Nathan and I are taking a walk in the city. We pass a few restaurants, a church, and then a cosmetic store. Nathan tells me this cosmetic store was a bagel shop back in the day. His dad’s friend worked there as a teenager some forty years ago. One shift he showed up at 3:30 am half-drunk from the local pub. He couldn’t leave—he was broke—and there was no one else to cover. So, he dumped the pails of flour, yeast, water, and barley syrup and retched. Vomited straight into the bagel mixer. Dribble leaking down his apron to the floor. He considered his options. He couldn’t afford to toss a hundred bagels. So, what did he do? He folded it in.
A day passed. Nothing. Two weeks. Nothing.
Then a customer walked in with shrewd-looking glasses and asked the kid behind the register if they had any of those special bagels left. The kid froze. Special bagels? Yeah, the customer said. You know. The ones with little sausages baked into the dough.
We keep walking, my mouth is agape. Nathan changes the subject. He tells me about his Aunt Gertie’s penchant for puppets.
Wait, I say, stopping in the middle of the street. What happened to that kid?
The clouds pink above us. Nathan looks at me like I’m insane, cracks his knuckles. What kind of question is that? People loved the bagels. He grew up.
