When The Moon Hits Your Eye.

The first real kitchen job of any consequence I got was in a pizza place. I think it's a rite of passage of any self-loathing pothead who dropped out of college to work in a pizza joint. I had worked in a chain pizza shop during high school. But, I quit it to go skateboarding one afternoon with my friends. Funny thing, though: I kept my uniform and for a few weeks, got away with "dressing out" and telling my folks I was going to work. In reality, I was going out, skating, partying and seeing a girl. Well, that ended when the paychecks dried up. Busted. Did I metion that I was a not a very educted fella at the time?

Anyways...

I had moved out of my parents house and into a punk house with my girlfriend (now wife) and got a job at a pizza place where a few other friends worked. It was an ideal job. Pizza, lax leadership, and no real rules against underage drinking.

The first shift I worked, a training shift really, I almost got fired.

My buddy who hooked the job up was in charge of training me and had me meet him there to show me how to open the place. We got down there and he showed me where everything was. Ovens, walk-in, prep area, dough maker, dish pit, dumpster, etc. Got it? Good. Let's do some work.

We had begun proofing dough and slicing veggies and had sauce on the stove bubbling away. The same busted jambox every kitchen has was blasting over in the corner. None of the other folks had shown up yet for lunch shift. Least of all, the owners. I knew a few kids on crew. But, had yet to meet the owners or even any of the managers.

Around this time, my friend suggests we have a beer and talk. I'm game, right? Everything seems to be under control and the prep is getting done. So, why not have an underage drink before lunch? We're sitting on the chest freezer back by the dish area, moving fairly quickly through a pitcher of beer when one of the owners walks in.

Obviously, she has no idea who I am. Let alone why a kid in a sauce covered apron is drinking beer in her kitchen at 9 a.m. Instant shitstorm. Miraculously, my buddy is able to chill the situation out by playing dumb and referring to it as a "shift beer." I still don't know how he did it, but, he did. However, i was eyed with suspicion for the next few weeks until I proved my mettle.

I settled in fairly quickly, learning the menu. Standard, typical pizza place stuff. Pizza, calzones, soups, sandwiuches and pretty terrible pasta dishes tha, for some reason, people loved. The menu itself was quite extensive for a place that size. There were all kinds of bullshit dishes that never got ordered. And, it was always a real scramble when they did, in fact, get ordered. You had to wonder about the folks who placed the order, too. Like, seriously? You want the cajun pasta at a pizza place? It's still a frozen block of absolute garbage! Nuke it for 10 minutes until it's molten mess and toss it with some linguine. Enjoy your fucking lunch, asshole.

To be fair, the pizza, sandwiches and calzones were good. I'll give 'em that much. We made our own bread in house and the sauce was home made, too. So...whatever. Decent stuff.

Getting to know the owners was a trip, too. A drunken father of indeterminite age. A nice, albeit shady son who may or may not have done time for insurance schemes. And an absolute batshit crazy mom from "South America" who would tear ass through the kitchen iun a full length black fur coat screaming at everyone in German. If all three of them were there, it would be a circus of nightmares straight from a Bosch painting. Screaming, throwing shit, fighting amongst themselves and with the staff. Gnarly scenes. Keep your head down and keep working. Shift's over in two hours. Let's knock it out and boogie home. For real.

If the son was running it by himself, it was always chill. He didn't give a damn about much except for getting the food out and getting out of the building so he could go do whatever he did at night. He would also jump in and help out without being a total pest, which was nice, seeing as how I was still getting my feet wet.

There were quite a few memorable scenes that went down there during my tenure as well. Like the night this huge fight broke out in the parking lot. It was after the dinner rush and we were all just hanging around the bar, smoking and talking when we heard a huge commotion outside. Sure enough, a pile of dudes were scrapping in the lot. The son looked at me and another cook and said, "Go grab something and meet me outside." So, I grabbed ab 2 foot long mezzaluna we used for cutting the large pizzas, and the other cook grabbed some kind of huge knife as well. The son, however, grabbed a bat and a pistol. We all ran out there with our weaponry into the unsuspecting crowd of drunks. My boss simply screamed "HEY!" and we showed our goods. The fight dispersed post haste and we never had any of that kind of trouble again. Word got out about it: Don't mess around there, or the staff will come at you with with certain death.

Another time, after I had been there a while, I had gotten a set of keys and was slated to open the place one morning. I showed up, let myself in, cut the alarm, and went about the normal opening duties. The phone started ringing off the hook. But, seeing as how it was 8 in the morning and no deliveries were slated to arrive that day, I ignored it. I just went about my business. The owners would be there soon enough.

About 10 minutes later, i hear a ferocious banging on the front door. I put down what I was doing and walked out to see who was making the racket. Turns out it was 3 police cars worth of officers (6 officers, to be exact.) with guns drawn and unhappy looks on their faces. I showed my hands and unlocked the door.

"Who the fuck are you?!" they asked.
"I'm the cook." I replied.
"We got a distress call from the alarm company on the silent line. The 9-1-1 line."
"Well, I turned off the alarm and started working. There's nobody here but me. And, I'm certainly not robbing the place. I don't know what to tell you."
"Get your boss down here right now."
"Okay. I'll try."

Foir the next 20 minutes I tried calling my boss. Falling dangerously behind on prep work, and generally getting pissed off in general. It should be noted that the cops had now obviously figured out that I wasn't knocking the place over. but, until an ownber confirmed my legitimacy, they had to stick around for the sake of safety. Remember, this was also the days before cel-phones. And, only doctors and drug dealers had beepers. To my knowledge, my boss was neither. But, for all I know, he could have been. Who knows, right?

He eventually pulls into the parking lot, freaking out about the amount of heat sitting on his property. The officers and I explain the situation. He confirms my employment and tells them that the reason the emergency signal had been sent was because he and his girlfriend had gotten in a fight the night before and he switched codes because she had keys and he was scared she'd go down there and torch the place or something. It was certainly, entirely possible.

Another instance involved me pinning another cook against the wall, holding a knife to his throat throat and telling him, in no uncertain terms that I would end his life if he kept talking about how the "filthy Jews control the world." This was the same guy who made open and unwelcome comments about any woman on staff. To this day, I have no idea how I didn't get fired or land in jail over the action. But, as soon as the first Gulf War kicked off, this dude disappeared, never to be seen again. Good riddance to shitty garbage.

All kinds of crazy shit went down there. Being handed the keys on a random night and told we (all underage) could drink as much beer as we wanted. Just as long as we stayed away from the liquor. In fact we were encouraged to drink up certain kinds of beer, just to "boost sales." "Yeah, y'all have all the Red Stripe you want. Take it!" Catching my owner staring at a couple enjoying a quiet dinner and asking him why he was straring at them so intently.
"I fucked a chick on their table last night after everyone went home."

Seriously. I could fill an entire book with the insanity that went on in that place.

Eventually, I got booted after getting in a fight with this dumb girl who had a job because she was realted to someone somehow. I kicked her off the line. She cried. I got fired.

I went back a few years later because I was desperate and really needed money. They gladly took me back in. Even gave me the kitchen manager's spot. But, they had ulterior motives. I was slated to be a hatchet man. They needed some folks cut and didn't want to do it themselves, so, the task fell in my lap. At first it didn't bother me. Some of these clowns really needed to go. But, then, any time they had some minor grievance, I was dispensed to do my duty. I hated it and eventually just walked out one night.

I've never worked in pizza since. What could possibly top that?