Bo woke up horizontal in his bed, tangled in the tan sheets.  He laid there for a second rubbing his tired, wrinkled eyes.  As a boy, his mother always told him that The Sandman paid him a visit every single night and left dust in his eyes if he had a lot of dreams that night, so he would rub until he got out the “sand” and would try to remember his dreams.  Old habits stuck with him.  Even though 60 years later he did not still believe that it was The Sandman delivering his dreams at night, he continued to literally search for his dreams. 
Bo rolled out of bed, right into his slippers and walked a few steps to his organized desk with 3 bins on it labeled “Jams”, “Ice Cream”, and “Baked Goods”.  He pulled out a pen and started scribbling letters that could barely form words; he did not stay in the lines, he did not use any normal punctuation.  He moved the paper into the red bucket labeled “Jams”, got up and walked into the bathroom taking his toothbrush out of the lonely jar, and then pushed his comb through his graying blonde hair.  Bo had aged well for most men his age.  Surprisingly, his dark blue eyes, enticing smile and golden waves never brought anyone in.  Bo dressed in the usual; khakis and a button down with funky socks and loafers, grabbed the three baskets from his desk, walked down the path through his unplanted garden to his red 1960 Chevrolet and drove to work. 
He walked through the door, a nice subtle shade of red, and into his bakery.  It was a big space with huge, clear windows, a few rows of tables, and shiny polished glass casing underneath the counter.  The ceiling had slightly run- down tin tiles with a white border all around the room.
He went to the back room and set his baskets down.  He was quickly joined by his assistant, a happy young man named Jimmy Madison. 
“Morning boss, what a great day to be alive!”
“Everyday can’t be,” Bo replied.
“Oh Bo,” Jim answered hanging up his coat in the closet, “67 years old and you’ve still got so much to learn.”
Bo laughed to himself in a slightly condescending manner as if Jimmy was so full of false hope, but his chuckle revealed that he needed it himself.  Jimmy walked over to the other side of the room, and flipped the light switch as the fluorescence illuminated the clean counters, rows of electric KitchenAid mixers, and nice big iron stoves with large overused ovens underneath.  He shouted across the room to Bo in a tired but friendly voice, “How many recipies did the Sandman deliver last night?”  Alluding to Bo’s imagination as a child.
“Just one,” Bo said sounding slightly disappointed. “I’m starting to think he’s beginning to shut down his business.”
Jimmy was quick to swoop in with the positivity and said, “He may be, but you are not.  Now would you get your apron on old man?”
Bo dragged his feet over to the house and put his head through the hole of a dark blue apron that said the words, Kiss the Cook.  Jimmy turned on the speakers and they blasted “Old Thing Back by the Notorious BIG (Matoma Remix)”.  As funny as it may seem that this 67 year old man was willing to listen to that song, first thing every morning at 6am, it was the only song that Bo would jam out to.  Jimmy brought a lot to Bo.  Not only his hand in the business but a tired old man could always use a young free spirit to keep him in check, and that is what Jimmy did.  Bo would occasionally get caught dancing while cutting the dough and rolling croissants.
“I see you shakin’ over there Bo!” Jimmy would immediately call him out.  This was very quickly followed by an embarrassed look, and Bo denying that he ever saw anything. 
The two of them began with Croissants; Chocolate, almond, plain, and then they would turn to raspberry scones, mouth watering breakfast bars, and muffins; the usual morning pastries.  By 7:00 the ovens were running, rolling pins were sprawled, and the sound of electric mixers was just white noise.  Bo’s blue apron was dusty with flour, and the smell of fresh bread and baked goods ran throughout the bakery.  Around 7:30 as it was time to open, Jimmy walked to the front.  As he passed through the double doors he said, “Gimme a shout if you need any help back here Bo.”
“Will do.”
There were a few exceptions where Bo would go to the front and talk to a regular customer, but he mostly stayed out of the way.  He was good at being alone.  Too good. 
It was always around eleven when they made their special of the day, right before the afternoon rush of workers arrived.  Jimmy walked through the swinging double door into the kitchen.
“How are we on the special boss?”
Bo grabbed the paper out of the red box and said, “Just starting it up, will you start cutting the apricots?”
“Sure thing. I do love a jam day.”
The two of them worked hard in the kitchen making warm buttermilk biscuits to serve with Bo’s new recipe of apricot jam.  The clock turned twelve and the bakery was filled with white collar businessmen, construction workers, and busy parents, ordering coffee and biscuits with butter and jam.  Bo’s foods seemed simple, but there was something so addicting about it.  Peoples eyes rolled back into their heads as they bit into his daily special.  A few would be daring enough to ask what was in the recipe and all Bo would say was, “Just a little something here and there.”  Not even Jimmy got to see his recipes. 
At 5pm a woman walked in and sat on one of the light blue spinning stools at the counter.  Jim was in the bathroom so Bo went up to the front so that he could get her what she needed. 
“Hello, what can I get for you?”
“Are you Bo Reynolds?”
“That’s me,” he responded.
“My name is Alice.”  Alice grew up in New York City in a family with a strong work ethic.  Being the youngest she constantly felt as though there was something to live up to, so she developed some thick skin, with two serious hard- working parents, a brother working in the art industry and a very successful sister, Lisa, who excelled in the food industry.  One of Lisa’s stores, The McDonagh Bakery, was up in the runnings to be featured in the New York Times as New York’s finest and most delicious bake shop.   
Alice continued, “I work for a newspaper in the city, and I was told a story about a man who gets all of his recipes from his dreams.  Would you like to explain to me how that works?” She asked in a rather aggressive tone.
Bo laughed to himself, and looked down at his hands as he wiped them off on a rag he was holding; He then threw it over his shoulder, placed both of his hands on the counter in front of him and looked at Alice.  She was curious to him; He could tell she was after something.  A rather assertive woman, small, wore glasses, had short thin brownish hair tied in an elegant bun.  She wore a navy blue women’s pant suit and sensible penny loafers.  “What newspaper did you say you worked for?” Bo asked.
“I work in the food section at the New York Times. Now tell me, Mr. Reynolds, when did you start this business?
“You don’t waste any time do you?” he asked.
“Wasting time isn’t in my plan, no.”
“Well, why don’t I get you a cup of coffee and we can go sit at the table.  You want the whole story, this guys gotta sit.”
Alice nodded and went to sit at the closest table, getting out her pen and paper to take notes.  Bo grabbed two cups, of coffee, and put a croissant, muffin and two scones on a plate and brought them over to the table.  “I don’t dream every recipe.  Some of them are family recipes, some are classics.  I dream at least one every other day.”
“Yes, what do you mean by that?”
“Well, I love to bake, and I’ve been doing it for a while, so I guess you could say my mind is always searching to find something new and delicious to serve.  When I got out of college, I started to consider what to do with my life, and I went to bed one night, full on Chinese food, woke up the next morning and remembered having a dream where I was slaving away in the kitchen working on this fantastically creative flavored muffin.  So I got cooking because I remembered what I used to make it in the dream.  They came out of the oven, tasted and looked beautiful, and then I guess my brain made a habit out of it because I constantly dream of myself hard at work in the kitchen.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Oh, she’s honest as well.”
“Of course I am, I’m a writer.  How is one supposed to believe that you have made all this,” as she threw her hands up alluding to the bakery and everything surrounding her, “from your dreams?”
“You can chose to.  I’m an honest man.”
“That’s your proof?”
“I wouldn’t know how else to prove it to you.  Sometimes you’ve just got to believe people.”
Alice drank the remaining coffee from the cup, wrapped the scone in her napkin and put it in her bag, gathered her things and stood to put on her coat.  “Well Mr. Reynolds, it was nice to meet you, I think I have everything I need.  You will get a letter when the article is about to come out, and a photographer will be here to take your photo on Monday,” She said as she rushed out the door.
Bo just sat there rather confused, because he was not aware what he had signed up for by having that conversation.  He did not speak, but just cleared the table and went back to work.  When Jimmy asked later who it was that he was talking to, he just said that he didn’t know who it was, but he had a bad feeling about it.
“I’m sure it will be fine, boss, I wouldn’t worry too much,” Jimmy responded.
“I’m just not interested in publicizing this place.  Especially with a woman who doesn’t believe in the entire story behind the business.  She may make it out to be something that it isn’t, which in the end would have a pretty negative effect on us.”
“Bo, the story helps with the charm of this place.  It makes people curious, it draws them in, it’s fascinating.  But in the end, those who come back do it for the food that you create.  So the story isn’t even half of it.  Everything is going to be fine.”   
A few weeks went by and an article about The Sandman Bakery had been published. 
“...Bo Reynolds, A seemingly polite man has lived his life telling a story and only that.  When asked about the truth behind his recipes, he simply implies that everything is based from his dreams.  His response to my rebuttling of this fact, was that sometimes you just have to trust people.  As we have all learned living in New York City, you do not trust anyone.  Reynolds lives in a fantasy world where dreams are remembered and followed, and trust is given out easily, which all draw attraction to his business, but in many ways this could be false attraction. 
His baked goods are satisfying to the taste but his strive for originality leads to complexity in his food which I find to be somewhat overwhelming.  Additionally, The Sandman Bakery lacks staff leading to slow service.  The owner hides out in the kitchen all day leaving his co-worker to deal with customers but this also gives a rather unwelcoming vibe.  Overall, it is evident that Bo Reynolds’s bakery is not all that it has been made out to be…”
Angrily Jimmy slammed the paper on the counter in the kitchen.
“I cannot believe she would write such a thing.  She has no idea what she is talking about.  I have no idea when people became so bitter.”
Bo smiled at Jimmy’s reaction, but did not seem surprised at all by the article. “32 years old and you’ve still got so much to learn.”
“But Bo you’ve got to do something.  What are you going to do about this?”
“There isn’t anything I can do,” he began calmly, “It’s up to our customers if they want to believe such a thing.”  Living in a small town right outside the city, the community was very close- knit.  Bo believed that the people would stick by him.  He did lose a few customers; none that really concerned him.
One morning Bo woke up, completed his usual morning routine, added two recipes to the “Baked Goods” basket, hopped into his Red Chevrolet and drove to work.  When he got to Spencer Place the road was blocked off due to construction.  Bo shook his head, shrugged his shoulder and took a hard U- turn spilling his coffee all over his lap.  “This is just not my day,” Bo said to himself.  The roads were closed, the streets were slick from the snow the night before and in the winter, 5:30 in the morning was as dark as 12:00 at night.  As his car approached Lafayette Bridge, it slid on a section of black ice.  Trying to control the car and keep it from rolling over the edge of the bridge, Bo accidentally slid into the other lane and was hit broadside by a truck.  His red Chevrolet was crumpled.  The ambulance came, but there wasn’t anything anyone could do.  Bo did not make it to the Sandman Bakery that morning. 
The first call made was to Jimmy.  He turned off the mixers, shut off the ovens, and frantically locked up.  Jimmy was never one to react in a strongly negative way.  As devastated as he was, Jimmy’s main goal was to never let Bo’s legacy die.  He took his anger and turned it to motivation.  This maybe took the enjoyment out of his work, but he did the best that he could to help the Bakery continue its success. 
He was able to keep it going for a bit.  Although Jimmy could not handle much of it on his own, eventually the main factor was due to his lack of recipes.  He was never the brains behind the operation, and Bo never shared any of the recipes he remembered from his dreams, with anyone.  On the day of the closing, Jimmy went home that night, sat down abruptly, and wrote a letter to the young woman who he felt had disrespected Bo and his business.

Dear Alice,
I have never met you before, but I worked at The Sandman Bakery; Bo Reynolds was a colleague of mine.  A few months ago, you published an article about him and his bakery.  I am writing this letter today because I would like to inform you that Mr. Reynolds died 3 weeks ago now in a horrible car accident.  Today I signed the papers to sell the bakery.  The reason for shutting down was because our customers were mainly attracted to our business because almost every single day we had a delicious special that my partner created.  He got the recipes from his dreams every night.  And damn were they good.  Now, when reading your article, I became very aware that for a person like you to understand and trust this concept may be very difficult considering that you come from a world where people do not look out for each other when it comes to business.  But I would just like to tell you that you have got a lot to learn.  I have never met anyone who loved what they did as much as Bo, which is why baking occupied his mind at all hours.  So Alice, the choice is yours, but I think it would do great justice if you published one last article about The Sandman Bakery and my lovely boss Bo.  You should speak about his dedication and honesty in his work; if none of it were true, I would be able to keep the business up and running.  I know this all must sound like a fairy tale to you Miss Alice, but sometimes that is the way things are.  I do hope that you find it in yourself to trust me now. 
Sincerely,
Jimmy Madison              

When Alice began reading the letter her eyes widened as they moved down the page.  The corner of her mouth twitched revealing the small part of emotion that was actually inside her.  She put the letter down, sat in her isolated cubicle for a second and then sat up straight rather quickly, shoulders taught, as if she was shaking off the recent news.  Alice drew the keyboard out from under her desk and started typing a second article on The Sandman Bakery in dedication to its devoted and beloved owner Bo Reynolds.