"Finally decided to show up?" Mr. Crain said when Bruce walked in the door. "Get your apron on, you're up front."
"But I'm supposed to be doing ovens today, and-"
"I don't care. You're late, so you're doing the front. Evan is doing ovens."
"He's just a kid, Mr. Crain." Bruce saw Evan peering around the corner of the oven at them. Sweat dripped over his late acne. "He's gonna burn the pies."
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to come in late," Crain spat under his breath. "Get out there!"
Bruce Denning dragged his feet to the front counter, tying the red apron behind his back. There were a few early lunchers enjoying pizzas in some of the booths. The rush hadn't started.
He placed the cap reading "Peter's Pizzas" over his thinning hair and glared down at the computer touch-screen. He touched one swollen knuckle against the sign-in box and entered his name. He'd figured after spending fifteen years taking orders he would be able to spend the rest of his working years near the sweet heat of the ovens, but Mr. Crain was a man dedicated to negative reinforcement. Get in late: you get the front.
Bruce adjusted his name tag and tried to twist his scowl into a smile.
Near-noon light bounced in through the windows, and the door began to chime again and again.
Is it better than sitting in his empty home, watching the channels change, bemoaning his sorry life? Bruce wondered this as the first customers came up to him. His back already hurt.
Samson McCorrin rested his head against the hard plastic railing of his motor home, hearing the cries from inside. They were from his daughter, Jessie, four, hungry. Momma was gone, earning her money at Dry-Kleen; enough to keep their home theirs, but not to keep their bellies full.
Jessie wailed again, and Samson's heart broke, listening to his only child taste her tears. It was noon, and hot, and he was hungry like her, and able to do just as much. He'd tried everywhere for a job, but no one hired. He sat with his hands linked behind his neck, staring at the dirt-and-grass ground, leg bouncing. When Jessie wailed the next time he had to cover his mouth to keep from wailing with her.
Bruce got a brief moment to himself near the end of the rush, and rested against the counter, easing off his back. Crain saw.
"You got time to lean, you got time to clean!" He said, pushing a wet rag into Bruce's hand. When Crain left, Bruce dropped it onto the counter and started rotating it around, watching the water pool and bead. It was this day-in and -out, except the ones he had off, when he could sit in the dark and stare at the ceiling, thinking all the thoughts he could. It was that or quiet madness.
This was his payment for a life un-lived: a sorrowful day and lonely night, when he could think of the things he saw and did nothing for.
Bruce pushed the rag across the counter and saw the lines made the water, feeling bile rise in his throat as droplets began to look like lines of bodies wrapped in cloth outside Lašva Valley and the rag's piled form seemed like a white headdress of an old woman shot with her hands up. He heard the subdued whistle and crash of mortars.
"Hey!" Crain said, snapping his fingers in front of Bruce's face. "Get out of your head and back to work! Help Evan clean the paddles!"
Bruce shuffled to the kitchen and found Evan wiping the wooden pizza paddles. "I told Mr. Crain I don't need any help," Evan said. He saw the remnants of the mental images that had passed Bruce's eyes. "You alright Mr. Denning?"
"I'm okay Evan, back just troubling me."
Evan's eyebrows lifted. "I'm sorry Mr. Denning. I try not to get here too early to make sure you get the ovens, but-"
"Oh sure," Bruce said. "The old man had trouble getting his socks on this morning and so he's moved down to the minors. Don't get your head- . . . Don't worry yourself. It's happened before, it'll happen again. Let's get the paddles clean. I'm in Crain's sights but you don't have to be." Evan nodded and made room for Bruce at the big sink.
"Samson."
"Hello ma'am," Samson said to Mrs. Lewis.
"Need me to look after Jessie again?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Bring her over, then. I'm happy to. Looking for a job again?"
Samson looked at his shoes. "Yes ma'am."
"Good. That's good. Keep trying, I'm sure you'll find something, and you can put your worries behind you. How's Jessie? And Momma?"
"Jessie's good ma'am. Momma's good too, she's down at the Kleen."
Mrs. Lewis nodded. "Okay. Get Jessie and bring her over. You spend as much time as you need." Mrs. Lewis got a bit closer. "I'm going to put some good healthy food in her, and not a thing you say will stop me, you hear?"
Samson said nothing.
"I was in your spot once," she whispered. "I took the help I could get. You will too, if you're smart."
"I'll get Jessie," Samson said.
He went across the grass and dirt to his home and found Jessie sucking on fingers, momentarily forgetting her hunger. She smiled when she saw him. He smoothed her short, curly hair and helped her get her shoes on, leading her by the hand across to Mrs. Lewis, who stood matronly in her doorway. Samson hugged his daughter, telling her he'd be back soon. He stood and looked Mrs. Lewis in the eye. He returned to his home, then walked out of the trailer park, going north.
Bruce watched the diners enjoy their meal, waiting for them to leave so he could wipe the tables. The lunch rush was over. He stood, trying to appear busy in case Mr. Crain spotted him, pretending to clean or arrange. His head ached with tiredness; he could barely lift his arms. He didn't sleep much anymore. It was too cold, and sounds from the street were too loud. They kept him awake. And when he did sleep he sometimes dreamt of Markale or Ahmići. He didn't know which was worse. He watched a family leave their table.
As he was piling dishes and cups, the door chimed. "Be right with you," Bruce said over his shoulder. He carried the dirty dishes to the counter and positioned himself behind the computer and regarded the customer.
The young man, with spotty, dark skin and baggy shirt, stood staring at Bruce for a moment, taking him in. The red apron, cap over thinning hair, name tag.
"Sir," Bruce said. "Are you going to order something?"
Still looking at Bruce, the man took one hand and hiked up his shirt. a small pistol was stashed in his waistband. "I need money," he whispered. He put his hand on the pistol's handle.
Bruce felt the heat rise in his face, thinking about the men that had pointed their weapons at him twenty years ago. His fingers twitched, searching for his rifle or sidearm.
"Just the money," the man said. "That's all I need."
Bruce sighed, and hit a few keys to unlock the drawer. He wasn't risking his life for this place. The drawer popped and he dragged it open. He scooped out the twenties and tens and placed them on the counter quietly. The man reached for them, then hesitated.
He put a finger on the stack of bills. There was at least a hundred dollars. He looked up at Bruce. "I'm just doing this for my daughter," he said, tired. "I'm just trying to feed her."
He grabbed the bills and had taken a step when Bruce said: "stop."
The man's voice was the one he'd heard in his head for the last twenty years. Weary and aching for solutions that plagued him. It was the voice that told him what to do when viewing the atrocities around him in Bosnia, when women screamed for their dying sons and children for their dead parents. It roared at him: help them! Do anything you can to ease their suffering! But he stood and did nothing, could do nothing, and so the voice that tried to spur him to action shrank to a quiet murmur wondering why he hated his life.
The thief spoke in the same voice. Not for the same reason, Bruce knew, but it was the voice that asked him to do anything he could.
"I can get you pizza," Bruce said under his breath. "Go sit down." The thief backed away, shaking his head. "We don't have cameras," Bruce said. "Give the money back, and go sit down."
The thief stood still.
"Hurry," Bruce said. "If the manager sees-"
The man put the money back on the counter and found the closest table, looking away from Bruce. Bruce looked into the kitchen.
"Evan, four pizzas, anything on them," he said through the opening.
Evan frowned. "But-"
Bruce shook his head. "Just make the pizzas."
It was cool in the pizza place. The worker's words scared Samson. The police were coming. The worker was lying, and they did have cameras. He wasn't making any pizzas. Samson would go to jail and Jessie would go hungry.
The bell over the door rang and Samson stiffened, looking for the blue clothing and drawn weapons, instead finding a family entering. The worker at the counter helped them, and they sat.
Thirty minutes passed, and Samson's mind battled with itself. Stay for the food, it said, but also: the authorities are coming for you. Run. More than once he'd put his feet under him to stand and run, to throw the gun into the ditch by the side of the road or head to the next store that would hand him the money like it should. He didn't need to take charity, he thought, but he stayed sitting.
He glanced over his shoulder at the old worker and found him looking back, standing, hunched, in front of the touch-screen monitor. They found each others' eyes.
There was a sound, and the worker walked away from the counter, taking four boxes from the kid on the other side of a hole in the wall. Samson stood up, legs hesitant with disbelief. The worker set the boxes on the counter. "Your pizza is ready, sir."
Samson could smell the pizza and whatever toppings they had. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. "Sir, you pizzas are ready," the worker intoned from a far-away place.
The would-be thief wasn't moving, just staring with a slack mouth. Bruce looked over his shoulder at Crain's door. It hadn't opened since the man had entered the store.
He looked back at the man. "Sir, please pick up your order."
The last word got the man moving. He stepped forward and slid his fingers under the bottom box. Before picking them up, he raised his head and looked into Samson's eyes. They stood looking, each other the keys for the locks that bound their hearts.
Samson stepped away from the counter, and Bruce watched him go. He cast one last glance at Bruce before pushing the door open and escaping. Bruce looked around the store, taking in the red plastic cups and low-hanging lights, and the ever-present smell of burnt cheese and crust that came from the kitchens.
When Momma came home from the Dry-Kleen, weary after a day of work, she found her husband and daughter sitting at the table with empty plates in front of them. Jessie called out "Mama!" when she saw, and Momma picked her up. Samson looked down at his plate, kneading his knuckles around.
"What's happened here?" Momma asked. "What happened?" Samson looked up at her and she saw a strange emotion in his eyes.
At the end of his shift, Bruce pushed open Crain's door. "Crain."
"What?" Crain asked, surprised at the intrusion. Bruce knew not to disturb him in the office. "What's so important that you have to bother-"
"I quit," Bruce said, and dropped his apron at the threshold. "Done."
Crain chased him outside. "Wait, Bruce!" He yelled. "You can't just do that! I need two weeks notice!"
"You don't. You got a list of suckers who will work their lives away just for the pennies you see fit to hand out," Bruce said. "I won't take them any more. I can do more than make pizzas, and I will."
Crain watched as Bruce's face changed. He smiled for the first time in ten years. "I made a difference today, for the first time in my life, and I like it," Bruce said. The voice inside brought its head up, feeling strength.
"But I'm supposed to be doing ovens today, and-"
"I don't care. You're late, so you're doing the front. Evan is doing ovens."
"He's just a kid, Mr. Crain." Bruce saw Evan peering around the corner of the oven at them. Sweat dripped over his late acne. "He's gonna burn the pies."
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to come in late," Crain spat under his breath. "Get out there!"
Bruce Denning dragged his feet to the front counter, tying the red apron behind his back. There were a few early lunchers enjoying pizzas in some of the booths. The rush hadn't started.
He placed the cap reading "Peter's Pizzas" over his thinning hair and glared down at the computer touch-screen. He touched one swollen knuckle against the sign-in box and entered his name. He'd figured after spending fifteen years taking orders he would be able to spend the rest of his working years near the sweet heat of the ovens, but Mr. Crain was a man dedicated to negative reinforcement. Get in late: you get the front.
Bruce adjusted his name tag and tried to twist his scowl into a smile.
Near-noon light bounced in through the windows, and the door began to chime again and again.
Is it better than sitting in his empty home, watching the channels change, bemoaning his sorry life? Bruce wondered this as the first customers came up to him. His back already hurt.
Samson McCorrin rested his head against the hard plastic railing of his motor home, hearing the cries from inside. They were from his daughter, Jessie, four, hungry. Momma was gone, earning her money at Dry-Kleen; enough to keep their home theirs, but not to keep their bellies full.
Jessie wailed again, and Samson's heart broke, listening to his only child taste her tears. It was noon, and hot, and he was hungry like her, and able to do just as much. He'd tried everywhere for a job, but no one hired. He sat with his hands linked behind his neck, staring at the dirt-and-grass ground, leg bouncing. When Jessie wailed the next time he had to cover his mouth to keep from wailing with her.
Bruce got a brief moment to himself near the end of the rush, and rested against the counter, easing off his back. Crain saw.
"You got time to lean, you got time to clean!" He said, pushing a wet rag into Bruce's hand. When Crain left, Bruce dropped it onto the counter and started rotating it around, watching the water pool and bead. It was this day-in and -out, except the ones he had off, when he could sit in the dark and stare at the ceiling, thinking all the thoughts he could. It was that or quiet madness.
This was his payment for a life un-lived: a sorrowful day and lonely night, when he could think of the things he saw and did nothing for.
Bruce pushed the rag across the counter and saw the lines made the water, feeling bile rise in his throat as droplets began to look like lines of bodies wrapped in cloth outside Lašva Valley and the rag's piled form seemed like a white headdress of an old woman shot with her hands up. He heard the subdued whistle and crash of mortars.
"Hey!" Crain said, snapping his fingers in front of Bruce's face. "Get out of your head and back to work! Help Evan clean the paddles!"
Bruce shuffled to the kitchen and found Evan wiping the wooden pizza paddles. "I told Mr. Crain I don't need any help," Evan said. He saw the remnants of the mental images that had passed Bruce's eyes. "You alright Mr. Denning?"
"I'm okay Evan, back just troubling me."
Evan's eyebrows lifted. "I'm sorry Mr. Denning. I try not to get here too early to make sure you get the ovens, but-"
"Oh sure," Bruce said. "The old man had trouble getting his socks on this morning and so he's moved down to the minors. Don't get your head- . . . Don't worry yourself. It's happened before, it'll happen again. Let's get the paddles clean. I'm in Crain's sights but you don't have to be." Evan nodded and made room for Bruce at the big sink.
"Samson."
"Hello ma'am," Samson said to Mrs. Lewis.
"Need me to look after Jessie again?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Bring her over, then. I'm happy to. Looking for a job again?"
Samson looked at his shoes. "Yes ma'am."
"Good. That's good. Keep trying, I'm sure you'll find something, and you can put your worries behind you. How's Jessie? And Momma?"
"Jessie's good ma'am. Momma's good too, she's down at the Kleen."
Mrs. Lewis nodded. "Okay. Get Jessie and bring her over. You spend as much time as you need." Mrs. Lewis got a bit closer. "I'm going to put some good healthy food in her, and not a thing you say will stop me, you hear?"
Samson said nothing.
"I was in your spot once," she whispered. "I took the help I could get. You will too, if you're smart."
"I'll get Jessie," Samson said.
He went across the grass and dirt to his home and found Jessie sucking on fingers, momentarily forgetting her hunger. She smiled when she saw him. He smoothed her short, curly hair and helped her get her shoes on, leading her by the hand across to Mrs. Lewis, who stood matronly in her doorway. Samson hugged his daughter, telling her he'd be back soon. He stood and looked Mrs. Lewis in the eye. He returned to his home, then walked out of the trailer park, going north.
Bruce watched the diners enjoy their meal, waiting for them to leave so he could wipe the tables. The lunch rush was over. He stood, trying to appear busy in case Mr. Crain spotted him, pretending to clean or arrange. His head ached with tiredness; he could barely lift his arms. He didn't sleep much anymore. It was too cold, and sounds from the street were too loud. They kept him awake. And when he did sleep he sometimes dreamt of Markale or Ahmići. He didn't know which was worse. He watched a family leave their table.
As he was piling dishes and cups, the door chimed. "Be right with you," Bruce said over his shoulder. He carried the dirty dishes to the counter and positioned himself behind the computer and regarded the customer.
The young man, with spotty, dark skin and baggy shirt, stood staring at Bruce for a moment, taking him in. The red apron, cap over thinning hair, name tag.
"Sir," Bruce said. "Are you going to order something?"
Still looking at Bruce, the man took one hand and hiked up his shirt. a small pistol was stashed in his waistband. "I need money," he whispered. He put his hand on the pistol's handle.
Bruce felt the heat rise in his face, thinking about the men that had pointed their weapons at him twenty years ago. His fingers twitched, searching for his rifle or sidearm.
"Just the money," the man said. "That's all I need."
Bruce sighed, and hit a few keys to unlock the drawer. He wasn't risking his life for this place. The drawer popped and he dragged it open. He scooped out the twenties and tens and placed them on the counter quietly. The man reached for them, then hesitated.
He put a finger on the stack of bills. There was at least a hundred dollars. He looked up at Bruce. "I'm just doing this for my daughter," he said, tired. "I'm just trying to feed her."
He grabbed the bills and had taken a step when Bruce said: "stop."
The man's voice was the one he'd heard in his head for the last twenty years. Weary and aching for solutions that plagued him. It was the voice that told him what to do when viewing the atrocities around him in Bosnia, when women screamed for their dying sons and children for their dead parents. It roared at him: help them! Do anything you can to ease their suffering! But he stood and did nothing, could do nothing, and so the voice that tried to spur him to action shrank to a quiet murmur wondering why he hated his life.
The thief spoke in the same voice. Not for the same reason, Bruce knew, but it was the voice that asked him to do anything he could.
"I can get you pizza," Bruce said under his breath. "Go sit down." The thief backed away, shaking his head. "We don't have cameras," Bruce said. "Give the money back, and go sit down."
The thief stood still.
"Hurry," Bruce said. "If the manager sees-"
The man put the money back on the counter and found the closest table, looking away from Bruce. Bruce looked into the kitchen.
"Evan, four pizzas, anything on them," he said through the opening.
Evan frowned. "But-"
Bruce shook his head. "Just make the pizzas."
It was cool in the pizza place. The worker's words scared Samson. The police were coming. The worker was lying, and they did have cameras. He wasn't making any pizzas. Samson would go to jail and Jessie would go hungry.
The bell over the door rang and Samson stiffened, looking for the blue clothing and drawn weapons, instead finding a family entering. The worker at the counter helped them, and they sat.
Thirty minutes passed, and Samson's mind battled with itself. Stay for the food, it said, but also: the authorities are coming for you. Run. More than once he'd put his feet under him to stand and run, to throw the gun into the ditch by the side of the road or head to the next store that would hand him the money like it should. He didn't need to take charity, he thought, but he stayed sitting.
He glanced over his shoulder at the old worker and found him looking back, standing, hunched, in front of the touch-screen monitor. They found each others' eyes.
There was a sound, and the worker walked away from the counter, taking four boxes from the kid on the other side of a hole in the wall. Samson stood up, legs hesitant with disbelief. The worker set the boxes on the counter. "Your pizza is ready, sir."
Samson could smell the pizza and whatever toppings they had. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. "Sir, you pizzas are ready," the worker intoned from a far-away place.
The would-be thief wasn't moving, just staring with a slack mouth. Bruce looked over his shoulder at Crain's door. It hadn't opened since the man had entered the store.
He looked back at the man. "Sir, please pick up your order."
The last word got the man moving. He stepped forward and slid his fingers under the bottom box. Before picking them up, he raised his head and looked into Samson's eyes. They stood looking, each other the keys for the locks that bound their hearts.
Samson stepped away from the counter, and Bruce watched him go. He cast one last glance at Bruce before pushing the door open and escaping. Bruce looked around the store, taking in the red plastic cups and low-hanging lights, and the ever-present smell of burnt cheese and crust that came from the kitchens.
When Momma came home from the Dry-Kleen, weary after a day of work, she found her husband and daughter sitting at the table with empty plates in front of them. Jessie called out "Mama!" when she saw, and Momma picked her up. Samson looked down at his plate, kneading his knuckles around.
"What's happened here?" Momma asked. "What happened?" Samson looked up at her and she saw a strange emotion in his eyes.
At the end of his shift, Bruce pushed open Crain's door. "Crain."
"What?" Crain asked, surprised at the intrusion. Bruce knew not to disturb him in the office. "What's so important that you have to bother-"
"I quit," Bruce said, and dropped his apron at the threshold. "Done."
Crain chased him outside. "Wait, Bruce!" He yelled. "You can't just do that! I need two weeks notice!"
"You don't. You got a list of suckers who will work their lives away just for the pennies you see fit to hand out," Bruce said. "I won't take them any more. I can do more than make pizzas, and I will."
Crain watched as Bruce's face changed. He smiled for the first time in ten years. "I made a difference today, for the first time in my life, and I like it," Bruce said. The voice inside brought its head up, feeling strength.