Pizzeria Shenanigans
By Jack He | Grade 9 | Humor | Scholastic 2022 National Silver Medal
“Is that all?”
“Yes, that would be all.”
As I unfold the serviette and pluck the utensils, I return my gaze to the lady sitting in front of me. Amber lights veil her skin in a warm glow. The nostalgic feel of old New York.
“You know, I really love this place,” I say, twirling around the wine glass wedged between my fingers.
“Oh really?”
“Brings me back. The smell, the air. Just everything.”
She laughs, it’s a gentle laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing… I feel the same way. I used to live in Naples, so all the pizza and the yelling… it hits home.”
She adjusts her dress, letting its ruffles drape down the sides of her chair, and clears her throat.
“So. Where are you from?”
“I’m from here. The Bronx,” I say as I gaze past the window.
“Oh?”
“Born and raised.”
She watches as I take a sip, and rests her chin on her palm.
The tapping of heavy leather interrupts the silence. A delicate pie for the both of us. Its seductive aroma envelops our table, and floats around us.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile.
Her smile follows mine as she tenderly lifts a slice into her palm. I draw a breath before reaching for my cutlery when I hear a long, exaggerated exhale from across the table. I pause, and then I grip the handle.
“Are you kidding me?” she screeches as she places her pizza back onto the plate.
“What.”
“Don’t give me that. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What?”
“This is my culture, and my tradition that you are literally spitting on right now,” she snatches her knife.
“OK, calm down. What did I do? Come on…”
“Are you serious?” She sighs, and places the knife down. “You’re horrible.”
“…”
“That pizza is what my ancestors left behind. It’s who we are, as Italians. And when you did that… when you committed that atrocity in such a sacred location as a pizzeria… it hurts to even try to describe it. I can’t believe I’m still talking with you.”
“Okay… I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it. You know that a pizza needs the perfect conditions and care to grow, right? You know every time a chef makes a pizza, they are handling years of tradition with years of experience as they watch each pizza mature like their own child? They raise them, with love. Two parts sauce. Three parts cheese. Four parts dough. Each like musical notes, all played in harmony. They flood them with seasoning, but catch them before they fall. They walk them into wood-fired ovens placed at blistering temperatures. To bruise them, but to teach them. A light breeze of parmesan. A touch of olive oil. A leaf of basil. Fresh tomatoes that aren’t acidic, but still pungent. Do you know how hard it is to maintain this balance? A luxurious mix of cheese that hugs your tongue: Mozzarella, aged Havarti, Gorgonzola, all dusted with fresh Pecorino-Romano. A chef is an artist. Their dough, their canvas. Every ingredient splashed across to make something beautiful. They pour their souls out. They are human but they create something heavenly, something divine. Something that lasts forever, that lingers in your mouth after you swallow. Their creation reflects themselves, their relentless drive for joy, for flavor, but it’s all temporary, and yet they still bake. Their struggles, their sorrows… their happiness.”
“…So what do you want me to do? Pick up the pizza with my inaccurate, possibly unhygienic hands?”
“YES!” she starts to grab her purse, lift herself off the cushion, and walk towards the door, before whirling back. “And you know what? I’m taking the pizza with me. You disgusting, unapologetic, toxic, undeserving rat.”
She carefully cradles the box in her arms, back turned to me as she struts towards the door.
“Look, I’m sorry. I was trying to pick it up with my hands, but the knife was in the way, and I ran into it… accidentally. I couldn’t do anything. Please.”
“SHUT UP. Like I just can’t anymore! I can’t enjoy the pizza anymore. It’s been contaminated by your nauseating, tormenting-”
“THEN THROW IT AWAY AND LEAVE!”
She leans against the door, trying to keep the box balanced, as her other hand screams insults at me. But then her hand slows down, starts to falter, and her eyes — they plead for help. I get up from my seat, and reach my hand out. I try to tell her that I didn’t mean it, that I’m sorry. But it’s too late, and now she stands in front of the trash bin.
No one can stop what happens next.
Her hands let the box fall. Her fingers curl back in realization of what they had done… but it’s too late. Her hands recoil, like the bin was some monster she’d never seen before, and they run away, tears flying back as she swings the door back, her breath shaking.
I stutter towards the scene, the box.
I look down.
Papa John’s
Once a beautiful title, now reduced to… trash.
I retrieve the box, squeezing its sides, and I embrace it, bringing it close to my chest, and letting it hear the beat of my heart.
“I’m… sorry.”
Jack He is a 2nd-generation, Chinese-American immigrant currently studying at Ransom Everglades in Miami, FL. He has tutored creative writing for 2+ years, with 100% of students winning regional or state writing awards after just 1 year. In his free time, Jack enjoys listening to and playing music, hitting up the local basketball and tennis courts, and of course, writing stories!
