In Your Hole

July 8, 2008 at 9:08 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  "You got an order in your hole!"  Angie’s voice called out as she hung the ticket to the high-tech laundry rope with a piece of masking tape.
  I was still trying to get the hang of certain things.  "I have a what in my what?"  I was doing dishes on the other side of the kitchen.  I dried my hands off and slid past her to the pizza station.  I quickly banged out the pies, then looked around.  Nothing else.  Back to the dishes.
  It was towards the end of the rush, and things had gone smoothly.  Before I even got there, I got a call from BS–Blond Sean–who was the nominal manager of the place.  He wanted to let me know that even though I had just been hired, I was going to be out of a job soon–Angelina’s was going to close.
  As he filled me in, my mind ran down my list of other possibilities.  I had option, choices.  Hell, this was my "other" second job.  My third job.  This was not going to make or break me.  I hope.  But what about him?  And his wife?  And The Dude?  These would be answered later.  But I figured right away that my best option might be to go ahead and pick up a couple of driving shifts at Domino’s.   That was my first choice anyway.
  I arrive in a subdued mood.  Not only is the place going to close–imminent gloom ahead–but I’m going to be working with the owner.  Generally speaking, owners are all….wound tight.  They expect you to be constantly working, or at least moving.  Whatever.  I’m not getting paid enough to work hard.  I’m getting paid to show up and not kill people.  Anything extra I do (e.g., work) is a bonus for them.
  But I immediately run into Angelina’s namesake, Angie.  Cheerful and nice, and cute as hell in her very short jean shorts with smooth, tan legs that went all the way up inside them (I looked).  We got right to work, and she appreciated from the get-go my ability to make pizzas.  Make them fast.  And make them beautiful.
  I got many compliments on my pizzas–"We have a supermodel here"–but I gave up long ago on being able to pick up chicks because I made good-looking pies.  Like so many of my other skills, it’s not useful in the real world.
  Angie was easy to work with, and fun.  And she laughed at my material, which is always a plus.  But we did have a bit of a falling out.  Over mayonnaise.
  The previous time I had worked, BS had warned me that the hot sauce used for the wings was a mixture of hot sauce and mayonnaise and something else.  I don’t remember.  Could be dog turds for all I remember.  The point is, it has mayonnaise in it.  I hate mayonaisse.  I realize now that I hate even typing the word.  Mayonaisse.  What a stupid, ridiculous, bullshit word for a stupid, ridiculous, bullshit condiment.  Mayonaisse.
  Anywhosit, Angie accidentally made a sammich instead of a wrap, so we have this sammich, a buffalo chicken sammich.  She offers me some.  I politely decline with a look of disgust and an upturned lip.  I explain how I don’t be likin the mayo.  She tries to convince me, to no avail.  Repeatedly.  She threatens to shove a hotwing in my mouth some day when I’m not looking.  It all sounded very sexual to me.  I suppose, to be fair, most things do.  Not like I wanted to fill her mouth with mayonnaise, or anything like that.
  And–you know, I could reasonably go ahead and try mayonnaise, make it part of my menu.  But now it’s a matter of principle.  I don’t want to try it.  I don’t want to like it.  I haven’t seen the movie "Titanic" either.  It’s been several years; why watch it now?  In fact, it’s more a matter of personal pride that I haven’t seen the movie, and I haven’t tried mayonnaise.
  But all in all it was a fun night, a good night, and not worth the cash I was paid.  Angie felt bad because she thought this was my only job, my last hope–?  "Nope.  Sista, this isn’t even a second job, it’s a third job.  I’m good."
  Her and her husband were going to close down Angelina’s, and then reopen it as something else.  Instead of frozen custard and pizza it would be… frozen custard and something else.  Maybe burgers.  But probably not delivery, and no pizza.
  Well, my feeling is that it’s a great concept, but the execution is a bit off.  The things they do, or they way they want things done for pizza are not entirely logical.  I’ve done it for 20 years, so I know what works and what doesn’t.  But–not my problem.  Plus, they’re doing away with it anyway.
  "It seems a shame," Angie said wistfully.  "You make really pretty pizzas."
  I suppose that will be my mark upon the world.  I was hoping for something better.

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