Return to The Joe

My foot met the weathered curb as I pulled the loops of my custom mask back behind my ears. Its autumn pattern was the only color on my uniform, other than the grease stains on my chest and shoes. I tucked my keys deep into my pocket for fear of its long lanyard slowing me in the heat of tonight’s struggle. Before heading in I reached back into my car and pulled out my Fresh Apricot Chapstick and behemoth water bottle, my only sustenance for the next five hours. I approached the rear of the building, flanked on each side by competing restaurants, and entered The Joe.

              For two long years Happy Joe’s was my master. I, a simple oven boy, was its faithful servant. Many had come and gone during my time, but few returned after leaving. I certainly did not expect to be one of those few when I left for college two years prior. Since then, I was an exceptional college student, certainly more adept in that than I ever was in the pizza crafting arts. The University had given me an opportunity to look inside myself, figuratively by philosophy and literally by physiology, all while harvesting a new crop of friends and mentors. I was beginning to gain respect on campus and feel at home with my fellow students, even more than I did at my actual home. That is, until nature evicted me.

              Two months prior, the coronavirus had escaped from China in mid-March and had invaded, among other countries, the United States. A completely unprecedented plague, fear and uncertainty brought out extreme caution from government leaders. First the shutdowns came from college campuses like that which I had been attending, and then from restaurants like that which I was now returning to. Finally, the first of June marked the reopening of businesses in our dusty Illinois town. After two months of virtual classes, frozen pizzas, and isolation, the world was beginning to face its microbial adversary with courage and hand sanitizer.

              I walked into the kitchen thirty seconds before my five o’clock shift started and saw the delivery boy and waitress by the soda fountain. I cleared my throat and they turned to look at me as I passed between the dual ovens and the cutting table. I saw their cloth masks shift in what I thought had been a smile but certainly could have been a yawn. Seth, our delivery driver, greeted me in the fashion of our favorite Canadian TV characters, as was custom. He spoke to me in a polite accent, “How’re ya now?”

              “Good’n you?” I volleyed back without missing a beat.

              “Not s’bad.”

              “Right on. Hi Lindsay,” I said to my boss, leaning against the front counter, barely noticing the new glass barricade that adorned it, “is it just us tonight?”

              She shook her head. When I prodded about who else was joining us, she just shrugged her shoulders and told me that it was a surprise. Knowing her willpower, I relented and retreated to the oven. Peering between the bill of my hat and the mask on my nose, I inspected the shelves that surrounded my cutting table to find that several ingredients had been added to our arsenal since I had last worked. What are wonton strips, and who puts mayonnaise on pizza? Neglecting to inquire about how I might use these, I pivoted and cranked my neck to look at the wooden shaft protruding from the top of the oven. I extended my hand until my shoulder met my cheek, but only after pushing through my toes did I finally grasp the thin brown handle.

              Returning my weight to my heels, I pulled on the handle and it began to descend. One hand stayed at the far end of the shaft while the other grasped near the bolts that secured it to the steel paddle. It was not an elegant instrument – its crude welding and burnt cheese robbed it of any beauty – but it was certainly sturdy and balanced, a fine tool. Excalibur would be an appropriate comparison.

Just as I began to tuck it between the top and bottom ovens, King Arthur himself appeared in the door of the kitchen. It seemed that my old friend Kaleb Banks was the surprise Lindsay had mentioned. Friends since birth, I had always been much bigger than him until about five years ago when I stopped growing and he started. He now stood a full head taller than me and seemed to have discovered dumbbells as well. His wiry, steel woolish hair peeked out from below his trucker hat, and his skin was brown from literal days of uninterrupted fishing. He let his nose peek out from the top of his mask.

              “Can I getcha anything?” I asked Kaleb with ingenuine submission, “Water? A hug?” I made a joke of serving him, but he was definitely my superior within in the walls of The Joe.

Both phones by the counter started ringing, and the electronic printer spat out a pair of orders. Lindsay began throwing around dough, painting it with grace and efficiency.

              “Water,” he replied, smirking as he pushed me toward the soda fountain. The phones kept ringing as orders filled the counter. I walked across the kitchen, filled two kids’ cups with water and stuck a straw in one of them. I offered both to Kaleb and he took the one without the straw, drank the entire cup, and handed it back to me to refill. I dropped the servant charade and set both glasses on the counter. Kaleb drew the paddle from between the ovens as I took up the curved pizza knife. He began effortlessly tossing pies into the oven; thus, the night’s battle began.

              We worked as a machine. Kaleb manned the oven, fending off fiery breath each time he opened its great jaw. His only responsibilities were to protect the pizzas from burnt crust, and to shove as much food into that thing as possible. This sounds straightforward but is actually quite difficult. I, on the other hand, took the easier but more thoughtful job. Each pizza Kaleb pulled from the fire had to be cut and boxed, and most had to be dressed with things like those weird wonton strips. From there, they were organized by their order and where they were to go. Because of the pandemic, deliveries had increased exponentially, and our delivery man was absent most of the night. Kaleb and I slung pies faster than the poor guy could drive.

              We kept this pace for two hours and had settled into a routine, when I looked towards Lindsay and saw something I had not accounted for: an extra-large pizza. I looked at Kaleb who was busy inside the oven, looked back at the enormous pile of ingredients, and back at Kaleb. My jaw hung loose behind my mask as I pondered how we might tackle this. After regaining my wits, I looked towards the heavens to another wooden handle. Right as I pulled it and saw the metal of our only extra-large paddle, I felt a hand meet my chest. I looked to Kaleb, who said disappointedly, “Put that crap back.” I did.

              The oven god walked toward the titanic pizza, paddle firmly in hand, and looked once at Lindsay and then at me. We looked at each other and Lindsay laughed at my confusion. Kaleb grabbed high on the handle with his right hand, his palm covering the pair of bolts. I could almost feel my own hands burning. Then, he slid the paddle under half of the pizza, fit the rear of the shaft into his armpit, and stuck his remaining hand beneath the other half of the pizza. His tongue snuck out and covered his top lip to help him concentrate. Finally, he hoisted the monster and, resting his forearms on the burning oven, laid it in a front corner. I cringed. Just for good measure, he left his paddle in one hand and this time withdrew a pizza from the oven and slapped it onto my cutting board. Without expression, Kaleb grabbed his empty glass and calmly said, “I think I burned myself,” before walking to grab a refill.

              I stood there for a moment to process what had happened before returning to my work. I had never seen five hundred and fifty degrees ignored so thoroughly. However, my enchanted reverence was short lived, because the pizza Kaleb had just passed me had sauerkraut.

Typically, this would be no problem. It was a vegetarian pizza, and traditionally sauerkraut was the last ingredient to garnish such pies, acting as a stinky German crown. This vegetarian pizza, however, had been ordered with ‘no kraut’, circled and underlined in green pen in the middle of the ticket. Usually I would be trembling to bring a mistake to Lindsay, but since it wasn’t my fault, I only felt a little scared.

I apologized as I pointed out her mistake, and she ran to grab another mound of dough. Kaleb snuck past us with his water, avoiding the conversation. As she stretched and topped another pizza, I apologized again for bothering her and she said, “We’ve only got thirteen minutes to get this pizza delivered.” I read 7:45 on the ticket and 7:32 on the clock, taking a handful of seconds to check the math. I picked up the paddle Kaleb had left and plunged the replacement pie deep into the oven. The urgency of pizza is often greatly exaggerated by rude customers; although they are rare, we try to avoid finding who they are.

As it cooked, Lindsay mentioned to us that Seth, our driver, had just taken four separate orders and likely wouldn’t be back in time. She asked if one of us would drive the order and I meant to offer it to Kaleb. Before I could form the words, Kaleb said, “Go get that tip man.”

I started to argue but the thought of a tip enticed me. There were three other pizzas on the order; for a sixty-dollar ticket, I would easily get five dollars, maybe even ten. That may not seem like much money, but that’s two bags of beef jerky. I accepted Kaleb’s offer.

In a flurry of metal and melted cheese, I pulled, cut, and boxed the replacement pizza. Tucking it in a wide leather bag with the three other pizzas, I rushed out the back door to my car. I buried my hand into my pocket, pulled it back out and smashed my chapstick into the keyhole of my car door. With frustration I shoved my hand back into my pocket and proceeded to successfully unlock my car before tossing the pizza bag into the passenger seat and turning the ignition.

I looked at the clock: 8:39. Confusion grasped me, but I quickly remembered that daylight savings had recently happened, only a couple months ago, and I hadn’t had time to fix the clock. I still had six minutes. I backed out into the one-way street and sped off as the clock changed to 8:40.

The address was only a mile away, but both stoplights in town stood between us. I thought I would drive an extra block and take advantage of a right-on-red maneuver, but I got caught behind an elderly and lost more time than I would have gained. Two minutes ticked away before I even got to the light. I took a right and sat at the next light. My clock read 8:43. The house was just to the left and up a hill. A minute later I got the green, peeled up the hill past a pair of walkers that clearly didn’t understand my predicament, and pulled into the driveway.

I pulled the pizza bag from the passenger side floor and jogged up the sidewalk to the front door. As I pushed on the doorbell, I watched my watch’s seconds hand tick from the 11 to the 12. I was now officially late.

The man that came to the door, while not looking excited, didn’t seem too terribly upset that I was tardy, but my heart sank when I saw no tip in his hand. I pulled the stack of four large pizzas from the bag and impolitely handed them over. Now that his hands were full, I thought it was timely to stick out his ticket and ask him for his signature.

The man tucked the pizzas beneath his chin and said, “Do you have a pen I can use?”

“Ahhh, let me check.” I jogged back to my car and search my console, but only found hand sanitizer and Wendy’s napkins. I jogged back to the door and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t find one.”

Growing frustrated, the man set his pizzas on a table and retreated into an unknown room to find a pen. A couple minutes passed until he returned with a pen and, behold, a tip! I kept my eyes from looking down at the green bill for fear of being impolite, but my mood instantly improved. He scribbled his name on the ticket, put it into my palm, and closed the door without even thanking me. I wasn’t upset though; I’d gotten what I came for.

I skipped and hopped down the concrete back to my car and hopped in. I pulled the ticket from atop my bounty. For a great while I just sat there, staring at George Washington. He’d given me one measly dollar.

I accepted my fate and drove back to The Joe, hoping to do my chores and go home. During the short drive, my mood got less sour as I devised a joke to extract a laugh from my friend at the oven. Upon arriving, I marched out my car, into the building and through the kitchen door. With the bill crunched in my hand, I proclaimed to the everyone in the kitchen, “Kaleb, we can split it fifty-fifty!”

Oddly enough, Kaleb was the only one I did not see. I realized there were no more pizzas in the oven. I looked back towards the sink, then forwards again, but only saw Seth and Lindsay leaning by the soda fountain as they had been at the beginning of my shift. Lindsay said something but her mask muffled it. I tilted me head. She pulled her mask down and repeated, “Kaleb just took off, he said you offered to take care of his chores.”