When I arrived home, the first thing I noticed was the stench of horror around the apartment. A sickening feeling settled inside my stomach.
Oh, please no.
My feet trudged towards the kitchen. I prayed my nostrils were only playing tricks on me, though to no such luck.
Sure enough, my Grandma was in the kitchen.
And she was cooking.
“Ahh, my darling, grandson!” she happily danced her way towards me, upon noticing my appearance. She hugged me tightly against her stout and short body, squeezing me like a lemon.
“I’m so happy you’re back from school,” she said, “I was beginning to feel lonely.”
I smiled. “Hello, Grandma.” My eyes laid upon the contents on the counter she referred to as “healthy food.” I grimaced.
“What’s that you're making?”
Grandma patted my head. “A special meal for a special boy.”
“My birthday is in seven months.”
Grandma hurried back to the kitchen to complete her spectacular piece of art. “A wonderful boy like you must be treated specially every day. You bring joy to my life, Damian.”
Her words melted my heart. After Daphne’s death, Grandma took me in. It wasn’t easy at first because Mom, her daughter, had always refused to allow Grandma to see her grandkids. Long story short, Mom lost custody of me in court, after I testified against her and declared she had been abusive. Ever since then, it’s only been Grandma and me. Her husband died many years ago, before I was even born, so she had been more than happy to take care of me.
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron. “Hurry up and change, sweetie. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I raced to my room. “Can’t!” I cried, “I’m supposed to be at work in half an hour, remember?”
She tsk-tsked under her breath and muttered something about putting my portion of the food in the fridge.
Please, no.
Grandma is wonderful and everything, but she seriously cannot cook. When the food isn’t burnt, it has no seasoning, and when it has no seasoning, it's raw. And that’s not even the worst of it. I won’t fully go into detail, but let’s just say that if her food were to appear in a cartoon series, it’d be covered in mosaic, to spare the viewer from its appearance.
Regardless, I adored my grandmother.
I undressed myself and pulled an orange polo over my head. After slipping on my dark pants, I ruffled my hair and pulled an orange cap on top of it. My work uniform.
When I was done, I raced out of my room and kissed Grandma goodbye.
“When will you be back, Damian?” she asked, as I laced up my black, Converse high-tops.
“Around 10pm,” I answered, “Bye!”
* * *
“Excuse me, but I ordered a Hawaiian pizza!”
“That is a Hawaiian pizza, sir.”
“Indeed, but you only gave me twenty pineapples, in total. Normally, there should be twenty-five. I want a refund. This pizza is horrid.”
This was clearly not my day. I’ve had my fair share of annoying customers throughout the beginning of my shift and I really felt like hitting the annoying guy that kept on pestering me.
“I’m sorry, but we cannot give you a refund.” My eyes lowered themselves to the three bites he had taken on one slice. “Especially to something you have already eaten.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it's part of our policy, sir.”
The man’s bald head gleamed under the lights of the ceiling. “Listen, you brat,” he snarled, “Twenty-five luxurious pineapples should have been placed with ease and care on my pizza! This is beyond disrespectful. I demand to speak to the manager!”
Behind the men, impatient customers were tapping their feet or glancing at their phones. What a stressful situation. The pizza shop wasn’t always full of customers, but since there was an event taking place nearby, many people had stopped by for food. One of my coworkers was absent and the other one was busy preparing the orders. I was the only one at the cash register, and I was the one that had to deal with all the ridiculous complaints.
“The manager is not here,” I said, “We are very busy, sir. Would you please step aside? I have to take care of the other customers.”
To my disgust, the man hurled his plate of pizza into the trash can, and spat on the counter near my hand. “To hell with you and your policy!”
He stormed out of the store, slamming into people on his way out. His behavior definitely soured the mood of the rest of the clients. Many people seemed beyond agitated.
One woman walked up.
“Hello,” I said, as I quickly sprayed some disinfectant onto the counter, and cleaned off the man’s saliva with a wet rag. “What can I get for you?”
The woman stared at the board behind me.
“Ummm….”
I waited. She continued to ponder about her order.
“Uhhhh….”
I waited. And waited. I was about to tell her to move, in order for me to serve the person behind her, until suddenly, Giovanni, the manager walked into the store. I didn't know where he had been, but according to my co-worker, Stephan, Giovanni, had been taking care of something of “high importance” aka smoking weed.
When he noticed the huge lineup, he gasped and rapidly got behind the counter. Giovanni opened another cash register and a cluster of people moved towards him. After the woman finally placed her order, I continued to serve other clients.
A couple minutes later, as the line finally started to dwindle, the phone near my boss rang.
“Damian, answer it,” he said in his booming voice.
I excused myself from my client, and picked the phone up on the third ring.
“Giovanni’s Pizza Paradise. How can I help you?”
The line crackled. I couldn’t quite hear what the person on the other end was saying.
“Excuse me,” I said, straining to hear them over the chorus of people in the restaurant. “Could you speak louder? I can’t hear you.”
I heard a slight chortle. I narrowed my blue eyes, confused. Was this a prank call? Giovanni noticed my discomfort and signaled for me to speak up one more time before hanging up.
“Hello? Can I help you? What are you trying to order?”
Abruptly, a sly, raspy voice I knew only too well, spoke up. “I would like to order you, Damian.”
I slammed down the phone receiver so hard on the cradle, it broke underneath my hand.
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