Vladimir Krestovich grew up believing he had been born late at night in Logan Airport. His mother had gone to great lengths to conceal the true nature of his birth. According to her, Vlad had taken his first breaths in a Cinnabon near gate D12. A baker named Mateo, from Bogotá, had helped with the delivery. Once the paramedics had taken charge, Mateo from Bogotá handed out complementary cinnamon rolls to the entire terminal; leaving the minds and bodies of those present feeling utterly satisfied.
In actuality, Vladimir’s birth could not have been more ordinary. He took his first breath in a hospital outside of Newark, New Jersey. No less than thirty children had been delivered that same afternoon. It was a Tuesday, the most lackluster of days, and overcast.
Mrs. Krestovich waited 18 years to reveal the truth, and only did so at the prodding of a priest who had learned her secret. Vladimir was devastated. It is remarkable how a story of so little consequence had grown to impact the child. Cinnamon rolls had always been Vlad’s favorite food. After that day, Vladimir never ate one again. The slightest smell of a cinnamon roll could make him physically ill; traveling through airports and shopping in malls was made forever difficult.
Mrs. Krestovich expected great things for her one and only child. Vladimir came from a long line of Krestovich men, every one of whom had lived a completely conventional life. This was unfortunate, for as was the case with his birth, Vlad was a completely normal individual.