Canal Street Canolis
“…And we can expand into Baxter Street,” Jamie Bloomberg ran a hand through his hair while his colleague, Manische Baugé, the executive property manager, was enthusiastically outlining the bargain deal the company had just secured – yet somehow, Jamie had been sidelined and excluded from the contract. He was the CEO after all, so shouldn’t he be the one approving things?
Jamie felt a mix of frustration and confusion. He had dedicated years to building this company, and yet, he found himself on the periphery of the very decisions that shaped its future. As Manische continued to delve into the financial projections and potential returns on investment, Jamie’s thoughts drifted to the countless late nights he had spent strategizing in the office, his mind racing with ideas that could propel the company forward.
“Manische,” Jamie interrupted, his tone firm but measured, “can we discuss how this decision aligns with our long-term vision?” He noticed the surprised shift in Manische’s demeanor; a hint of defensiveness quickly replaced the enthusiasm.
“Of course, Jamie,” Manische replied, a forced smile appearing on his face. “But I believe this deal could solidify our presence in the market. It’s a great opportunity for us.”
“Perhaps,” Jamie conceded, “but I think we need to consider the bigger picture. Expanding too rapidly can spread us thin. We should weigh the risks against the potential rewards.” He could feel the tension in the room rising as the team awaited Manische’s response.
“Jamie, I understand your concerns, but sometimes we have to take calculated risks to achieve growth. You taught us that,” Manische retorted, folding his arms defensively.
Jamie leaned back in his chair, his thoughts racing. He remembered the moments that had propelled them to their current status, the painstaking decisions and failures. “I agree, but decision-making should be more collaborative. I want everyone’s input – after all, we’re playing for our future here.”
As he spoke, Jamie could see his team reassessing their positions. This was a pivotal moment. The room fell silent, awaiting the next part of the speech, but nothing was to come.
Jamie sat back down and motioned for Manische to continue. He leaned back and waited for the conference to end.
About an hour later, Jamie opened the doors to the conference room and stepped into the hallway. He pulled out his cell phone and checked his calendar, finding a completely free evening in the books. It was about 7:10, and starting to snow – delicate little flurries danced down from the dark gray sky above and onto Jamie’s coat. He walked down the subway steps and swiped his card. The turnstiles rattled as he pushed his way through and into the station. He pulled out his phone to check the metro app. Jamie’s train would arrive in precisely 3 minutes, at 7:15. His phone buzzed in his pocket, drawing his attention as a message from his little brother, Nicky, appeared on the screen. His brother was a sophomore at NYU and had a university-owned apartment on __ Street, so Jamie was going to board the train going uptown towards Manhattan. Then it would only be a short walk and a flight of stairs up.
Nicky Bloomberg: jamieeeeee when are you coming over???
Jamie Bloomberg: soon i just got on the train!! i’ll be there in no less than 15 minutes 🙂
Nicky Bloomberg: okkk can you bring back some food?? the caf closed before my last class ended and i’m starvinggg!!
Jamie Bloomberg: yes i’ll grab smth. dinner food or treats?
Just then, the train came speeding down the tracks, blowing Jamie’s hair out of his face before he could hit send. It slowed to a stop in front of him, and the doors opened to a compact car with about 25 people squished together. Some were on seats, and some were standing. Jamie shuffled in and grabbed the bar so he wouldn’t fall when the train inevitably began moving. The doors closed, and the engine hissed. The car lurched forward and rocked Jamie back and forth. He slipped in one earbud and hit shuffle on his playlist. ‘Canal Street’ by sombr began playing, and Jamie closed his eyes as the train swayed him to the beat. Before long, his eyes had become heavy, and he drifted to sleep.
…
Jamie awoke with a start. He blinked, trying to comprehend his surroundings. He knew where he was, because he was in his apartment… right? As his location came into focus, he was suddenly pushed into a rigid upright position. His phone must have woken him up, since he could feel the vibration in his hand and the ringtone coming in his earbuds.
“”!@#$%&.” The subway car was about empty, with a couple of guys loitering about in the corner. All four of their heads snapped toward Jamie. “!@#$%&,” “!@#$%&,” “!@#$%&,” !@#$%&!!” Jamie fumbled with his phone, pressing the answer button on the call.
“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?” Nicky’s voice came booming through the phone speaker.
Jamie winced and replied. “I must’ve fallen asleep on the subway – I promise it was an accident, but I don’t really know where I am…”
“It’s too late for you to come over now,” Jamie heard his brother sigh on the other end. For security reasons, no one was allowed in the university apartments after 8 p.m., which Jamie was thankful for.
“You scared me to death! I thought you got kidnapped or you died or you got mugged,” Jamie could practically feel his brother’s anxiety reverberating around the moving subway car. “I must’ve called you 30 times! Don’t ever do that ever again.”
“See you tomorrow then, buddy,” Jamie shuffled around for his bag, just to make sure he hadn’t been robbed. So far, so good. Everything seemed to be there, but he only had his wallet and laptop there to start off with. Just as he began looking through his bag, the train’s intercom beeped, the robotic voice speaking over the whoosh of the tracks.
“Next stop Canal Street, next stop Canal Street.” Now, Jamie was particularly annoyed, since he had needed to get off at 18th Street, which had been a couple of stops ago.
But for some strange reason, Jamie was feeling a sort of gravitational pull towards Canal Street. He wasn’t superstitious, or even had any reason to be down there, but Jamie’s mind had already been made up when his stomach grumbled. He hit play on the rest of the song that had been paused and waited for the train to slow. The car made a noise not unlike a screech and stopped, and, with a hiss, the doors opened, and Jamie was hit with a gust of the cold December air. He stepped off and pushed his way through the turnstiles to exit the station. As Jamie emerged from the underground station, he felt tiny snowflakes landing on him. Jamie strolled down Canal Street, noticing all the small businesses and restaurants that would soon be shut down when the company’s real estate deal went through. He’d never spent a whole lot of time on Canal Street, but he couldn’t really imagine luxury buildings here. What was Manische thinking?
He soon realized that his jacket was no match for the frigid temperature, so he scurried inside the nearest shop. Luckily, the door was open. The little bell chided as he entered the shop. It was quaint, with light blue walls and framed photos and newspaper clippings everywhere. In the back, there was a counter and a pastry case, filled with such delicious-looking treats that the sight of them soothed Jamie’s grumbling stomach. Jamie heard a man’s voice call out to him from the room in the back.
“Be with you in a minute!” Jamie checked his watch and felt relieved to see that it was only 9:02. He hoped the owner wouldn’t be upset with him for arriving this late in the evening, though.
A man came dashing out of the back room, a cloud of flour following behind him. Upon seeing his customer, he froze momentarily.
“Um, hello there.” Jamie hadn’t meant for his words to sound as rude as they had come out, even though he was hungry.
“S-sorry. What can I get for you?” The baker was very flustered… and very handsome…
“I will take a cinnamon roll, please.”
“O-ok, sir,” he said, reaching for a pastry bag.
Jamie glanced back down at the display case. Rows of pastries stared up at him. Cinnamon rolls were dripping with icing, powdered sugar dusted across golden shells, and fruit tarts arranged in neat lines.
He cleared his throat. “Actually… what’s your best seller?”
The baker paused. “The cannoli. The, um, the chocolate-covered one.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a very hard question for you.”
“It’s not a hard answer,” the baker replied, shrugging one shoulder. “They’re the best thing here.”
Jamie studied him for a moment, then the pastry case again. “Confident.”
The baker leaned lightly against the counter, folding his flour-covered arms. “It’s called knowing your product.”
Jamie almost smiled. Almost.
“Fine,” he said. “One cannoli. No chocolate, please. I’m allergic.” Jamie slid a few bills across the counter in exchange for his treat.
“Too bad. It’s definitely the best one.”
The baker grabbed a pair of tongs and slid a cannoli into a small white box. As he handed it across the counter, he added, “Careful. It’s fragile. Do you want a napkin with that?”
Jamie eagerly shook his head, opened the box without hesitation, and took a bite. The shell cracked perfectly.
Ricotta filling spilled out slightly, and a small cloud of powdered sugar fell directly onto the front of Jamie’s black coat.
The baker laughed before he could stop himself. Jamie’s death glare shut him up real quick.
Jamie looked down at the white dusting on his coat, then slowly back up at him.
“Something funny?” Jamie deadpanned, pawing at his suit.
The baker tried – and failed – to suppress his grin. “You’re supposed to catch it with the napkin. Saves the suit.” He nodded at the napkin that Jamie had declined.
Jamie brushed at the sugar with obvious irritation. “Good to know that information now.”
“Well,” the baker said, still smiling, “most people buying pastries here aren’t wearing coats that cost more than our oven.”
Jamie blinked at him.
“That’s a pretty big assumption.”
The baker shrugged again. “Am I wrong?”
Jamie took another bite of the cannoli, considering.
“…No,” he admitted.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Snow drifted past the front window, and the little bell above the door swayed gently.
Jamie set the pastry box on the counter.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “I’ll have to come back and try the rest of your menu before forming a full opinion.”
The baker smirked slightly.
“Careful,” he said. “You sound like you’re reviewing the place.”
Jamie met his eyes.
“Maybe I am.”
The baker held his gaze without blinking.
“Then you’d better be honest.”
Jamie had negotiated (and settled) multimillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat.
But standing in a tiny bakery on Canal Street, powdered sugar still clinging to his coat, he found himself strangely disarmed.
“Trust me,” Jamie said quietly. “I always am.”
Jamie tilted his head slightly, studying the room the way he studied every space.
The baker noticed.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
Jamie blinked. “Doing what?”
“Looking around like you’re evaluating the place.”
Jamie didn’t deny it. “Habit.”
“Well, it’s weird,” the baker replied.
Jamie ignored that and gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “Your lighting’s uneven. Half the room is brighter than the other half.”
The baker folded his arms again. “It’s a bakery, not a fashion runway.”
“And that extension cord by the counter,” Jamie continued calmly, “is a fire hazard.”
The baker followed his gaze and rolled his eyes. “That cord powers the espresso machine.”
“It’s still a hazard.”
“Have you come here to eat cannolis,” the baker said, “or to inspect the building?”
Jamie shrugged slightly. “Just making… observations.”
“Unsolicited ones.”
Jamie took another bite of his cannoli before answering.
“If you want honest feedback, that’s the kind you get.”
The baker leaned forward over the counter, clearly irritated now.
“You walk into my shop, track dirty snow across my clean floors, criticize my lighting, and then tell me my espresso machine is a fire hazard.”
“I’m just being honest. It’s constructive criticism.” Jamie popped the last of his cannoli into his mouth and added, with a mouthful of ricotta, “How old is this place anyway?”
“It’s my family’s business. My great-grandma founded this place in, like, the 1700s.” The baker laughed and then went back to being serious when he realized his joke was not funny. “She came from Italy. That’s where the recipe you just scarfed down – lacking some manners, I might add – originates from.”
“By the way, I didn’t catch your name.” Jamie stuck out his hand. “I’m Jamie, and I fell asleep on the subway on the ride over here.”
“Ben,” The baker – Ben – said while taking Jamie’s hand and politely shaking it. “You should fall asleep on the subway more often.”
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