Chapter 2: Problems in Pennsylvania (EDITED)

8K 423 290
                                    

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by..."

  •••

"Jason, if you wanted to take the next two weeks off, you should've put in a request at the beginning of the month!" Mr. Valentino said, shoving past me. "You know the rules."

"But it came up last-minute!" I insisted, chasing after him.

"It always does. Tell me, is it some kind of an emergency?" he asked, but I knew it was more rhetorical than anything. His partially-bald head was completely flushed red, either from frustration with me or the heat from the pizza ovens. "I'm just sick of the shenanigans, Jason. Ditching your shifts, switching shifts last-minute... I can't trust my own schedule anymore! That calendar—"

"I've never ditched a shift purposefully! That one time was an accident because I forgot I was working that day." I crossed my arms defiantly. "And yeah, I do switch shifts with Frankie sometimes, but that's just because I'm trying to get into shows and open mic events! Sometimes I don't know about them until last-minute. I told you that I was a performer when you hired me!"

He blinked humorlessly. "A performer with no originals."

My jaw clenched and my fists tightened at my sides. He really did like harping on that one little issue.

"Not the point," I continued, staring my boss down. The heat from the giant ovens seemed to grow much warmer as he glared back at me with little sympathy.

"You're right. That's not the point. The point is—" he stopped short, his oversized eyes bulging more than usual. He spun around and scrambled to the oven, briskly snatching the paddle out of the immense heat to retrieve a large pepperoni pizza. He grumbled in Italian about me being a 'disgrace' and a 'distraction' as he began to slice up the pizza with such vigor, I thanked my stars that I wasn't standing in the way.

After a beat passed between us, the older man rested both hands on the flour-soiled counter and stared down at them. They were tough and leathery, but still strong and capable, wrinkles and all. I'd watched those hands toss at least a thousand pizzas in my time there. I'd watched them lovingly smack his children and grandchildren around and then squeeze them tightly when they stopped in for the afternoon. Those hands had even tousled my curly head of hair once or twice after a job well done.

"Let me tell you something, Jason." Mr. Valentino said this with a sudden softness that instantly caught my attention. "I know you think I'm just a bossy, old Italian guy who works at this dumpy little pizza place with no real future ahead."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a flour-coated hand to cut me off. "Don't argue with me. I know the looks you give me when you think I'm not looking. You think you're too good for this place. You don't have to lie on my account."

I closed my mouth again, my head lowering ever so slightly in shame. He wasn't wrong. I had allowed myself to get through the back-breaking days in that shop by reminding myself it was temporary—a stepping-stone to something that actually mattered.

Valentino dusted his hands off on his stained apron. "It's fine by me that you don't want this to be your future, okay? I can't blame you for that. Your head's full of glamorous ideas that, granted, sounds more exciting than busing my tables. But listen here—" he stepped in closer until I could see the flecks of amber in his nearly-black eyes, "—this was my dream. However small and unimportant it may seem to you, it means everything to me. My family immigrated here from Italy; we brought over our culture, our recipes, our lives... We found this little building. We made it what it is now. It's our livelihood! Our own slice of the American Dream. Don't disregard it just because it doesn't look like yours. Got it?"

Polaroids and Postcards | ✔️Where stories live. Discover now