In Real Life Read online

  17.

  I fill out the application when I get home. The rest of the afternoon I worry about going back to Saviano’s after making a fool of myself. I actually thumb through the North yearbook Mom bought over my protests. Looking at every picture until I’m not even sure what she looked like. So now I’m hoping she’s still there, so I can see her again.

  When I get to the strip mall I look through the window before I go inside and see a guy I recognize from high school standing at the counter. I walk up and he sees the application in my hand.

  “Hang on,” he says. “I’ll see if the old man is in the mood.”

  I stand at the counter, taking in the smell of pizzas and glancing over at the only table occupied—a young family with a little girl in a high chair, another girl standing on her chair while her mom pulls at her shirt, telling her to sit.

  “You’re in luck!”

  I turn, startled.

  “Follow me,” the guy says. As I walk around the corner he says, “You go to North, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you took Calc BC with a friend of mine. We saw you in the hall last year and he’s like, ‘Hey, there’s that little freshman who’s in my calc class.’ And I’m like, ‘Whoa, he’s not even Asian!’”

  We walk down a little corridor lined with metal shelves filled with cans of tomato sauce and other ingredients. “I’ll introduce you to the old man.”

  At the end of the hall is a metal door that looks like it leads outside. Halfway down we stop and my guide knocks on a battered door to the side.

  “Yeah?” I hear someone call.

  “It’s Kurt. Got the applicant for you.”

  “Hang on.”

  Kurt rolls his eyes and whispers to me, “Be patient.” He heads back to the front of the restaurant. It’s at least three minutes before the door opens. The man standing there is short and round and is wearing a worn-out and stained Kansas City Royals baseball hat. He’s not really that old, maybe my dad’s age. Behind him a small desk is stuck in a cluttered room no bigger than a closet.

  He just stares at me like he has no idea why I’m there.

  “Mr. Saviano?”

  “Shit no,” he says. “Name’s O’Neill. Charlie O’Neill. But who the hell is going to buy a pizza from O’Neill’s? Would you?”

  I don’t know whether I should say the obvious or if that would be an insult.

  So I just shrug.

  “Sit down and fill out this government shit storm of paper. Then copy your driver’s license and social security card on that Xerox machine to make sure you ain’t no undocumented alien.”

  I’m guessing my driver’s permit will work. It looks pretty much like a license.

  O’Neill shuffles through a pile of papers on his desk, like he’s lost something. Then he stops and looks up at me, staring right into my eyes.

  “You ever work a cash register?” he asks.

  I shake my head, then add, “But I’m good at math.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I’ve got one for you. Steve can make a pizza in four minutes. Tom can make a pizza in six minutes. How long does it take them to do a pizza together?”

  The formula just pops up in my head, the way a mental picture appears when someone says “elephant” or “tornado.” It’s 1/4 pizza/minute + 1/6 pizza/minute or (3/12 + 2/12) = 5/12 of a pizza in one minute, or 12/5 for one pizza, which equals 2.4 minutes.

  “Well,” I say. “Assuming they don’t get in each other’s way, it would take two minutes and twenty-four seconds.”

  O’Neill gives me a hard look. “You heard that one before, right?”

  “Not really,” I say. He gives me a harder look, like he might have missed something, first glance.

  “Either way, I like your moxie. You can start on Monday, come in at four. Hannah will show you the ropes. We start you at minimum wage, work hard and we’ll talk about a raise after a couple of months.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Yeah—she’s only been here a few weeks. But she’s real sharp. Worth twice the average kid I’ve had in here over the years. And I’ve had plenty.”

  It takes me about ten minutes to fill everything out, and I copy my driver’s permit on an antique Xerox machine in the corner and leave it all on the top layer of the desk. I have no idea where my social security card is. I can ask Dad, but I bet Mom is the one who would know.

  18.

  When I get home I IM DTerra and tell him I got a job making pizzas. He tells me that’s awesome and asks if I can eat as much as I want for free. I just ignore him because the main thing is that I don’t have to go live at the Institute with Mom, now that I’ve got a job. Because I feel like I’m close to something with Starfare. I realize having that shortcut move at Nationals, that wasn’t about my real skills. I might have even done better without it, because I wouldn’t have got flustered against the guy who won it, MilesBlue.

  Even though Nationals turned into an epic fail, lately when I play I get the feeling I’m on the edge of a breakthrough. If I can just climb up that one last rung everything is going to seem simpler and slower and I will be able to move through the game the way Keanu Reeves moves through the Matrix once he discovers he’s The One.

  I play a one-on-one game of Starfare while DTerra finishes up his game and then we get in a queue to play some two-on-twos. We’re deep into our third game when, somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Dad slamming the door. After we win I tell DT I’ve got to go and I head downstairs to tell Dad about my job.

  I find him in his study, watching a golf tournament.

  “Hey,” he says, as I step through the open door. “Catch this.”

  I walk around and stand next to him while we watch a replay of a chip shot from some guy in checkered pants that bounces on the green and works its way to within a few inches of the hole.

  “Jesus, I could die and go to heaven happy if I hit just one shot like that in my life.”

  As far as I could figure, Dad only plays golf about once a month. I have no idea how he thinks he could get any good at it, playing that much. If I played Starfare once a month I’d be a total noob in no time, and that’s starting out good.

  “Dad,” I say, “I got a job.”

  He looks away from the TV, at me, looking surprised.

  “That was quick work.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting over at Saviano’s on Monday.”

  “Saviano’s? Think you’ll be able to get us some free pizza?”

  I tell him I don’t know. Then he fires off about a dozen questions, about how much I’m making, how many hours I got guaranteed, whether I get overtime. Each one I answer by saying I don’t know yet, that I haven’t even started. Each time I say that he looks more disgusted.

  “Sounds a little shaky to me,” he finally says. “But don’t worry. I’ll pump it up when I talk to your mom. You at least bought yourself some time.”

  Before I go to bed I send out an email to Mom and Garrett telling them about my new career in the food services industry. Mom says she checks her email a couple of times a week, so I don’t expect any immediate response. But Garrett is right on top of it and IMs me.

  3-PointShooter: Hey nice job with the job…bet dad is in shock

  ActionSeth: not really

  3-PointShooter: man I miss those Saviano pies. Tell Saviano he opens a store up here he’d make a killing

  ActionSeth: there’s no Saviano—guy’s name is O’Neill

  3-PointShooter: who cares as long as it tastes good

  ActionSeth: exactly

  3-PointShooter: how many hours?

  ActionSeth: not sure yet, maybe 20 or so

  3-PointShooter: cool u get free pizza right?

  I’m not sure if I should say anything but I figure if anyone
has good advice in this department it’s Garrett.

  ActionSeth: 1 10-inch with every shift. And there’s this girl who works there

  3-PointShooter: alright little bro! Now you’re talking, hot right?

  ActionSeth: well, yeah, but it’s more than that

  3-PointShooter: better yet. if you look in the back of dad’s bottom dresser drawer he has about 10 boxes of condoms…

  ActionSeth: I know. But I’ve hardly talked 2 her yet…

  3-PointShooter: Just show that ur interested in whatever she’s interested in man. Good things will happen. I promise.

  I sign off with a sigh. Maybe it’s that easy for Garrett.

  19.

  On Monday I wake up late, get some Lucky Charms and spend some time watching some new Korean tournament Starfare games that have just been posted. Every time I think I’ve stepped up my game I watch these guys play and realize that I’m slipping further behind. It’s just seems that they’re able to make every move faster and with fewer steps, like when you solve a math problem in nine steps and then the teacher shows you how to do it in five. But then again, once the teacher shows the shortcuts they’re immediately obvious. I’m thinking that if I were training with other pros and we were all trading shortcuts and strategies, it would probably be the same.

  In the back of my mind I’m trying to figure out whether I should get to Saviano’s early, to show how eager I am, or right on time, to show that I can follow directions. I finally decide that it would be best to be a little early so I head over to the store, but when I get to the door I change my mind and just hang outside, checking my cell phone until it says 3:59.

  Once inside I see the girl who gave me the application standing behind the register. When I get near I start to tell her that I’m here to work but she shushes me and I see she’s counting change. She’s got her hair tied back again, green Saviano’s Pizza baseball hat on. Her lips are moving with the count, and I can’t take my eyes off of them. I’m trying to read what number she’s on, but I can’t read lips and in my mind she’s whispering, “Seth, Seth, Seth.” This makes my face feel hot so I decide to memorize the menu. I figure that will come in handy.

  I’m all the way to the subs when she startles me and says, “The old man docks us if we’re short.” She’s wiping her hands on her apron, like the money was filthy, which is what my mom is always saying. “So I always count it out, start of my shift. Supposed to be $50, and about half the time it’s off. About a hundred percent of that time it’s short.”

  I nod.

  “Anyway,” she says. “It’s right today. Hey, I saw you waiting outside. If the place is open you can come in.”

  I’m thinking of how stupid I looked standing out there, not knowing she could see me the whole time. Just kind of walking around, looking at my phone every so often.

  “You’re Hannah, right?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. You’re Seth.”

  Mr. O’Neill must have told her.

  “I read your application, Mr. Seth Gordon.” She gives me a grin, like she’d actually been looking through a family photo album, with pictures of naked babies. “What can I say. It was sitting on the counter and I got here early. Sounds like you’re some sort of math brain.”

  You had to put down the courses you had taken the previous year.

  “Not really.”

  “Well you are compared to me. My goal is to take as little as possible.”

  She waves me around the counter. “Come on, I’ll show you what you’re going to be doing.”

  I follow her into the back room, watching the way the two pale, faded spots on the back of her jeans move with each step, like the worn denim was alive and an extension of her skin and I can’t help imagining what that might feel like if I just reached out…

  As we walk through how to use the ovens, how to work the assembly area, she tells me a little bit about herself. Like how much it sucks when your parents make you move halfway across the country the summer before your senior year. Hannah had lived most of her life in New Jersey. But she didn’t really have an accent, like those kids on the Jersey Shore show.

  When I ask she says, “Where I lived people don’t have Jersey accents. It’s not a plus when you interview at Ivies.”

  At around five a couple of more guys show up for work, and for the next couple of hours I just sort of follow them around and watch. Hannah is working the front of the store and when it slows down at around ten I punch out. Before I head out the back door I pick up Hannah’s time card and check out her last name. When I get home I light up my monitor. It takes about two minutes to find her Facebook page.

  She’s got hundreds of friends, but the only one I recognize is a guy from my school, Steve, who works with us at Saviano’s. Probably the rest are from New Jersey.

  But I find out all kinds of stuff about her. Like one of her favorite quotes: “You have to fling yourself at what you’re doing, you have to point yourself, forget yourself, aim, dive.” Which comes from someone named Annie Dillard. So now I have to wiki Annie Dillard and Google the quote. It comes from An American Life and I make a mental note to grab a copy from the library.

  And then I stare at her picture. It’s a weird photo of Hannah—at first I didn’t even recognize her. She’s done something with her eyebrows to make them huge and dark. They look the way painters draw seagulls from a distance—black wings. And there’s a stuffed monkey over her right shoulder, palm leaves behind her and a shell necklace around her neck. Her hair is parted down the middle and pulled back, tight. I spend a long time trying to figure it out.

  And then her photo gallery. She’s got a couple dozen photos that she’s taken and they’re really interesting. Not a bunch of goofy snapshots or anything like that. They’re really complicated photos. Some of the color ones, you can’t even tell what she was taking a picture of, because it’s all sort of blurry and abstract like a painting. I stare at these for a long time too.

  Then as long as I’m on Facebook I check out Brit’s page. She’s got a new photo up mugging with the same senior guy I used to see her with in the halls. Some guys, like Garrett, they must just be born with a gift. They just understand girls the way I understand numbers. Flipping back and forth between Hannah’s and Brit’s pictures, I’m thinking I got screwed in the gift department.

  But all of these distractions, plus work. It’s killing my training time. And in the back of my mind, the clock is always ticking, ticking down.

  20.

  Next night, I just go to work like I’ve been doing it for years. And actually, after a couple of hours, I could do it without thinking. So I end up standing there elbow to elbow with Steve or one of the other guys, and you’d get to talking. Maybe that’s what Mom was saying when she said work would be good for me, because usually I’m not much of a talker. But I can listen.

  My third shift I get lucky and it’s just me and Hannah working on the pizza assembly line. At first it’s really busy and we just are working and talking about the orders and how it would be nice to get a break.

  Then around eight o’clock the orders slow down. We’re straightening things up, getting the pepperonis out of the olives, wiping down the stainless steel when suddenly Hannah stops and looks right at me.

  “If you could do anything you wanted with your life, what would it be?”

  Of course, the answer is obvious. But I can’t just blurt out that I want to play computer games for a living without revealing myself as a mega-nerd. So I just sort of shrug and grunt which Hannah takes as a cue to answer her own question.

  “I want to do something that makes a difference, you know?” An order flashes up on the monitor and I pull a large tin off the rack, the ones with the crusts already on.

  “Back when we lived in New Jersey, Mom and Dad would drag me and my brother to New York on weekends. Usually
to a museum. Which I hated, for no other reason than I had no choice and I’d rather hang out with my friends. Anyway, one day, about a year ago, we go to this big art museum downtown. And I’m grumping about it in the car and my little brother is being a total pain in the ass, poking me and pulling my hair and whatever. So when we get to the museum I tell them that I’m going to go check out the fourth floor and I’ll meet them in the lobby in an hour. You know, just to get away from them.”

  While she’s talking another order comes up and Hannah stops to grab an extra-large tin. I finish my mushrooms and see that she’s starting to work on hers, spreading out the sauce, but in slow motion, like she’s painting a picture with the ladle.

  “So anyway, I’m just wandering around aimlessly and I find myself standing in front of this huge painting. It’s what they call surreal. Everything is painted realistically in detail, but the stuff doesn’t make any sense. Like a dream. There’s this giant plaza-like area in the foreground, kind of like a chessboard, and these ugly decomposing animal-like creatures are standing around, like chess pieces, I guess. But one side of the plaza is eroded away, like the way the coastline is after a big storm, when chunks fall into the ocean…”

  She glances over to see if I’m following her and I look up and nod. She’s got a strange, intense look on her face and I just want to stare at her, but I start on the green peppers instead.

  “Anyway, your eyes follow the lines of this plaza and there, on the edge, there’s a young girl, painted perfectly, like a photograph. And she’s hanging onto the edge of the plaza and dangling there by her hands, naked above this bottomless canyon. And there’s no one there to help her, just these creatures who look like wax statutes of weird mythical creatures who have been half melted. And I just stared at that painting for like an hour and it seemed to me that it was speaking right to me, that I was that girl, or that I was supposed to save that girl. I’m not sure…”

  She seems lost in that thought and I finish my pizza, slide it down the line and take over on hers, rearranging the pepperonis so that they meet O’Neill’s specs—not quite touching, but covering the whole pizza.