100% Authentic New York Style Pizza 

 

By 

Suki Litchfield 

 

During the lunch rush the people in line lean against the open door, and I can practically see my air conditioning pour out onto the sidewalk. I am slapping slices of pizza onto paper plates faster than Tyler can ring them up, and I run out of room on the counter. The smooth system—order, pay, pick up your slices—has broken down while Tyler struggles to open a roll of pennies. I am trying not to swear at him when I hear the voice. 

"Mr. Alfonso!"  

A teenage girl maybe sixth in line waves at me. She looks like everyone else who just walked across the street from the beach. Everyone in line ignores her, and I do, too. 

Tyler finally gives the customer her four pennies in change, which is definitely something we're going to have a conversation about, and I go back to filling orders.  

"Mr. Alfonso!" The girl has reached the counter now. "It's me! Risi Bengiovanni!" 

"You're thinking of someone else, hon," I tell her.  

"I used to be friends with his daughter Francesca," she tells Tyler. "One cheese, please."  

While Tyler counts her money the girl says to me, "I have this summer job? As a nanny? And we came to Florida for the week but the kid's with his grandmother all day, so I get to go to the beach! And I was just hungry and I came in here and I can't believe it's you!" 

"I don't know you, dear," I say, handing her the nearest plate. "Have a good day." 

"Okay," she says. "It was good to see you."  

She walks out with the plate folded in half in one hand. "Get back to work," I snarl at Tyler and go throw some more pies in the oven. 

We used to be closed on Mondays, but apparently my daughter will be a social pariah if she doesn't get to go on the class trip to France, and my son needs more kite-boarding stuff to clutter up the garage. And, as my wife says, "They have been through a lot." So I work seven days a week. That's the only reason I was here when the girl came in. 

I quit smoking last winter, but when the rush slows down I go stand on the back stoop for a few minutes anyway.  

I should call my handler. No, what I should do is text my wife and then call my handler, and the Marshals will swoop in and plunk us down in a new town in frigging Iowa or someplace where I will work at a dry cleaner. The kids (who, in all honesty, have been through a lot) will have to start over again at a new high school. Just when my daughter was starting to smile at me again.  

Or I could wait and see. If the girl comes in again I'll keep pretending I don't recognize her, and hopefully she'll believe me. My daughter is at Equestrian Camp and my son is on his surfboard all day long; they won't run into her. Risi is only in town for a week, with some family who doesn't know me. I could just ride it out and hope she goes back to New York in a few days and forgets the guy who looks like someone she used to know. 

Or I could kill her. That's the third option.  

"Mr. Revello," Tyler says during the next day's rush. He nods at the line and my stomach lurches when I see the girl back by the door. I could go make pizzas, I could clear down tables, but I just keep filling orders while she gets closer and closer in line. 

I have killed people before. It was never a specialty of mine, but I can do it.  

I put slices on plates and wish for a cigarette, and Risi finally reaches the counter. "Hi, Mr. Alfonso! Does Francesca still play clarinet?"  

Tyler snorts. He goes to school with my daughter, who is no longer named Francesca. "Go clear down tables," I tell him. I take Risi's crumpled up babysitting money and hand her a plate. 

"Guess what!" she says. "They closed Rizzo's Market! Can you believe it? I miss it so much. But they put in a Trader Joe's." 

"Look," I say. "I'm not whoever you think I am." 

"OK. Have a good day, Mr. Alfonso!" she says, and takes her pizza back to the beach. I roll my eyes at the next people in line. 

After the lunch rush Tyler and I take our breaks, and then we go around to tables and refill the napkins and the little shaker bottles of salt and pepper and parmesan and red pepper flakes. I have to show him, once again, how to open the napkin dispenser.  

"Mr. Revello, you want me to call the police if that girl comes back?"  

"Nah," I say, "she's harmless. Just crazy." 

He shakes his head and stuffs the dispenser full of napkins. "Mental illness is a terrible thing," he says. "We had an assembly about it in school." 

This is not the life I wanted. You think I wanted to spend my days breathing in oregano and Coppertone? Do you have any idea how much sand I sweep out of this shop every night? I'm sweating all the time and my yard is full of snakes. I hate listening to my wife's boring stories about the car dealership and her complaints about the school system and how she hasn't had a decent bagel in years. 

My testimony sent three of our old acquaintances to prison: Two soldiers and the big fish, Leonardo the Artist, who shot fourteen people and stabbed two and poisoned five. We used to golf together. He had a great long game and a fondness for rat poison. 

I miss New York like crazy. But it's better now. I'm Michael Revello, small business owner. I earn an honest living, work hard, don't smoke. I want my kids to learn from this me, not Anthony Alfonso. If we had stayed in New York, my son probably would have followed me into the business. Kiteboarding is the stupidest thing I've ever seen, but at least he isn't carrying a gun.  

END OF EXCERPT