Ch05En: Episode 1

  Chapter 1 – Innative

  “Frankie, come get these pies!”

  My father is a man of quirks. One of them is that he decided I would be named Franklin Mercutio Gabriotti, after his grandfather, but would choose to call me Frankie when we were in public. All of my teachers growing up called me Frankie. Everyone at work calls me Frankie. I introduce myself as Frank, but it hardly ever sticks. Unlike our spaghetti.

  He is a self-made man, my father. His pizzeria has been successful at least all of my life. That’s without any help from the Ch05En gene. I’ve been working in Pizzeria Gabriotti since second grade. I bleed red sauce. There is hardly a day where I don’t smell like pepperoni. I can even do a bit of cold reading. Sometimes, when I first meet someone, I’ll know what they like on their pizza. I told one of my teachers in high school I could tell she preferred white sauce and chicken on her pies. This was during class, so to maintain control, she asked what my process was. Obviously, I couldn’t oblige. Freaking algebra. I never did like showing my work.

  I remember when I was six and first starting out, I asked papa what he was going to be paying me. My only regret is that six-year-old me thought being paid in pizza was a fair deal. I didn’t actually start making money working for my father until I was old enough to drive. He cut five days off of one of the delivery boy’s schedules to give them to me. It’s not for everybody, but delivering pizzas is my calling. I love everything about it. And the money is pretty good. My dad always figured that when it was time, I would take over the family business and that would just be what I did with my life. I don’t want to say that I’m knowingly stringing along my own father, but I definitely haven’t exactly been up front about the fact that I don’t want any more responsibility than you’re given when you get behind the wheel with a customer’s food in your passenger seat. My father’s“business lessons,” are the bane of my existence. Usually it’s something about labor costs or ways to improve sales on our most expensive items.

  My mom is always trying to find ways to see my Ch05En gene come to fruition. That can be pretty dangerous, sometimes.

  But all I really want to do is deliver pies.

  “Make sure you check the ticket,” My father says.

  “I know, pop. Hey, toss me a water for the road.”

  “Sure. That’ll be 2.50.”

  “Aw, come on-“

  “Come on nothing. What did we just go over? When you take water, you’re spending twice as much as if you were just buying it. We already paid 1.25 for the water. Now, we lose 2.50.”

  “It’s like a thousand degrees outside, dad. What will the neighbors think when you have to tell them your only child died of heatstroke delivering pizzas?”

  “They’ll probably try to hand in an application. I’d basically be telling them there’s an opening at the most illustrious pizzeria in the known universe,” he says as he grabs the largest bottle of water we stock and puts it next to the pies. “Here you are, you poor, deprived child. Try not to sweat so much you get stuck to your seat. And hurry back, I’ve got more pies for you to take after those. And you’re going to take another look at last week’s labor. I don’t think it’s right and we are not overpaying the cooks again.”

  The most crucial aspect of my job is the music. I’ve found that with the right tunes playing, everything else falls into place. Helps me get out of my own head and pretend I have a normal family with a father who wants me to be myself, not a newer version of him. Being pulled over is just about the worst thing that can happen to me while I’m working, and if I’m listening to something too fast-paced, I have a tendency to lead-foot my way to a customer’s house. Right now I’ve got a steady playlist of James Boldt’s DJ Impostor’s Pink Elephants. I’m at the stage in my life where every time I listen to it, I hear something new. In my opinion, he left his soul in his earlier work.

  Track twelve, Generically Altered, cues up just as I arrive at my destination. I make sure my collar is straight and re-adjust my hat in my rearview like I do every time I get out of the car. As I stand up, the back of my shirt sticks just like my dad knew it would.

  Whatever, that doesn’t mean he knows what I should do with the rest of my life.

  I grab the pies and head up to the door.

  I prefer to knock three times. A lot of delivery guys don’t like to announce their presence, but that always seemed strange to me. Especially with the rash of Scientologist missionaries in the past couple of years. When people know there’s a group of individuals whose religion allows them to bypass the solicitation laws, it just makes sense to me that you would do your best to let people know you were the guy they’re expecting.

  Everything was routine about this delivery, and I had a feeling I would be getting a fair tip out of the whole thing. Something about the white roses in the front of the house reminded me of old people, who usually tip me pretty good. I would be polite and smile big, they would hand me money and I would ask them to have a nice day.

  That all went out the window as soon as the door opened.

  There I stood, face to face with a woman’s whose hair caught the sunlight and threw it right back in my face as she grabbed it with both hands and tied it behind her head. She had pulled most of it back, but what wasn’t hung down around the corners of her mouth like tiny hands cupping her cheek bones, which were almost as high as my heart rate. She had the kind of freckles girls only have sometimes, when they’ve gotten a little too much sun. But I couldn’t find any wrinkles around her eyes. She probably spent a small fortune on moisturizers. Not that you would have noticed wrinkles in the first place over the way the hazel of her irises contrasted with her blouse, which I had to consciously pull my gaze back away from. I was instantly spell bound.

  The speech centers of my brain basically shut down.

  “Ah. Pizza. Hello.”

  “Frank? How neat! How are you? Gabriotti was your last name, right? Your family must own the pizzeria.”

  “I…we…know each other?”

  “Sabrina! Sabrina Summer! It’s okay, I don’t think we’ve seen each other since maybe the fifth grade. I got tall, I know.”

  You also got breasts and shiny hair and great legs and glasses.

  “Oh, Sabrina, of course!” A lie. “It’s great to see you. Yea, this is my family’s pizzeria. I like to help my dad with deliveries when the other guys need a day off.” The first lie was obviously necessary. I’m not sure why I told the second one. Did I mention yet that this girl was easily an eleven out of ten?

  “Well, it was really good to see you, Frank. Here’s fifty for the pies. If they’re any good, hopefully I see you again!”

  I had to check the receipt to make sure she’d given me enough. I’m sure I wouldn’t have complained if she’d short-changed me, but the bill was only thirty dollars. Pop was running a ten-dollar-large special. He’d always call the pizzas TDL’s.

  My brain caught up with the rest of the universe somewhere in the middle of Generically Altered, as I was about halfway back to the shop.

  I’d just made a twenty-dollar tip after having a conversation with a pretty girl who was, ‘hoping to see me again.’

  The service industry isn’t for everybody. But I think it’s for me.

  Best delivery ever.