Out of the Frying Pan

Michael Giuliano

Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for a Degree in Writing

Creative Writing Option

11/12/2013

Thesis Advisor: Professor Karen Vastola

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Abstract

My thesis is a short story about a man who is struggling to find his true calling in life.

Tony Russo is stuck in a rut: he’s been working at the same restaurant for twelve years; his co-

workers disrespect him, and he finds himself without any real direction in life. When he’s forced

to run the business that makes him so miserable, Tony finds himself sinking even lower into

depression, and resigns himself to a fate as a lifetime restaurant laborer. A visit from an old

flame, however, gives him the courage to re-think the opportunities that life has handed him, and

allows him to make a decision that could change his life forever.

“Out of the Frying Pan” is a semi-autobiographical short story that I would eventually

like to turn into a novel.

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There are those who say that there is nothing left to be learned from the older

generations, and that dwelling in the past will doom one’s future.

Tony, who was raised by his grandfather, knew otherwise. He was taught that getting an

education was the best thing one could do with their life, and that, above all else, a strong will to

do hard work would always be rewarded.

He was also taught that garlic, when cooked to perfection, will give off a scent similar to

that of toasted almonds, and at the moment Tony found this to be the more applicable of the

three life lessons. The carefully sliced garlic had just begun to brown around the edges before a

dollop of tomato sauce was thrown on top. The resulting sizzle and splash spattered the

surrounding pots and pans on the large stovetop, sending flecks of sauce everywhere.

“Tony, keep your shit out of my Alfredo sauce- it’s not supposed to be pink.”

“You calling that watered-down cheez whiz ‘Alfredo sauce,’ Rico? It’s not ‘real’ Italian

food if the chef isn’t Italian, you know.” Tony shot back.

“Fuck you, gringo.” The two ended their spat and returned their focus to the bubbling

contents of the saucepans lined up over the twelve burners. Outside of the enclosed cooking

space came the never-ending sound of chattering customers, ringing phones, and shouting

waitresses. Tony turned to the prep table and quickly julienned half an onion, before sliding

them into a different saucepan and dousing it with white wine. Flames rose high from the pan,

and for a moment he feared that he’d scorch his eyebrows off (and not for the first time in his

life), but Rico quickly whipped the flame out with a dishtowel.

“Thanks,” he said earnestly. The door to the kitchen suddenly swung open, with Gen’s

thin, angular face leering through.

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“I need two more loaves of bread- have the phone girl take them out to tables four and

nine. And I swear to god, if you burn them again-“

“I know, I know,” Tony barked, cutting her off mid-tirade, “you’ll kick my ass.” Gen was

gone again before he had time to admire the look of pure loathing on her face, but wasted no

time in throwing a few loaves of bread into the oven. “Don’t forget about the bread this time,”

he warned Rico, while turning to the prep table. “She wants our fucking heads.”

* * *

After the rush had finally subsided and the two cooks were finished scrubbing the kitchen

spotless, they both waited outside in the little patio of the restaurant for their co-workers to

emerge. Rico drew heavily on his menthol cigarette, and nonchalantly blew smoke rings at

Tony, who was busy pacing back and forth in the roped-off area.

“Cut that shit out,” Tony said irritably, waving away the fumes.

“Calm down, gringo. It’ll relax you.”

“You’ll give me cancer.”

“In Ecuador we don’t have good cigarettes like these− we get cheap shit tobacco. I enjoy

the cancer.” He continued to smoke in silence, while Tony continued to pace. Finally, after

some minutes of tense silence between the two, the front door to Maria’s Pizza jarred open,

releasing the half-dozen or so employees left inside. Gen, of course, led the pack; her tiny, rail-

thin physique clearly was no indication of her rank amongst the group, as even the hulking

delivery kid Chris cowered slightly in her presence.

“It’s such bullshit,” she carried on to Terri, another waitress. “Twenty-three percent tips

throughout the night, on top of just twenty dollars a shift. How the hell am I supposed to live off

of that?”

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“It’s not easy,” agreed Terri. “But this isn’t supposed to be a career, Gen. That’s why we

spent all that money on college.”

“Yeah, and $120,000 dollars and a Bachelors in Criminal Justice later, and here I am with

no good job offers. Big fucking surprise.” Gen snapped open her leather clutch purse and pulled

out a crocodile-skin cigarette case, filled with a neat row of black and gold cigarettes.

“But still,” piped up Annie the phone girl, “wouldn’t it just be better to find something

entry-level in your field, so you can get the experience for a better job?” Gen wordlessly

accepted a lighter from Rico and lit up her cigarette before handing it back to him. After a deep

drag, she exhaled smoke out through her nostrils.

“What, and give up my power here? Screw that.” Terri murmured in agreement. “This

place may be a shithole, but on good nights I can make bank. It’s the perfect little cash cow,”

she continued, demurely, “and I’m not butchering it just yet.”

“Your loyalty is remarkable,” Tony said flatly. “I just want to climb up on a table and

shout ‘O Captain, my Captain.’”

“Fuck you, Tony.”

“Anytime, twiggy.” The other employees looked on at the verbal volleying like tennis

enthusiasts at Wimbledon. They were used to the almost nightly fights by now, and learned to

more or less stay out of the way.

“Easy for you to talk about moving up in a company− you’ve been here for, what, eleven

years? Must be tough being Mickey’s right-hand man and all that.” Gen dismissively flicked

ash from her cigarette towards him. “Getting a job because your family is friends with the

owner. Gotta love nepotism. Then again, with your record, it must not be too easy finding a job

anywhere else, huh?” Tony just crossed his arms and shrugged.

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“Beats blowing one of the busboys to get an interview.” The words barely had time to

register in their collective ears before Gen was upon him, alternating between pummeling and

trying to strangle him, all the while hurling obscenities at him. Annie let out a shriek, while

Terri tried in vain to talk Gen out of her rage. Chris, with the help of another delivery guy, Matt,

managed to pry Gen off of Tony before any real harm was done. Still, she had gotten the jump

on him, and Tony lay on the ground for a few moments, groaning and trying to catch his breath.

Suddenly the door to Maria’s swung open violently, hard enough that the door cracked against

the adjacent stone wall in the doorway. Mickey, aged beyond his fifty-five years and plagued

with a greying mane, still managed to fill in an imposing amount of the door space with his solid

frame, and the roughhousing ceased immediately.

“What in the hell is going on out here?!” he demanded of them. Everybody fell silent, as

Tony picked himself up off the pavement.

“Nothing, boss. Just a little argument, that’s all.”

“Looks like more than that, Ton’.” Mickey licked his thumb and wiped away a smear of

blood from Tony’s brow. His steely blue eyes searched Tony’s face for some indication of what

had happened, but found none. “Well?” he asked, turning to the rest of the group. “Do we have

a problem here?”

“Just that Tony is a complete fuckhead, Mickey,” Gen said hotly.

“That’s not nice, Gen.”

“Well, it’s true. He’s an asshole, and he always picks on me.” She looked to the other

employees for support, but most of them were busy staring at the ground. Finally, after seeing

her death-stare, Chris managed to speak up.

“He was being kind of disrespectful, boss.” Gen nodded in approval.

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“You weren’t being much nicer, puss-face.”

“You’re a fucking criminal scumbag!” Gen shrieked, once again lunging for Tony,

though this time Chris managed to block her. Still, Tony had taken a few steps back.

“All right, all right,” Mickey said, shooing them away. “You all go home now, get ready

for tomorrow. Tony, you come inside with me.” With that he turned around and marched back

inside. After a moment Tony followed in suit, letting the door shut heavily against the frame.

Mickey was waiting behind the counter, having dug up an ancient First Aid kit from one of the

cabinets. “Lemme take a look, kid.”

“It’s nothing, Mick. She just got me with one of her nails.”

“Mmhmm.“ He inspected the cut for a second, before quickly ripping open a packet with

alcohol swabs and wiping it clean. Tony flinched and backed into the cash register. “Well, you

deserve it,” Mickey said sternly. “You ought to know better than this, Tony. Getting’ into fights

in public. You’re supposed to be a model citizen, remember?”

“She was insulting you, Mickey.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Mickey assured him. “I can handle it. What I can’t handle is my boy

going away again over a stupid fight like this. Understand?” Tony just nodded, and Mickey

looked back into the First Aid kit for more supplies. “I don’t know what the hell you said to get

her riled up like that, but you should know by now that she has a short fuse.” He grabbed a few

Band Aids from the kit and motioned for Tony to come back over. Tony did so, begrudgingly,

and stood still while Mickey finished patching him up.

“She doesn’t have a short fuse− she’s just psychotic. And manipulative,” he added, as an

afterthought.

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“She works hard, Ton’. She gets shit done, and she brings in the money. Nowadays,

that’s hard to come by.”

“She’s a control freak, and she’s probably walking out of here each week with more

money than you are.” Tony walked across the pizza area and sat down on the low granite

countertop. “How many times have you had to pay her extra because she complained that she

didn’t have ‘enough tables’?”

“Well, by now she’s used to having more than twenty five tables on a Friday night,”

Mickey began lamely.

“And for any normal human being, that’d be enough,” Tony said. “Twenty five tables is

enough for any of the waitresses here to walk out with a big chunk of cash, and you know that.

She wants thirty tables; she wants higher prices, so her tips’ll go up; she wants helpers that’ll be

her little Gen clones, and report back to her whenever someone messes up, so that she can track

them down and berate them. And when she doesn’t get her way, she wails and cries until you

throw money at her to get her to shut up. And it’s not fair to you.” Mickey shook his head in

resignation, before sitting next to Tony on the counter.

“I know, kid, I know. I’m not stupid. But sometimes, a few extra bucks is worth not

hearing her complain all the time.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’m just tired of it all, Ton’, I really

am. I’m too old for this shit− I can’t keep doing it forever.” There was a long stretch of silence

between the two, before Mickey laughed and gave Tony a little clap on the shoulder. “Good

thing you’ll be here to keep the place going, right Ton’?”

“What?”

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“The restaurant, Tony. I want you to run it someday. Why else you think you’ve been

here for so long?” Tony had no answer. The thought had honestly never occurred to him. He

had been here for twelve years already, but he had never thought of it as a lifestyle before.

“Mickey, I’m not sure.”

“Come on, kid, you’re perfect! You’ve been here the longest, you know how the

business works, and everybody likes you.”

“Not everybody,” said Tony, indicating the bandage on his forehead.

“Almost everybody, then. You’d be perfect. Plus,” he added, “it’s a place to keep you

out of trouble.”

“I’ll think about it, Mick. Just… not tonight.” Tony stifled a groan, and rubbed his

temples. “Look, I’ve got a headache. I’m just gonna go home, okay?” He slid off of the

counter, and made his way around to the door.

“All right, kid. See you tomorrow.” Mickey opened up a tiny prescription bottle and

popped a few pills in his mouth, as he watched Tony leave.

* * *

Before the door to his apartment was completely shut, Tony had already kicked off one of

his shoes and tossed his coat onto the couch. The apartment stunk, so Tony grabbed the can of

air freshener that he kept near the front door and gave it a few sprays around the room. He

watched as the dewdrops of fragrance settled around the room, moisturizing a few of the books

on his shelf as well as the half-dead houseplant that sat, neglected, in the corner. Satisfied with

the result, Tony went into the kitchen for some food. He yanked open the refrigerator door and

peered inside for a few seconds, before extracting two beers. He sat on the couch and turned the

television on, not really caring what was on− he just needed some distracting noise. One of the

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beers was opened, while the other was held against the now swollen wound on his forehead.

Tony couldn’t say for sure which beer was doing the trick, but the pain began to lessen

considerably. As he sat there, drinking and flicking through the channels (before finally settling

for a Law & Order rerun), his mind drifted back to what Mickey had said earlier that night.

Owning the restaurant. By himself. Being the boss. He was crazy, right? Tony had

been a workhorse all of his life− he’d never thought of himself as one who would eventually be

holding the reigns. ‘Keep you out of trouble,’ Mickey said. Well, that was true, too. Tony was

ashamed of his history doing hard time, and had no desire to ever return to that life.

Suddenly, the wound on his head gave an almighty throb, and Tony groaned and nearly

fell off of the couch. Before he could, though, he dropped one of the beers and braced himself

against the sturdy oak coffee table in front of the couch. A wave of nausea hit him, scrambling

his mind like a ship caught in a violent storm, but it eventually passed.

‘I swear, if that bitch gave me a concussion…’ was all he kept thinking.

After waiting a few more seconds to ensure that the nausea had really passed, Tony

trusted his body enough to try and stand up. As he shifted most of his weight to his left arm, to

push off of the table, he wound up knocking over the dirty dishes and piles of mail that had

accumulated there. Most of it was junk mail, anyways, so Tony really didn’t care, but suddenly

something slid from the pile that Tony hadn’t noticed before.

It was a little slip of paper, no bigger than a postcard, professionally designed. One side

showed teenagers smiling and performing some generic team activities; the reverse showed a

picture of an ornately decorated cupola atop a large bell tower. Finally he shifted his attention to

the paragraph in the blank section of the postcard, which read:

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‘NO DEGREE? NO PROBLEM! IT’S NOT TOO LATE- FALL REGISTRATION

DEADLINE IS SEPTEMBER 1st. GIVE YOURSELF THE OPPORTUNITY YOU

NEVER KNEW WAS AVAILABLE AT EAST HUDSON UNIVERSITY.’ Beneath that

was a small list of available bachelors and masters programs, along with some contact

information for the registrar. Tony turned the postcard over a few times, taking in every detail.

‘Pop always wanted me to finish college,’ he thought to himself. ‘Kept telling me to go

to law school.’ The notion was a daunting one− starting school again after nearly a decade. He

couldn’t imagine what schools were even like now, with how much everything had changed

recently. Computers, online classes, video-conferencing sessions; they were a whole other world

for Tony, who’s one technological luxury was the smartphone he kept on his bedside table,

which never rang or received any text messages. ‘Don’t be stupid, Tony. You’d never know

what hit you if you tried to go back. College is for kids.’ He picked up the nearly empty beer

bottle that had fallen to the floor, and gulped down whatever was left inside. ‘You think they’d

take you, anyways? They don’t allow criminals in there. Plus, now Mickey wants you to run the

business. That’s a real opportunity.’

As he stood up to go to bed, though, another wave of sickness rushed up from within, and

before he could stop himself, he vomited on the floor next to the couch. He fell to his knees,

where he stayed for a while, gripping his head and trying to regain his bearings. When he felt

well enough to stand, he made the difficult decision to go to the hospital. ‘This’ll be fun,’ he

thought miserably, as he grabbed his coat and hobbled out the door.

* * *

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The light from the flashlight blinded him and brought back his headache. After a few

excruciating seconds, the light went out, and Tony heard the doctor making a few notes on her

clipboard. He blinked away the spots in his eyes, and could once again see normally.

“Well, it looks like you have a concussion, but you’re lucky− it’s extremely mild. You

probably won’t need any heavy-duty painkillers for it, so Tylenol or Advil will be fine. I’ll

could prescribe you an antiemetic for the nausea, if you’d like.” Tony grumbled and shook his

head.

“I’ll be all right. Can’t believe she gave me a concussion. She barely touched me.”

“That,” she said, indicating the wound on his forehead, “isn’t the issue. The problem is

that when she tackled you, you hit the back of your head on the pavement. That’s where things

start to get problematic.” She scribbled something completely unreadable on a prescription pad,

before ripping it off and handing it to Tony. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, Mr.

Russo?”

“Not unless you can make this thing magically disappear overnight,” he said, as he

plopped down from the exam table. He shrugged his arms into his coat and started buttoning it,

as she filed away his papers into a manila envelope.

“You’ll be surprised. Like I said, your concussion is very mild, so it’s not too troubling.

It’ll feel worse than it actually is. You won’t even have to worry about not falling asleep.

Should be better in a few days.” She handed Tony the envelope with his file inside. “Just bring

this over to discharge in the main lobby, and they’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks, doc,” Tony said earnestly. He shook her hand before walking out of the room

and into the hallway of the hospital. He was lost for a moment, but fortunately someone had

decided to paint colored arrows all over the floor, showing where various locations in the

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building were. He followed the blue arrow labeled “Lobby,” until he found his way to a

professional-looking atrium in the building, decorated with chintz loveseats and armchairs that

were currently unoccupied. That wasn’t odd, though, considering it was after 1a.m.− visiting

hours were long over. Tony found the desk with “Discharge/Billing” written on a sign above it,

and walked over. He placed the file on the desk top in front of a woman who looked thoroughly

uninterested as she opened the envelope and began to take in information and copy it to her

computer.

“Health insurance?” she suddenly barked.

“Uh, none. I’ll pay cash.” She nodded without saying anything, and continued to do

whatever it was she was doing on the computer. Finally, she pressed a button and the printer

next to her came to life, printing out a very long bill.

“Okay, all together it comes to $875.96.” Tony was dumbstruck for a moment, but bit his

tongue. He reached for his wallet, and stared at the limp stack of twenty-dollar bills inside it.

“Is there an ATM around here?” She sighed irritably.

“We’ll just mail the bill to you.”

* * *

The next few days passed in a blur of headaches and nausea, and Tony was barely fit to

tie his own shoes, much less manage a kitchen. Lucky for him, Mickey was accommodating and

picked up the slack. In any case, Tony assumed that a few days away from the place would

speed up his recovery a little, so he didn’t complain.

By Friday, though, he knew that he couldn’t miss out again, and dragged himself to the

restaurant. His head still ached, but with some willpower, he could probably block out Gen’s

annoying voice for a few hours. He popped a painkiller and walked inside Maria’s, taking care

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not to shut the door too heavily. Mickey was already there, and already busy− there was a short

line of customers in front of the counter, and Tony could see Mickey struggling to keep them all

happy and orderly. Tony threw on an apron and sidled up next to Mickey behind the counter,

before addressing one of the women in line.

“Miss? Can I help you?”

“Yeah, can I just get a slice to go?”

“Sure thing. That’ll be two-fifty.” As he held out a hand to receive her cash, he saw her

suddenly withdraw from him.

“Tony? Tony Russo?” The woman was dressed in a dark brown pantsuit, had on a pair

of leopard-print glasses, and wore her chestnut hair up in a bun. In other words, she was

indistinguishable from the mass of businesspeople who frequented Maria’s every day during the

lunch rush. Evidently, though, she knew Tony, and now he struggled to make the connection in

his brain. Thankfully, she helped him out before things grew embarrassing. “It’s Jackie Turner.

Croton Lake, class of ’98?” Suddenly, the name registered in his head, and everything came

back to him in a rush.

“Oh, of course, Jackie! Sorry, I barely recognized you!” It was true: back in high school

Jackie had been a little on the plain side, and was unfortunate enough to have been given braces

her sophomore year, giving her a god-awful lisp. She was also one of Tony’s few friends at the

time, and (he suspected) that he was the only one of hers. Looking at her now, he couldn’t tell

what had changed more: her actual physical self, or just his perception of her, but whatever the

case, there was no denying how radiant she looked. It took Tony a few extra seconds to blurt

out, “What are you doing here?” A loud cough, though, stole his attention, and directed it

towards a stern-looking man towards the front of the line.

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“Can I just get rung up for my soda, please?” From behind the man, Tony saw Jackie

mime an “I’ll wait here” motion, and she quickly sat down at the two-seater next to the soda

fridge. With a huff, Tony made change for the man (making sure to give him extra nickels and

dimes instead of quarters), and quickly began taking care of the remaining customers. Within

ten minutes the customers were gone, and the shop was quiet once more. Tony quickly shook

the excess flour and crumbs from his apron, and went around the counter to sit next to Jackie.

As he drew near, she stood up and made a move as if to hug him, but he quickly stopped her,

motioning to his clothes.

“Trust me, I’m not worth getting your dress all messed up. You’ll be cleaning flour out

of it for a week afterwards.” Smiling, he extended his hand, and she shook it lightly. They both

sat down at the tiny table, and just took in one another’s company for a few seconds, each

marveling at how the years had changed the other. Finally, Tony broke the ice. “You look great,

Jackie.” She blushed.

“Oh, don’t be stupid, Tony. I’m the same as always.” Still, even as she waved away his

words, the changes were unmistakable. Her face was a little fuller, her smile was brighter, she

seemed much more expressive, and her eyes even managed to look more blue. “But what about

you? I remember you worked here in high school− I had no idea you’d still be here!” Before he

had a chance to explain, she continued. “It’s only random happenstance that I stopped by here,

anyway. I was on my way into the city, and I was just craving some pizza.”

“What’s going on in the city?”

“Oh, I work there.” From inside her jacket she took out a tiny case, and extracted a

business card: ‘JACQUELINE S. KING – JUNIOR COPY-EDITOR – SIMON &

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SCHUSTER.’ The other side listed her contact information, and a link to the S&S website.

Tony took a few seconds to turn the tiny card over in his hands.

“Wow, publishing! That’s pretty impressive,” he said earnestly. “I always pictured you

finding a job that put you near books.”

“I know, it’s perfect for a shut-in bookworm like me,” she added, with only a slight trace

of sarcasm. “So, what about you? What have you been up to since college?” Tony shifted

awkwardly in the small seat.

“Well, I only wound up going to Hudson Valley for three semesters. I guess school was

never really my strong point.”

“Well, maybe you just needed some time to find your passion?” she suggested.

“Jackie, I’ve been working in this restaurant for almost twelve years. By any standards,

my passion should be rolling dough and boiling water for pasta.”

“You mean it’s not?” He was about to say something snarky, before realizing that she

was stifling a giggle. He broke down, and couldn’t help but smile as well.

“I guess I just never really took the time to find out what my passion should be. I’ve just

been invested in this place for so long, and then there were my parents trying to convince me to

try law school…” he trailed off. After a moment, she reached across the table and squeezed his

hand.

“You know, it’s never too late to find out what your passions are.”

“Are you… hitting on me?” This time it was his turn to laugh, as the look of pure shock

and bewilderment on her face was priceless. She gave him a rough slap on the shoulder, but he

could tell by her smile that it was good-natured.

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“Still the same Tony, I guess. But you know what I mean. There’s a ton of opportunities

out there. You just have to get out of your comfort zone.”

“That would imply that I’m comfortable with where I am now.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No,” he admitted. “Honestly, I hate it.”

“You used to talk about this place as if it were a dream job.”

“Oh, it’s still my dream job. It’s just that now the dream usually ends with me burning it

down.”

“Lovely.”

“Well, you know me.” Again there was silence between the two.

“Well, listen, Tony, I’ve got to head back to work,” Jackie said, standing up as if to leave.

“But it was great seeing you. We should catch up sometime.”

“I think I’d like that.” She smiled.

“Here,” she said, taking back the business card that she had previously given him. She

pulled a pen out of her coat pocket and scribbled something on the back of the card. “There’s

my personal cell. Call me when you’re free so we can do some more catching up.”

“Sounds great. I’ll let you know when I have a night off from here.”

“You make it sound like a prison.”

“You mean it’s not?” She gave him another playful slap on the shoulder.

“Big baby. Honestly, if this place is half as bad as you make it sound, you’d probably

have one hell of a story on your hands.”

“Really? Could you get me a fancy book deal for it?”

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“Anything’s possible,” she said, bemused. “Well, I gotta go. Call me!” With one final

wave Jackie was gone, leaving Tony sitting at the tiny table, still looking at her business card.

* * *

Tony was counting out the register that night, still thinking about Jackie. The repetition

of the chore was broken by thoughts of her, and he quickly found himself leaving too much

money in the register. Cursing silently, he put the money back in and began to count again, this

time trying to clear his mind of anything else.

‘Does counting money count as a passion?’ he thought to himself. ‘Because that’s

something I could get passionate about.’ From behind him came the clicking sound of footsteps

and, not stopping his count, turned to see who was coming. It was Gen, holding her checks.

“You shouldn’t be counting yet,” she said. “I haven’t taken out the tips from my credit

cards.” Tony said nothing for a few seconds, and quickly finished putting money in the register.

He wrapped the remaining stack of cash in a sheet of aluminum foil, and tossed it to her.

“Well, too late now. Just grab it from here.”

“I should be taking it from the register, because it’s a lot of small change.”

“Well then total up your tips and take that much out, instead of grabbing them all

individually.”

“That’s not the point, Tony,” she said with a huff. “You’re supposed to wait until I’m

finished totaling my checks and adjusting my tips.” Tony was about to snap back at her, but

quickly stopped himself, and took a few deep breaths.

“Sorry, Gen. You’re right. I just wanted to get out of here, that’s all. My head’s still

hurting.” He sat down on the low countertop, watching Gen as she totaled her tips on one of the

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calculators hidden near the register. He could see the back of her neck redden as she turned

away from him. Finally, after a few seconds, she turned back to face him.

“You can be a real asshole, you know that?” Before he could speak, she already cut him

off again. “I’m sorry, though. Hitting you was too much.” This was the last thing that Tony

ever expected to hear come out of Gen’s mouth. Come to think of it, it seemed to be the only

time she had talked to him in any kind of nice manner.

“I was a little out of line,” he admitted. “I just don’t like how you were talking about

Mickey.”

“Well, he’s no saint, you know.”

Before any more animosity could flare up between the two of them, Mickey walked out

of the kitchen, and towards the register.

“How’d you do tonight, Gen?”

“Shitty, as usual.”

“How many tables?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Well, that’s pretty good for a Friday night.”

“Yeah, but none of them tipped well,” she whined. “Honestly, it’s like not even worth it

for me to work Friday nights any more. There’s no profit in it.” Tony let out a snort, and Gen

gave him a deadly leer. “What’s that mean?”

“Gen, you had twenty-seven tables. If every table left you just three dollars, plus twenty

for your shift pay, you’re still walking out of here with over a hundred dollars. And we all know

that your tables left you more than three dollars.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Most people

wouldn’t complain about making that much money for five hours of work.”

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“Well, I’m not some high school teenybopper who can live off of a hundred dollars a

week,” she snapped back. “I’m an adult, and I have bills to pay.”

“Well, then, maybe you need a job that can pay those bills.” Mickey walked over to

Tony and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, kid, leave her alone.” But Tony never took his eyes off of Gen, and she

returned his icy stare.

“This job does pay the bills, just as long as it’s busy enough, and the customers tip

enough.”

“What, you want to enforce mandatory tipping?”

“No,” she spluttered, “but it’d be nice to actually make some real money!”

“All right, you two knock it off.” Mickey moved between the two of them, his hands

raised high. “You need to bury the hatchet.” Gen scoffed and turned back towards her tickets.

“She’s just trying to milk you for more money, Mickey,” Tony said, defiantly. “She

already makes more than almost all of us here, and it’s not enough for her.”

“Go to hell, Tony.”

“Why, so I can see you sitting on your throne?”

“You motherf-“ Gen took a step towards Tony (who instinctively covered his face with

his hands), before getting blocked by Mickey.

“Okay, easy, easy!” He held her by the shoulders for a few seconds, making sure that she

wouldn’t lunge after Tony once more, before letting go. “That’s enough from the both of you.

Tony, leave her alone. Gen, I’m sorry if you think that you’re not earning enough, but there’s

nothing that I can do.”

“A raise would be nice.”

21

“Gen, you already make more than everybody else.”

“That’s because I deserve it,” she said pompously.

“I’m sorry, Gen, but I can’t afford to pay you any more than that.”

“You pay Tony more than you pay me.”

“I also don’t take $300 in tips away from Mickey every week,” Tony interjected.

“Look, enough!” Mickey finally shouted, louder than any of them was expecting. “I need

you both here. You’re both good employees. I swear, though, sometimes you just…” as Mickey

trailed off, he suddenly put a hand to his chest. He winced, he wheezed, and before either Gen or

Tony knew what was happening, he collapsed to the floor, groaning. Tony was on top of him at

once, trying to revive him, while Gen just stood there, shrieking.

“Call an ambulance!” Tony managed to shout at her, before bringing all of his attention

back on Mickey. Mickey was still clutching feebly at his chest, breathing laboriously, slowly

turning a mottled shade of grey. “Come on, Mickey, come on,” Tony pleaded, attempting what

he assumed to be some crude form of CPR. As Tony started chest compressions, and saw his

mentor’s eyes begin to close, the wail of sirens could be heard growing closer.

* * *

Hospitals were never Tony’s favorite place. Really, it’s doubtful that they are anybody’s

favorite place to be. But it was especially so for Tony, who didn’t picture himself being back

here so soon after his last visit for the concussion, and definitely not to see his friend hooked up

to tubes and wires. One of the nurses was currently bent over Mickey’s prone form, adjusting

one of the IV fluid bags, while another was drawing some blood from his left arm. Tony could

only watch, helplessly, as Mickey lie, unmoving, on the gurney. After what felt like an eternity,

Tony felt a tap on his shoulder, and came face-to-face with one of Mickey’s doctors.

22

“Mr. Russo? I’m Dr. Grayson, Mr. Santoli’s attending physician.” He offered his hand,

and Tony shook it eagerly. “I understand that you are his next of kin?”

“I suppose so,” Tony said with a shrug. “He wasn’t married, didn’t have any kids. No

brothers or sisters that I know of.”

“Well, then, I’ll be reporting everything to you.”

“So, how is he?”

“Well, he’s in rough shape right now, but, all things considered, he’s lucky. At first we

thought he had a heart attack, but it turns out that it was a clot that occluded blood flow to his

lung.”

“So his heart is fine?”

“As good as ever.” Tony sighed with relief. “You know, you probably saved his life

with that CPR.”

“Really?”

“Well, you weren’t doing it correctly. If it had really been a heart attack, it would have

been a different story, but you actually managed to knock some of the clot loose from the

pulmonary artery.” Tony made a mental note to put up new CPR and choking safety signs in the

hallway of the restaurant. “Now we just have to worry about the remaining damage to the lung.

He should regain consciousness sometime in the next few hours. We’ll start him on

thrombolytics and blood thinners to break up the clot, and he should be out of here in a week or

so.”

“Thanks, doc.” With a final, comforting pat on the back, Dr. Grayson walked away

towards the nurse’s station. After a few minutes, Tony felt well enough to enter the room, and

he sat down in the tiny chair next to Mickey’s bed. He sat there in silence for a while, before,

23

almost without thinking, he reached over and took Mickey’s hand in his own. It was gnarled and

calloused, much like Tony’s own, though to a much greater extent. Tony wasn’t sure how long

he was sitting there for, but after what felt like a lifetime, he felt himself falling asleep in the

chair.

The next morning he awoke to find himself still in the chair, though he was now covered

with one of the itchy, pink hospital blankets that covered all of the beds. There was also a tiny

pillow tucked behind his head.

“I had one of the nurses set you up,” a familiar voice rasped. Tony looked over and was

amazed to see Mickey reclined in his bed, slowly eating a tube of Jell-O. “You look as bad as I

feel.”

“Speak for yourself, old man.” Tony stood up, stiffly, various cracks and groans emitting

from his joints. With a final ‘crack’ of his neck, Tony went to stand beside Mickey. “How you

doing?” Mickey made a noncommittal hand gesture.

“Eh, so-so. Can’t take a deep breath, but at least I’m breathing.” The nasal cannula

continuously whistled as it pumped oxygen into his nostrils. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“’Course I did. You’re family.”

“Nah, you’re better than that.” Mickey took a few more wheezing breaths, and made as

if he were going to say something, but quickly stopped.

“What is it, Mick?”

“Look, Tony, there’s something I gotta ask you. And I understand if you’ll say no.”

“Come on, Mickey. I’ll do anything. What is it?” Mickey gave him a once-over with

his tired eyes.

“I need you to run the store while I’m out.”

24

“Oh…”

“I know, Tony. I hate to ask you, since you got your own things going on-” Tony cut him

off.

“No, Mickey, it’s okay. I can do it.”

“You sure? I could make a few calls, get some of the old crew in to help. The Ferrara’s

owe me a few favors, I could one of them to come in.”

“Mickey, I basically run the place anyways. And it’d be good practice, right?” Tony

gave Mickey an encouraging smile.

“Heh. I guess you’re right.” Mickey still looked guilty. “I just don’t want you to do

anything that you don’t want to, Tony.”

“Mickey, it’ll be fine. I promise.” Tony glanced up at the clock on the wall of the room.

“Oh, crap, it’s already nine. I’d better go, if I’m gonna open on time.”

“Yeah, kid, go. And Tony?” Mickey called out, as Tony was leaving. “Thanks. I owe

you big time.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mickey. Just get better.”

* * *

Tony managed to race home, shower, shave, change into a somewhat clean pair of work

clothes, and was unlocking the front door of Maria’s by 10:15. He was half an hour late by

Mickey’s usual standards, and Rico was impatiently waiting outside.

“You’re late. How’s Mickey?” Rico asked as soon as the door was open. Tony guessed

that Gen had spread the news about Mickey to all of the other employees.

“He’s okay. Getting better.” It was the truth, but Tony still tried to not let too much out.

Sometimes the less that others knew, the less stressful it would be for him. Especially if, for the

25

time being, he was running this place. Tony and Rico spent the next hour or so in a quiet state of

workmanship, making pizzas and rolls, getting ready for the morning rush. Rico could be

annoying and downright rude, especially when things got busy, but it could not be said (by Tony,

or anybody else) that when push came to shove, he worked harder than anybody else there.

After a few minutes, Rico tried to break the silence.

“Pretty crazy, what Gen did.”

“Yep.”

“You gonna do anything about it?”

“Like what?”

“Press charges, maybe?” Tony genuinely laughed at the thought.

“The cops would love that. Ex-con files an assault charge against a girl who weighs

100lbs, soaking wet.” Rico gave him an inquisitive look. “I’m still on probation, Rico. I need

to stay away from trouble.”

“Whatever, ese. Just sayin’, you shouldn’t let her boss you around like that.”

“Don’t act like she doesn’t boss you around, too.”

“She can call INS on me; of course I’m scared of her.” They both shared a laugh at that,

before returning to their work.

By 11:30 everything was ready, and Terri (the day waitress) flipped on the neon “OPEN”

sign as she walked in. She tried to make small talk as she tied on one of the short, black waitress

aprons.

“Gen told me about Mickey last night. Is he going to be okay?”

“I think so. Doctor says that he was lucky to get there so quickly.”

26

“Lucky you were there, then, Tony.” She flashed him a pair of goo-goo eyes. “My

hero.”

“Oh, be quiet,” he snapped back, but nonetheless he felt a blush creep up his cheeks.

Thankfully the first customers of the day decided to come in just then, so they both spent the

next few hours busily taking orders and making change. Once the lunch rush had subsided, they

both sat down. Nobody else ever came in until 4 o’clock, once the local schools let out, so this

was always a good time to get other work done. Rico sat on a barstool, texting one of his many

Spanish girlfriends. Tony flicked through the college brochure that he had brought from home.

Terri sat at the small two-seat booth, grading papers that her Elementary students had turned in.

After a few minutes, Tony, unsure of what else to do, walked out to the dining area and sat

across from Terri in her booth. Terri momentarily glanced at him before returning to her papers.

Trying to be nonchalant, he asked her, “You went to college, right?”

“Tony, I’m busy.”

“But I have a question.”

“So?”

“So, you’re a teacher. That means you have an obligation to help.” She let out an

audible “Ugh,” before setting down her red pen on top of the pile of papers.

“Well?”

“You teach English, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you must know about writing, right?”

“Right.”

“So, how do you do it?”

27

“Do what?”

“Write.”

“Write?”

“Right.” She eyed him curiously.

“Are you talking about, like grammar? Like, subjects, and verbs, and prepositions?”

“No. I think. I mean, say that I wanted to write something. A book, maybe.” Her

eyebrow rose. “How would I go and do that?”

“Well, most publishers want authors who have some kind of reputation. People who

maybe have other stuff published first.” She thought for a moment. “And most published

writers have college degrees.”

“Well, was getting an English degree like getting a Writing degree?”

“In a way, I guess.” She mused about it for a few seconds. “I mean, it’s a lot of writing

either way. Why?” she suddenly asked. “You thinking about going back?” He shrugged.

“I dunno. Maybe. I met up with an old friend, and she works for a publishing company.

She said that a story about this place would be a good one.”

“Well, that’s true,” Terri admitted. “Never a dull moment. Do you like writing?”

“I’m not sure. The most complicated things that I seem to write are food orders.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. It takes a trained hand to write ‘large salad, no olives,

dressing on the side’,” she said, mockingly. Seeing the hurt look on his face, though, she quickly

apologized. “Sorry. I guess I’m just not used to seeing you take anything seriously.” She took

the pamphlet out of his hands, and studied it for a second, when her eyes suddenly lit up. “Ooh,

East Hudson! That’s where I went!”

“Really?”

28

“Yup. They have a good arts program there.”

“And you think they’d let me in?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Well, because of… y’know, my time served?” Tony squirmed a little in his seat.

“You might have to ask the registrar’s office there about applying.” She slid the brochure

back to him. “Might be worth looking into, Tony,” she said earnestly.

“You think?”

“It can’t hurt. Plus, you always have someone who can help you with writing and

editing.”

“I do?”

“Of course.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“Huh. You really think that Rico knows enough English to help me write the book?” He

quickly leapt up from the table, avoiding her quick slap, and ran back behind the counter,

laughing. Terri returned to her papers, shaking her head, and tried to imagine the kind of book

that Tony could create.

* * *

For once, Tony considered himself fortunate. Mickey was making a speedy recovery in

the hospital, and was actually due to come home a little early. Gen was gone all weekend,

making the running of the restaurant much less stressful than it could have been. Jackie had

stopped in for dinner on Tuesday night, and even stayed with him after Maria’s had closed. She

seemed excited by the prospect of him returning to school, and even more so with the notion of

him chronicling the daily madness of the store. In short: everything was going great.

29

On Friday morning, Tony found himself helping Mickey (who was leaning heavily on a

cane) move back into his tiny apartment upstairs from Maria’s. Tony had tried to convince

Mickey to come stay at his apartment (which was on the ground floor of his building), but

Mickey was having none of it.

“I’m not dead yet, Tony,” he said firmly. “I can handle a few stairs.” Still, Tony took

every precaution to make sure that Mickey made it up the old staircase without incident, and

probably would have put up a child gate in front of the door had Mickey not kicked him out.

“I’ll be fine, kid. Go make sure the store doesn’t burn down.” Tony reluctantly walked out and

trudged downstairs to open the restaurant. To his dismay, Gen was already waiting outside.

“You’re late, Tony.”

“Calm down, Gen. I was helping Mickey move back in.” He turned the key in the lock,

and held the door open for Gen. “He’s fine, since you asked.” Gen said nothing, but quickly

walked into the back office to hang her jacket up. Tony was already behind the counter, turning

the ovens up to their proper temperature by the time she walked back out, wearing her waitress

apron.

“Whatever. Let’s just get to work.”

The day progressed unusually slowly, for a Friday. The lunch rush consisted of ten or

fifteen businessmen, none of whom sat down to eat (which pissed Gen off more than her cursing

could describe), before dropping off abruptly at 1 p.m. As everybody sat around, having already

tidied up and gotten the place prepared for the dinner rush, the jingling of the bell on the front

door filled the store, and Tony looked up to see Jackie walking down the ramp. She ordered two

slices and a drink at the counter, before sitting down at the two-seat table near the front of the

30

store. Tony pretended to clean the ovens for a few more minutes, before cleaning himself off

and sitting down next to her. Gen eyed him like a hawk.

“So, how’s Mickey doing?” Jackie asked.

“A lot better, thank God. Actually, he just came home today, so I helped him move back

in.”

“Thank God,” Jackie agreed. She sipped her soda quietly, and gave the restaurant a quick

once-over. “So, how are you holding up? Been running this place all by yourself for a while

now. Gotta be fun.”

“Eh,” Tony said. “It’s a pain. Being the boss is never fun.” Jackie nodded in agreement.

“Plus, now I’m here all day, every day. The hours are a killer. No idea how Mickey kept it up

for as long as he did.”

“Well, have you thought any more about his offer?”

“A little.”

“And?” Tony noticed a mischievous little glint in her eyes. She was leading him on.

“I really don’t know,” he said honestly. “It’s a good place, and I owe Mickey so

much…”

“But…?” she added for him.

“But it’s killing me, and I hate it, and I would love nothing more than to just up and leave

and go somewhere and be with you,” he finally blurted out. Realizing what he had just said, he

immediately turned a shade of red that could rival a prizewinning tomato, and began to

backpedal. “Wait, no, what I mean is-“ but she quickly cut him off.

With a kiss.

31

Unfortunately, this only served to discombobulate him even further, and it was a minute

or two before he could manage to talk in proper sentences again.

“Jackie, I’m sorry,” he started. “That was stupid.”

“Was it?” She waggled an eyebrow in a manner so ridiculous that he couldn’t help but

laugh.

“I like you, Jackie. I do. Maybe I always have,” he admitted. “But maybe I’m just not

cut out for anything else.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Jackie, you don’t know me. I’m a drop-out, a nobody, working a dead-end job because

it’s all I know in the world.” He paused for a few seconds. “I’m a criminal,” he finally stated,

and he could feel the weight of the words fall from him like a two-ton weight. After a few

seconds, he felt Jackie’s hand grab his own.

“Tony, it’s never too late to change, if you’re really willing to. All you need is the

courage and the will to do something about your situation.”

“Easier said than done,” he scoffed.

“Is it? Think about it. What would it take for you to leave here?” Tony thought for a

few seconds.

“Well, Mickey would need somebody to replace me,” he said simply.

“Okay, then. Didn’t you say that he was in touch with some of the old crowd? He’s been

in this business for over thirty years- you don’t think he has connections with other restaurant

owners and their employees?” “She gave him a smile. “Tony, Maria’s has been here before you

were born, and, odds are, someone will be in control of it when you die. You don’t have to

always be here.”

32

“It wouldn’t be fair to Mickey, though. He helped raise me.”

“And he raised you to be happy and successful. He knows that no good would come of

your life if you spent it being miserable.”

“Okay, so imagine I left,” Tony said, exasperated. “What then? Where would I go?”

“What about that school you mentioned? You could start taking classes, see if any of

your old credits could transfer in. Heck, you could walk out of there with a Bachelor’s degree in

two years, I’ll bet. You could even work here, but only part-time, to cover the costs,” she said,

cutting off what was to be his next argument. “And then, maybe with a little help,” she gave him

another suggestive look, “maybe you could get to work on a good story about this place.”

Tony said nothing for a few seconds, and kept looking at her hand lying on top of his.

Suddenly, their silence was broken by an impatient “Ahem!” from somewhere behind Tony. He

glanced over his shoulder to see Gen standing there, positively fuming. Tony got up and walked

over, trying to figure out what could be making her so upset.

“What?” he asked, irritably.

“You having fun out there? Everybody else is trying to work, here.”

“Gen, the place is empty. You need to relax.”

“Well, I can’t relax when the only table I’ve had all day is your little girlfriend playing

footsie with you.”

“Let it go, Gen.” Tony turned to walk back to Jackie, when he felt a rough punch on his

shoulder. It was Gen.

“No!” she shrieked. “We are supposed to be running this place professionally, and

you’re acting like an immature jackass!”

33

“Gen, there is literally nothing for us to do- there are no customers! What do you want

me to do, stand outside with a sign, advertising free pizza?”

“No,” she said, her voice becoming an almost deadly hiss. “What I want you to do is to

take some responsibility, act like a real boss, and tell your little tart over there to stop taking up

table space unless she’s going to tip!” Gen was positively bug-eyed and red in the face at this

point. Even on her tippy-toes, she wasn’t quite nose-to-nose with Tony, but she stood her

ground. Tony could hear Jackie getting up from the table behind him, and he saw Rico rush out

from behind the counter, ready to intervene with whatever was about to happen. Tony opened

his mouth, ready to shout Gen into a crater, when he felt Jackie’s hand grip his once again, and

give it a firm squeeze. Tony looked back at her, at her optimistic, firm smile, and suddenly felt

the anger dissipate, like fog over a serene lake. He took a few deep breaths, gave Jackie’s hand a

squeeze, and took a step back from Gen’s snarling face.

“You’re right, Gen. You’re right. I’m not acting like a boss.” He saw her expression of

hatred vanish as if it had been slapped clean off of her face. Wordlessly, he untied the apron

strings from behind his back, pulled his head through the top strings, and took it off. Then, he

carelessly tossed it towards Gen, who caught it, sending up a poof of white flour. “You can be

the boss for a while. I’m gone. Have fun.” And with Jackie at his side, Tony walked out of

Maria’s. He made it a few steps outside before turning back and looking at the old building.

“Well?” Jackie asked expectantly. “Now what?” Tony thought for a minute.

“Well, first let Mickey know that I’ll be gone for a while.” Jackie nodded her head in

agreement. “And then… Well, what do you feel like doing? I say we go out and have a real

date. Whattaya think?” She beamed, and Tony knew that he never wanted to see another smile

in the world ever again, unless it was hers.

34

“Sounds great. Maybe dinner and a movie?”

“I know the perfect place,” he said, as he turned his back on Maria’s.