… of course!” I said, glancing back toward the darkened corner of the room. He was gone. Disappointment washed over me, but I tried to shake it off. “I was wondering where you guys—”
“Get together, everyone; I want to take a picture,” Bethany interrupted, moving a few steps away so she could aim her phone in our direction. Like an unwanted fungus, “Perry No Dairy” sidled closer to me than the situation warranted, causing me to cringe. Though I didn’t have the nerve to speak my mind to this insufferable swain, I conveyed my contempt for him more subtly.
“Okay, everyone,” I said, “Say ‘Cheese!’”
CHAPTER 6
What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?
“B ENNY—ISN’T THIS A LITTLE EXTRAVAGANT?” I asked, glancing skeptically through the storefront window. Workers had just finished hanging a large sculptural sign outside, perpendicular to our shop’s front door. It was guaranteed to visually accost any and all pedestrians and motorists on the street. A giant red arrow blinked on and off intermittently, the words PIZZA PIES (spelled out in letter-shaped lights) making it abundantly clear what we were selling.
“It’s neon,” Benny proudly explained. “They call it ‘liquid fire.’ And if you think it’s bright now, you should see the way it’s going to look after dark. This is really going to get people’s attention.”
“By
blinding
them?”
“This is the future, Nick. Trust me.”
I sighed and climbed off the stepladder I was standing on, setting my paint roller back in its tray. Despite the open door and windows, the paint fumes were getting to me.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’ll cause a stir. But a metal placard would have been a lot cheaper. We’ve got to be careful with our funds, Ben. The pizza oven is setting us back a pretty penny, and you go blowing the budget on this?”
“Relax, Nick. Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘You’ve got to spend money to make money?’”
“Oh, now you’re J.P. Morgan, spouting off financial wisdom? We’re just a couple of kids who dropped out of high school to make pizza.”
“And look where it’s gotten us, my friend!” Benny smiled exuberantly, extending his arms to size up the small corner shop we’d recently leased. “Twenty-year-old entrepreneurs? Who’d have ever thunk it? Antonio must be smiling down on us, God rest his soul.”
Our cherished friend and original mentor from that summer at the World’s Fair, Antonio the pizza peddler had passed away three years earlier in a tragic streetcar accident. His wife, Vera, had been pregnant at the time with her first child, so Benny and I had stepped in to assume operation of the small pizza shack he had started, which was little more than a tin shed with an oven. Under Antonio’s tutelage, Benny and I had become masters at slinging pies. The Naples-born immigrant’s no-fail formula for a perfect crust and mouthwatering marinara proved a literal recipe for success, especially among the residents of the city’s Italian enclaves who were homesick for a taste of the old country. Benny and I eventually quit school early and took over Antonio’s business following his death. Although we were only seventeen years old at the time, we managed to make our modest profits rise at a slow but steady rate. As a result, we had money enough in our pockets to supplement our families’ incomes and still provide for Antonio’s widow and her baby daughter, Carmen. It had been Benny’s idea to use the small savings we had amassed to open a bona fide brick-and-mortar location, which is how I came to be standing here painting over the pink walls of what was formerly a ladies’ haberdashery near the corner of West Lawrence and North Broadway.
“Why is the top foot and a half of that wall still pink?” Benny asked in confusion, sizing up my incomplete paint job.
“That’s as high as I’m going on the ladder,” I said, wiping my brow on my blue denim coveralls,
“Get together, everyone; I want to take a picture,” Bethany interrupted, moving a few steps away so she could aim her phone in our direction. Like an unwanted fungus, “Perry No Dairy” sidled closer to me than the situation warranted, causing me to cringe. Though I didn’t have the nerve to speak my mind to this insufferable swain, I conveyed my contempt for him more subtly.
“Okay, everyone,” I said, “Say ‘Cheese!’”
CHAPTER 6
What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?
“B ENNY—ISN’T THIS A LITTLE EXTRAVAGANT?” I asked, glancing skeptically through the storefront window. Workers had just finished hanging a large sculptural sign outside, perpendicular to our shop’s front door. It was guaranteed to visually accost any and all pedestrians and motorists on the street. A giant red arrow blinked on and off intermittently, the words PIZZA PIES (spelled out in letter-shaped lights) making it abundantly clear what we were selling.
“It’s neon,” Benny proudly explained. “They call it ‘liquid fire.’ And if you think it’s bright now, you should see the way it’s going to look after dark. This is really going to get people’s attention.”
“By
blinding
them?”
“This is the future, Nick. Trust me.”
I sighed and climbed off the stepladder I was standing on, setting my paint roller back in its tray. Despite the open door and windows, the paint fumes were getting to me.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’ll cause a stir. But a metal placard would have been a lot cheaper. We’ve got to be careful with our funds, Ben. The pizza oven is setting us back a pretty penny, and you go blowing the budget on this?”
“Relax, Nick. Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘You’ve got to spend money to make money?’”
“Oh, now you’re J.P. Morgan, spouting off financial wisdom? We’re just a couple of kids who dropped out of high school to make pizza.”
“And look where it’s gotten us, my friend!” Benny smiled exuberantly, extending his arms to size up the small corner shop we’d recently leased. “Twenty-year-old entrepreneurs? Who’d have ever thunk it? Antonio must be smiling down on us, God rest his soul.”
Our cherished friend and original mentor from that summer at the World’s Fair, Antonio the pizza peddler had passed away three years earlier in a tragic streetcar accident. His wife, Vera, had been pregnant at the time with her first child, so Benny and I had stepped in to assume operation of the small pizza shack he had started, which was little more than a tin shed with an oven. Under Antonio’s tutelage, Benny and I had become masters at slinging pies. The Naples-born immigrant’s no-fail formula for a perfect crust and mouthwatering marinara proved a literal recipe for success, especially among the residents of the city’s Italian enclaves who were homesick for a taste of the old country. Benny and I eventually quit school early and took over Antonio’s business following his death. Although we were only seventeen years old at the time, we managed to make our modest profits rise at a slow but steady rate. As a result, we had money enough in our pockets to supplement our families’ incomes and still provide for Antonio’s widow and her baby daughter, Carmen. It had been Benny’s idea to use the small savings we had amassed to open a bona fide brick-and-mortar location, which is how I came to be standing here painting over the pink walls of what was formerly a ladies’ haberdashery near the corner of West Lawrence and North Broadway.
“Why is the top foot and a half of that wall still pink?” Benny asked in confusion, sizing up my incomplete paint job.
“That’s as high as I’m going on the ladder,” I said, wiping my brow on my blue denim coveralls,
Similar Books
