A Slice of Life

Ethan’s Pies.

It was a strange name, but pizza parlors weren’t known for their creative names. It was usually the name of the owner, or the town, and occasionally it had some Italian word if it was really fancy. It was located at the end of a strip mall next to the garden center. It shared the space with a Chinese restaurant, a tattoo parlor, and a derelict space that changed hands several times in even Tim’s short stint.

It was a small space with a handful of tables and a counter. Most of the place was dominated by the kitchen. There was a room for picking up and a tiny dinner room. Most of the walls were dominated by posters advertising their deals or food. A little space was provided for kitschy Italian decor. Tim happened to like the painting of the countryside. It was probably from a Target, and probably not at all a real place in Italy, but it felt genuine.

“Hey Teetee.” That was his nickname for his sister Theresa. She was behind the tall case that displayed their pizzas. She was older by three years. Taller, and more built. She had played lacrosse in high school and it showed. Her physique was strong and it would have made more sense for their jobs to switch. She would have been much better at lifting pottery and statuary and he could surely manage shuffling pizzas on trays.

“Hey little bro.” She smiled. “Let me guess, a Sicilian slice?”

“Sounds great.” There was an anxious pause. He was leaning on the counter and nearly bouncing. “Is Greg at work today?”

“Yes.” Theresa grinned as she pulled a slice of room temperature Sicilian, turned, and shoved it into the oven.

Tim leaned over the counter. He could feel the heat from the ovens. Just how hot were those things? There were samples of pizza behind a glass display next to the register. It was too smart to lean on it. It had a sign cautioning against it, but that didn’t stop him. He looked toward the back. His sister groaned and shoved him indelicately. She appeared embarrassed and sympathetic. Her hazel eyes were soft and kind. Her lips were drawn into a concerned smirk. Her brow, reproachful.

She glanced toward the kitchen, then regarded Tim. Her glare was disapproving. She motioned to the Do Not Lean sign. “Stop, you’re being creepy.”

Tim frowned. He barely knew Greg. He had started a few month ago as a line cook in the kitchen and sometimes he worked the register. Theresa had been here for years. She was three years older and this was helping her through college. Greg, like him, was a senior in high school.

They had classes together, but Greg had always been aloof. He was one of the “bad kids”. He rode motorcycles and wore leather jackets which of course made him super cool. His hair was greasing and hung partially over his eyes. That made him edgy and mysterious. Rumor was that he was rebellious at school. That he preferred his freedom as an outcast over conforming to social norms. A part of Tim envied him.

Theresa clear her throat loudly to bring him back to reality. “Three fifty please.” She was holding out her hand expectantly. Her expression had drifted into impatience. She had already spoke her mind on the topic. Greg was nice enough once you got to know him but he was troubled and bad news. Her opinion was that Greg would be a bad influence. What did she know about rejecting social norms. She fit in all through high school and now she was trying to do the same in college.

Greg wasn’t about that. He was comfortable being the pariah. He was pleased to make people uncomfortable. He was a musician, an artist. He thought differently. He was everything Tim wasn’t.

Tim stared at her caustically while he fished the money from his pocket. He was awkward, gangly. He had never fooled with his hair and it had always been a frizzy ball. The mean kids called it a helmet, the racist kids made fun of not just it, but the color of his skin. He wore glasses and loved physics and math. Everything that was super uncool. He slammed the money down on the counter and stared down his sister. He tried to steal looks at Greg who was fixing the container on an antipasta. Even the way he packaged things was cool.

“Here, and get gone.” Theresa had removed the heated slice and slid it across the counter.

Tim gave her a sour look, grabbed his slice, turned, and left.