Maybe she won't inspect the food station.
With that assuring thought, he knotted his apron behind his back. Suddenly a whoosh of performed air filled his air pathways. He peeped through the shelves, to see a woman entering the shop. She was in her mid-forties. She wore a buttoned up cyan blue coat, ironed black khaki pants, and red heels with points that shared one, and only one thing with its owner : sharpness.
Her presence cut through the air, her keratined and dyed blonde hair bouncing with every step. Employees uttered their well rehearsed lines in an incoherent murmur, as they stared at her figure, awestruck. With one sweeping glance, she took in the whole place.
Finally brought back to their senses, a waiter scurried to assist her, showing her to a seat and handing her menus. Being a Friday evening, several other families also entered, keen to take every advantage of the 'Family Fun Friday' offer. Over at the counter, he was soon occupied with orders, and had to peel his eyes away from her. He did this part of his job well, he could even remember the customers according to their order.
He had just taken his first pizza out of the oven, when he felt a fresh breeze behind him, in contrast to the hot air from the oven. Every bone in his body told him not to turn around. But he did, and it was just as he had feared.
She was behind him.
He was going to faint. She now had a pair of spectacles on, that made her look twenty years older. Only up close could he make out the wrinkles that lined her face beneath all those layers of makeup. She scrutinised him, more than the pizza, her face staying loyal to the impassive demeanor she was taught to dispose.
He nervously shuffled past her to the cutting counter, trying not to make eye contact. The large sized pepperoni pizza was in front of him. It's crispy thin crust lined with a tinge of carbon. The cheese was perfectly melted, still bubbling a little from the heat of the oven. And she was beside him, with her weight shifted on one foot, waiting for him to do his job and criticise it.
Trembling, he took the mezzaluna knife. He just wanted to end his miserable life. He couldn't think straight. Thank God, he had a shower cap on, otherwise she would've seen the sweat trickle down the sides of his face. His heart beat filled his ears, his vision blurred, his mind throwing image after image. Sparks flew and black dots danced.
Clenching his jaw, he lifted the knife, and made the first cut. The dough sighed softly, and the pepperoni cut into segments. Then he made the second cut. This one was atleast an inch from the centre. But, he continued. Making slice after slice. Until he had made four cuts. He stepped back, and looked at what he had done. It looked like one of those diagrams that explained Kepler's third law.
None of them were equal. Some pieces were too small, and the others were too large. He actually felt like crying at the mess he had made. This wasn't like a problem set, that he could simply erase and redo. This wasn't like the volume of his speakers or the sharpness of his pencil. He couldn't fix it. It was done and that was it.
She scribbled something on her clipboard and walked away to the next counter. The waiter came in and took the pizza to table no.9, where as he had predicted, sat the Diddlywindles family.
Seeing her artificial figure disappear from his view, he took of his shower cap, lowered the face mask, ripped of his gloves, and ran his hands through his wet hair. He went to his favourite hiding spot, and stared at the floor, where he patterned soft dust with his shoes. Nothing but disappointment and hate took over him.
Suddenly, he heard a loud bellow. His attention was drawn to the Diddlywindles, who had just received their pizza. The pizza he made. And screwed up.
The family had five members-- Papa Joe, whose belly took up half the space of the table, then Mama Joe, who with her long blonde braids looked like a Viking, and then Michael, Sarah and baby Troy. Michael was their oldest, and although he was only 14, he had an appetite of a 24 year old. Sarah, came in number two, and was probably the most unlike the rest of her family. Baby Troy was an early developer, attacking chicken strips even before his milk teeth saw the light of day.
Papa Joe took the largest piece, and any cheese strings that came with it. Michael took the second largest. Mama Joe, Sarah and Baby Troy followed suite, taking slices of pizza that fitted their respective sizes. They were laughing and joking, Papa Joe's mouth barely getting the chance to chew in the midst. Mama Joe's braids were flapping about, Michael, talking more than eating, and baby Troy nibbling on the smallest piece that he had cut.
They didn't care. They didn't even notice. In fact, they were happy, it was just perfect for them. Papa Joe wouldn't have been very happy if he got a pizza slice the same size as Baby Troy's. For the first time, he had made someone else content with his work. He felt goosebumps across his skin. He took some time and pondered it over. It was something that never crossed his mind before.
Finally, with a deep breath, he took up the mezzaluna knife, with renewed vigour, and smiled. And that smile was of pure joy.
Maybe no-one else noticed, but there was a light in his eyes. The light of victory of war. He had just fought the most difficult war, that which is waged within.
***
