This is a True Story
It’s about 4 pm and I’m only about an hour and a half into what promises to be another miserable 12-hour closing shift at this stupid pizzeria. The dinnertime traffic hasn’t picked up yet so I’m stuck manning both front- and back-of-house until my night shift cashier comes in. I’m taking orders, bussing tables, answering phones, slicing pizzas, checking inventory and temperatures, helping the line cooks, and trying to protect this house of cards from an inevitable gust of wind.
I’m still dead tired from working the same exact shift yesterday, which wasn’t so bad and went down pretty smoothly. But today’s not going to be like that — I can just sense it. I’ve worked here for so long now and I hate it so much that I can just tell, by the tiniest of actions or vibes, what an entire shift is going to be like from the moment I step through the door and clock in. I am dreading it.
There was some issue with the produce delivery this morning and our bell peppers weren’t delivered. When Nate gets in, I’m going to have to send him out to the local produce shop to buy up all of their green peppers to get us through till Friday when the next shipment’s due. That means I’ll be down a driver for 45 minutes or so. Brandon, my manager, scheduled me with the B-team tonight, which sucks, and he forgot to go to the bank and bring back the extra change I’ll probably need at some point tonight.
I’ve already got two enormous party pre-orders in, too, for 5:30 and 6. Thank god they’re not at the same time but their utter size and close proximity means that if one thing goes wrong or takes too long, we will be immensely screwed for the rest of the night. Everything is so tight and frail here, like anxious tissue paper. We’re always just a moment away from total annihilation. But none of that shit is ultimately what ruins my night.
It’s just past 5 now, and orders are starting to pick up. Three or so hours into my shift, I’ve resigned myself to its relentless rhythm. Ring up orders, answer the phones, box up pizza. Greet customers, grab an extra side of ranch, restock the clean plates and silverware. Things are okay, and I’m feeling okay.
Then you come in.
My mouth dries up and I feel my eyes try desperately to look anywhere else but at yours, out of embarrassment. I start to fumble for an excuse for being here, for just doing my job, but no sound comes out. Reluctantly I let my eyes meet yours. Hello Professor Sonntag, I mumble, trying to play it cool, What can I get for you?
But there’s no use talking about pizza. In an instant, we had an hours-long conversation. Yes, it’s really me, I’m working here managing the local dive pizza shack and I probably will be forever. I didn’t graduate, I didn’t take another semester of your classes or decide to double major like we had talked about; I dropped out. I know I used to be one of your star students, but now I’m nothing and the way you’re looking at me has absolutely knocked the wind out of my lungs.
Now I’m a nobody, somebody to be pitied but not forgotten or overlooked. I am not nameless. You know me. You once looked at me with enthusiasm and pride for my knowledge and passion. I was supposed to go places in my life and do amazing things, but I didn’t. I’m a dropout. I’m a loser. I’m the kid who didn’t live up to her potential. I know it, and you know it, and in this moment as you see my embarrassment and quietly mutter the words “it’s okay” as you pay for your pizzas and leave, I fucking die inside. I’m sorry I let everyone down, including myself.
I don’t remember the rest of that shift, I just remember that as one of the most horrible-feeling moments of my life. Unbeknownst to me at the time, that moment was set to be repeated a few more times, with other professors and even former students. Only those times I already knew what to expect, the searing pain and guilt and awkwardness so I could braced myself. But it still took a piece of me each time.
I don’t feel like slapping a happy ending on this to make you or me or anyone else feel better. I’m not sure if there’s some tidy moral or lesson to be taken away either. It’s just one of those moments in life that fucks you up a bit and sticks with you. Maybe just don’t be too hard on yourself, or to others. Sometimes shit happens that’s out of your control and if you’ve picked yourself back up and are trying your best, know that I think you’re doing fine.
