling, was Leviathan.
“Holy shit!” I snorted, “it’s Leviathan!”
He looked like a long, thin, scaly, impregnable snake. A randomized, chaotic, cold-blooded beast.
“I can read your mind, you know,” bellowed Leviathan.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“And because I can read your mind,” he continued, “ I’m very sad”.
“Why?” I thought, but loudly, because he could hear me.
“I’m sad because there’s nothing interesting inside your head.”
“I can take constructive criticism,” I murmured, and hit the bong again. “How about a singalong? Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea…”
It was at this point that I usually admitted that I didn’t know any of the other words to the song. Smoking ganja all day every day can do that to you. There must also be benefits to lighting up 24/7, but I can’t remember any of them. Which tracks.
As I thought through all of this, the level-headed Leviathan had continued to sing. He did indeed know all the verses to that song. Maybe because he did not smoke blunts. How can you light up a spliff in the depths of the sea or in the heights of the Empyrean heavens? I could hear Job asking questions of the Lord, and then the reverb, with booming bass, for the thoughts of the Lord are very deep. As noted in Psalm 92.
“Leviathan, where is my levity?” I asked.
Leviathan was flying around, doing loops in the air.
“Don’t you have more baking to do?” he inquired.
“Yes, I will just go check the ovens and see if I can get a rise out of those buns.”
“Good,” he said. “Try not to get a yeast infection.”
I shuffled off into the next room to check on some croissants and garlic knots. They all looked lovely, so golden brown. My frazzled brain knew that it is easy to have leverage on a bagel—anyone can make them flip, turn them into snitches and narcs—but a croissant, oh, a croissant is suss. A croissant can’t be leveraged that easily. You need to find a way into the heart of the croissant. And if you get that far, and if you can make a croissant cry buttery tears, it will follow you around forever.
Back through the door I came. Leviathan transfixed me with a sad stare.
“Leviathan,” I whispered, “you look like you want to eat me.”
“Child,” whispered Leviathan, “it is you who are going to eat me. At a big banquet at the end of times. As seen in the Talmud.”
“Oh yes, Tractate Bava Batra.”
“How did you know that?”
“I have no idea!” I admitted.
“In the mean time, since you can’t eat me, there are scones.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “and cannoli, and focaccia”
I turned to my bong, and wanted to light up again, but couldn’t find my lighter. Good old Leviathan, he opened his jaws and belched flames in my direction. I got a good buzz from that. He singed my man-bun a little bit.