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Having tossed dough and pressed pizza pies in the evenings throughout high school, I acquired a talent that still serves me to this day (as in “Hey, Dad! Make us a pizza!”). The skill set was kept sharp during my college summers as well. The re-hire process always went the same way:
During spring break, I would stroll into the famous old joint known as Pizza King, and it was as if the prodigal son had returned. The cook would come out of the back and hug me, the odor of meatloaf and mashed potatoes clinging to my shirt long after I left. The pock-faced, troubled 16-year-old dishwasher would extend a moist hand and manage a smile. The owner would come out of the back, acting indifferent and counting a wad of cash to remind me, “I didn’t need no college to fill my wallet.” The banter would be light. I answered the same question each time another face came around the corner. “Yeah, it’s going pretty well.” And then that moment of relief would arrive. “You wanna come back for a couple months this summer, Ronnie? We could use ya.” I would nod slowly after shrugging, like the thought never occurred to me, and say, “Uh … yeah, sure, I guess.”
And again, the same predictable response: “Hey, terrific--call me when you get home in May, huh?” And I did, and in a few days, I was back on the schedule and in familiar territory, throwing pizza in the air and flirting with young women picking up carry-out orders. It was as welcoming as being back in my own bed for three months. There’s nothing in this world like the comfort of familiarity. I was always amazed how much I looked forward to that simple process of coming home, punching in at the old pizza joint, and seeing all the faces I had grown up with. I was proud of what I was doing, happy to be telling people I was away at college, but just home for the summer. There was “wholeness” to it. It had a Norman Rockwell feel, and I knew it then just as sure as I see it in retrospect now.