Everything Is Cake

Daniel O’Reilly

Brad Rapidburger looked anxiously at his wristwatch for the fourth time that minute, deflated to discover once again that time had hardly moved since his last check. Either his watch had slowed down to an interminable crawl, or he was stressed about the party. He’d been hovering around outside his mother’s house in the rain for what seemed like hours, waiting to show up until the last possible moment that politeness could reasonably allow. He was always this way before a party. The discomfort caused by showing his face in front of people aroused a nausea wide enough to swallow a whale, although he wasn’t strictly speaking struck by a ‘social anxiety’ at these moments. It was contempt that sickened Brad. The noisome pressure to appear greater than one actually is in front of the party, to attract attention like courting capercaillie in spring heathers; birds which now irked his conscience and augured suspicion toward himself and others. It was a suspicion that spread daily into a dense jungle of cheap thoughts, detrimental ruminations existing solely to bring Brad Rapidburger down. These wearisome misgivings -

It was already just before seven o’clock and he could no longer delay his appearance: after all, it was his own party. Sixty-four years young. A strange expression! Brad had no use for such expressions. He would settle for just cake instead. Only the prospect of cake made the party seem tolerable to him any more, even if that somewhat small detail might eventually split the party, fracture it along as-yet invisible battle lines, erupting into an irreconcilable tribal conflict. Probably.

“Finally, the birthday boy’s here!” his sister chimed upon opening the door to a visibly disconsolate Brad, before announcing at the top of her voice to the other partygoers, “Secretary Rapidburger has arrived at his own party!” which was followed by a strained ‘hurrah’ that drifted unenthusiastically from the adjacent parlour. The siblings air-kissed before Brad pushed rudely past Sarah into the impressive lobby of his mother’s house, folding down his rain-soaked umbrella and placing it in the already overflowing receptacle by the door, which in turn started to leak water all over the parquet.

“Is there cake?” Brad curled his lip upwards.

“I’m fine Brad, thanks for asking,” Sarah answered sarcastically, more in mockery at herself for expecting too much from her brother, than toward his characteristic cold indifference. “The wounds have nearly all healed up now, which is a relief. But I’m still out of a job. Uh! To tell you the truth, It’s mom I worry about. She’s been quite out of sorts lately. Hasn’t said a word to me or your brother for about…about three weeks, now. It’s weird. I don’t even know if she’s been speaking to Seth. Anyway, how have you been, birthday boy?”

“Is there cake?”

“Fuck you, Brad.”

Sarah slouched off toward the kitchen, leaving Brad to enter the parlour on his own. His eyes were instantly met by the gazes of about twenty well-heeled merry makers, who were either sitting on the family furniture or standing around the mahogany dining table, which had been converted into a makeshift buffet-bar for the occasion. There had surely been more people gathered earlier in the day, but by now some folk had most likely taken affront at Brad’s absence and gone somewhere else instead, perhaps even aligning with different parties in different places. Most of the guests were affiliated with the party through Brad’s office, or business associates connected to the family. There was however a group of four strangers sitting in the corner that he was totally unfamiliar with, and who weren’t speaking to anybody. The party itself also seemed to be in a weird phase - mature, but soused - having started with cocktails sharply at midday, (as per his mom’s unwavering instructions,) before progressing to gin and whisky when discomfort at Brad’s absence had grown. Seven hours of waiting and drinking and waiting. A lot of water flows under a bridge in seven hours.

“Bradley, you asshole, good to see you darling,” Laura swooshed over to break the awkward silence in front of the others on Brad’s behalf, little moved by her ex-husband’s entirely predictable and prolonged lateness. Coming close to his ear in mock-affection, she whispered gravely, “You really shouldn't pull this shit on your mom, especially in front of the party. You know how proud she is. Didn’t even say hello when I arrived - and I arrived first, by the way. She’s just sort of sat there all day, like she is now. Hasn’t even wrinkled an eyelid. You ought to at least apologise; you can see how much work her and Seth have put into this god-awful affair.”

“Is there cake?”

“Of course there’s cake, you idiot. Just go apologise to your goddamn mother, you brute, so we can forget about the awfulness of your birthday for one more year. I’m bored. I’m going to dance; join me if you aren’t too…cake.” Laura glided away just as quickly as she had arrived and began writhing about in front of the window, making curious shapes and rhythmic gestures, despite the complete absence of music. A great show for anybody who happened to be walking by in the dark street, Brad mused.

Her departure left the way open for the other attendees to extend their awkward congratulations in turn, which they did after forming a tidy line.

“Big guy!” Governor Steve grabbed Brad and squeezed him overzealously, emphasising how pissed he was for having to wait seven hours before being able to slip away. “What, you’re too big in the party to stoop down to us underlings?”

“Is there cake?”

“Huh! That’s my boy: laser focussed as always. Good to see you’ve still got it, bud. See you at the conference on Monday? I’m sure there’ll be cake. Lots of cake for everybody!” The Governor was already pulling on his wool overcoat before he had even finished his sentence, and then bolted directly for the door once this final obligation to the party had been discharged. Brad wondered if the other guests would also disappear just as quickly. With any luck!

To Brad’s relief, a familiar face was waiting next in line. “Bradley, darling, you absolute bore,” Sylvana winked affectionately despite her embarrassment, “I’ve had nobody to talk to all day, you lout. How can you treat me so badly? But more to the point, ha, why do I always come back for more? Who can tell me why? Nobody here, that’s for sure! I’m bored stiff of these cardboard people, these Senators and Attorneys General, etc. And as for that damn delegation from Florida,” she motioned toward the quiet group seated in the corner, “everybody’s just… cake! I’ve no other word for it. How deliciously boring! Ha!”

“Is there cake?”

“Just look around, you oaf,” she whispered, “everybody’s cake, especially after waiting for you like idiots in front of your mother all day, with nothing but bourbon to pass the time. Everything is cake! Happy now? It must be some kind of wet dream for you, Secretary Rapidburger.” Sylvana retreated to the cluster of bodies surrounding Brad’s mother, somehow delighted by how awful everything was.

So, after a few further mind-numbing exchanges with businesspeople, distant family members, and even that dreadful deputy Mayor, (who only ever seemed to show up to anything to show his face, so to speak,) it was finally Seth’s turn to approach. Brad’s mom’s new boyfriend. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen years, gauging from his patchy beard. As he extended his smooth, young hand in strained courtesy toward Brad, he hissed through a thin smile, “Secretary Rapidburger. You really screwed the party, you know that? You make it too easy for people to abandon you - especially when you don’t even show up for yourself! Where were you all day? And don’t tell me you were at the Capitol, because everybody’s in recess. Anyway, you’d better make things up to your mom, otherwise I’ll be left to pick up the pieces, just like always!”

“Is there cake?”

“You don’t deserve our cake, Brad. Learn some duty already. Learn to respect the party, and the party will respect you!” Seth lurched off and began to comfort a junior officer who was nursing a martini alone in a corner.

The welcome wishes having been finally dispatched, Brad was free to mill about as he pleased. His first inclination was to meet the delegation of strangers tucked in the corner under the rubber plant, who had not moved since he arrived and had not even extended any birthday greeting - for which he was privately grateful. Curious about these rebels to courtesy - three men in tuxedos and a woman in an asymmetrical black Balenciaga dress - Brad pulled up a chair and attempted to strike up a conversation.

“Is there cake?” he asked with typical Brad-ness. “Is there cake?”

There was no response from the Floridians to his monomaniacal question. In fact, there was no movement at all from the group. They seemed frozen, as though embalmed by the awkwardness of the moment. Moving up closer to one of the men, a rather portly guy with an excellently trimmed ginger beard, Brad began to stare hard into his unflinching eyes for a minute or so, and then gasped just as though he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He then rushed across the room to Laura, (who was still throwing curious shapes in front of the window,) and began to rifle through her handbag, his hand eventually emerging with a slim box.

“Err, why do you need my compact, weirdo? You know you’ve got perfect skin, you absolute turd.”

Ignoring Laura, Brad crossed back over to the delegation from Florida, opened the compact and held the mirror under the nose of the seated woman. She wasn’t breathing! Stunned, Brad began to poke gently at the woman's shoulder, before inadvertently breaking off a large chunk of her arm, which crashed to the floor in a pile of crumbs and jelly. Having lost part of its supporting structure, the head of the woman then also fell off after a few terrible moments, the most splendid and detailed part of the cake now lying ruined and inedible on the carpet. A realistic eye made of icing looked back up at him from the mess on the floor, causing him to turn away. Then he noticed that everybody else had stopped to stare at him, the whole room consumed by an awful silence. Was it really such terrible manners to ruin the Floridians if they were so fragile? Looking immediately over at his mother sitting quietly in an armchair, Brad could not tell from the curve of her lips if she was smiling at him, or displeased by his conduct toward the Florida delegation. No doubt mother had needed to pull considerable strings in Washington to draw these luminaries all the way out into the styx of deep Georgia for the party, only to end up lying partly smashed on an antique Persian carpet. Still, his mother did not bat an eyelid.

Turning his attention to the sofa upon which he was perched, Brad poked and prodded at the glorious green leather arm of the family Chesterfield - before once again breaking off a soft piece from the corner! It consisted of a light sponge with cream and jelly running through the inside, but the icing had perfectly imitated a lightly worn antique sofa! Striding across the room to where Sylvana was entertaining herself with two young men at a game of poker, he chanted once again his mantra, “Is there cake?”

Sylvana did not reply. All three people seemed stuck in their game. Sylvana was moments away from pulling a straight flush on the two unsuspecting suckers, and taking both sets of car keys lying on the table. He could not understand her hesitation to trump them with her superior hand. Sylvana never deliberated this long. Not unless…she too was cake!

Turning, Brad waved his hands in front of his mother’s eyes, which were glazed and distant, like Neptune in the cold outer rings. She said nothing.

The silence of cake was absolute.

And yet, it was still his birthday…

Hesitantly at first, but with a growing confidence, Brad tasted each cake, each guest, in turn - and there was much to try. As he ate, he wondered idly if the world outside his mother’s house had also been affected by all this cake. Perhaps the rest of Georgia had become cake in the meantime? Was there now a cake Washington, with a cake President, sitting at a cake Resolute Desk, making cake decisions? Had the chain of command been overwhelmed and severed by cake? Was America falling to a cake invasion? Worst of all though, as he chewed, he wondered if it might have in some way all been his fault. After all, he was the only one immune to the cake so far. On the other hand, he mused, the light sponge from which his mother was made was in fact delicious, laced with raspberry cream through the middle of a perfect gold-coloured crumb…

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Daniel O’Reilly is an independent British author, publisher and internationally exhibited multimedia artist living and writing in rural Catalonia in northern Spain. In 2022 he exhibited stories, photographs and music from the [archipelago] project at the International Exhibition of Surrealism in Cairo & Alexandria in Egypt, which will travel to the Andre Breton House in France in 2024. He has recently published short fiction in the Margate Bookie Zine, Alien Buddha Zine, Trilobite Literary Journal, Tiny Spoon magazine, Writer's Block magazine, Sulfur Surrealist Jungle, the Bengaluru Review, Defunkt Magazine, Everything in Aspic Magazine, Chachalaca Review, The Room Journal of African Surrealism, and Black Flowers Literary Magazine. He is co-creator of The Unstitute, an online art lab and artists’ co-operative, and has screened original video art in competitions and exhibitions in over 20 different countries worldwide.

Visit the [archipelago] literary project on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DanielOReilly

Visit The Unstitute: https://www.theunstitute.org/

• Read the author's interview here.

  What is your most evocative memory?
  About eight years ago, before I came to settle in Spain, I was living in India in the southern state of Tamil Nadu. I remember seeing a large family camped beside the edge of the road next to an enormous pile of watermelons, a lorry load. The monsoon had only just finished, and all the roads and streets around the village of Kuilapalayam were flooded and dirty. The family was situated next to the village lotus pond, and often there were holy men bobbing up and down in the mornings and evenings. As the days passed, I watched how the pile of watermelons became gradually smaller. Scooters would stop throughout the day, their riders tasked with balancing the huge fruit between their knees on the already perilous, pothole-riddled roads. Many melons were smashed by reckless drivers crashing into the pile trying to avoid the huge puddles, and many more were smashed on the road intentionally during the festival, which came and went. A dispute with a police officer about trading licences was resolved after a dozen melons were loaded into his police car. Some fruits were given away in lieu of payment of other items or services. Some were eaten by the family itself. A few were offered to the holy men. The youngest member, a boy of around five years, spent all day perched on top of the ever-diminishing pile of melons, and even slept on it at night. The watermelons disappeared after a week, and then so did the family.

  Many artists and authors are creative in multiple disciplines. What other types of art do you create?
  I tend to work across disciplines, forming and breaking relationships and connections in the pursuit of hybrid modes of expression. The story ‘Everything is Cake’ is taken from my forthcoming book ‘Los Disparates’ or ‘Follies’ - twenty-two short stories inspired by a yearslong dialogue with the Spanish artist Francisco de Goya and his late series of engravings under that same name. Art was my first passion, and I received my MA from Chelsea College of Art in 2002. Since then, my wife Marianna and I have been compiling the various strands of our respective practices on an avant-garde website called The Unstitute, which is kind of an HTML-labyrinth. The Unstitute not only houses collections of our own work, but also numerous permanent exhibitions of artists with whom we have collaborated, as well as a library, a video screening room, and several actual labyrinths in which to get lost. Explore it for yourself! https://theunstitute.org/

  Collaboration has always been vital to my work. Since the pandemic I’ve been working and exhibiting with the North African Group of Surrealists, who are based in Cairo. This April I’ll be presenting short fiction and multimedia works at the André Breton House in France as part of the International Exhibition of Surrealism. For the opening event I’ll also be making a live ambient soundscape using my trusty digital turntables and library of field recordings. More detail and media about the project can be found in this blog post: https://www.patreon.com/posts/2022-roundup-and-76544118

  What is your biggest creative doubt?
  Indifference. It’s everywhere. It’s how we shut out the world and protect our fragile sense of control. It’s our way of saying, ‘I don’t need to care about this, that, or you.’ Just how, through literature, can we reach into the heart of indifference and participate in an act of communication, not only in words, but by sharing a sense of something? I can feel my own indifference, and can also detect it in the world - but what can I do in those ambiguous, undifferentiated territories? As such, writing is for me a territorial procedure, both inside and out. Creative doubt is both the pith and fruit of this procedure.

  The story ‘Everything is Cake’ begins with Brad Rapidburger’s indifference to his own birthday party - which very soon spills out and consumes everything before it, party, president and all. In Brad’s world, everything except himself has become a simulacrum, a sweet synthetic representation of ordinary things, but not the things themselves. This last perhaps constitutes an underlying suspicion about the composition of reality, of things and of people - not to mention the corresponding fears about the composition of self which attend those suspicions.

  What is the single best sentence you've ever read?
  “My grandfather used to say: "Life is astonishingly short. Now in my memory, it is so compressed that I can hardly understand, for example, how a young person can decide to ride to the next village without being afraid - that apart from accidents - even the time allotted to a normal, happy life is far too short for such a journey."”

  ― Franz Kafka, A Country Doctor

  If you had unlimited time, what new hobby would you take up?
  I’d really like to start painting again. Even though I’m creating images all the time, they’re built from words instead of paint, and the two media work in quite different ways. It’s a very special thing, when you get very close to a particular medium, as close as a relationship with another person. It’s where subtleties become visible. It’s in that space that interesting things happen in a creative sense, I think. Regardless of the medium though, it’s almost a shamanic thing, the act of making images appear. That’s probably why it’s such an all-consuming affair.

  And bonsai. Bonsai would also be cool. I could really use bonsai right now.

  What is the most unbelievable thing that has ever happened to you?
  Just being alive, really. Existence of any kind is remarkably unlikely, given the odds. Look at the universe. So far, only on this tiny, wet, warm speck called earth. So what do those odds look like when you calculate your own personal chances of existing? The internet reckons the odds are about 1 in 10^2,685,000 (that’s a 10 followed by 2.7 million zeros.) For scale, the number of atoms in the entire universe is only 10^80. From a gambling perspective you wouldn’t lay odds on being alive, but we’re here, right? Everyone and everything alive right now is a glaring contradiction of those odds, a middle finger to the vast indifference of the universe. I think that’s what dancing’s all about, you know, that’s where the ecstatic component enters in; it’s an affirmation of this very precious life, which cannot choose but pass.