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CHAPTER TWO
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It’s been two weeks since I left home. I realized staying near that area for too long would lead to me being spotted by the police or, even worse, my foster parents.
With the little money I had left, I bought a one-way bus ticket to Chicago.
It’s a big city, and I’m sure I’ll find work here soon; I need to, or I won’t make it out here for long.
I’ve never been to a city this big before; the constant movement of people and honking cars was jarring at first. Finding a quiet place to sleep was impossible, so I stayed awake during the nights and would find somewhere in a nearby park to close my eyes during the day.
It felt safer that way. I even found a bathroom on the beach with showers.
It’s a bit of a walk from where I usually stay, so I only go every other day.
A few days ago, after a shower, I walked past a pizza place with a ‘Now Hiring’ sign on one of the front windows.
The place looked run down; like it had been there for ages.
I guess most pizza places look like this, and I figured what the hell, they probably won’t be picky on who they hire.
I was right. The owner, Sam, hired me on the spot for minimum wage, cash under the table.
He didn’t ask many questions about my past or where I live, and I’m grateful for it.
I have no experience making pizza’s but I’ve been doing my best to do everything right.
I watch Sam as he prepares all the food, how he keeps his area clean, and his interactions with customers over the phone and in person.
There are two other employees, but they’re delivery drivers only needing to come in the afternoons and evenings.
It seems Sam was working alone, open to close, every day before I came along.
For the last two days, I’ve come in on time, with whatever clean clothes I have, and ready to work.
It’s simple work, but the little kitchen gets as hot as a sauna after a few hours.
The pizza ovens and fryers take up most of the space, and I’m always getting hot air blasted in my face.
As I sweat, my glasses slide off my nose, making it an annoying chore to constantly push them back on my face.
Sam and I work in silence; he makes the pizza; I box them up and make other food in the fryer. Simple and it keeps me busy. Although most of the time I’m worried I’ll fuck something up and he’ll fire me without even getting my first paycheck.
“Eric?” Sam's gruff voice breaks the silence in the kitchen. He’s in his fifties, and I assume a longtime smoker.
Anytime we have a bit of downtime, he’s in the back smoking a cigarette.
Luckily, even with being around multiple foster families that smoke, I’ve never picked up the habit. The smell turns my stomach now.
“Yeah?” I respond while over the fryer with a fresh batch of french fries.
“You don’t talk much, huh? The last guy, never could get him to shut up! I would turn on the radio, but he would just talk louder,” he laughs.
“I–uh, I guess I just don’t have much to say.”
“Well, where ya from?” He's got a thick Chicago accent, and it’s so different from what I’m used to back home.
“Northern Wisconsin,” I dread the next question he’ll ask. What if he wants to know how old I am? I told him I was 18 already, but I don’t have an ID to show him, so he can’t know how old I really am.
“How long have you been here?” He pulls a pie out of the searing hot oven with no gloves on, as if he’s been doing this his whole life.
It’s a sausage pizza and I realize we don’t have an order for a sausage pizza.
The smell of the freshly made food makes my stomach rumble.
I’ve been sneaking little bites of random stuff while I work. Hopefully he hasn’t noticed.
“Only a couple of weeks,” I say honestly. Sam places a couple of slices on a plate and slides it towards me on the prep table.
“Fries ready?”
“Yup. Coming out now.”
“Good. Put a little extra salt, eh? I like my shit salty,” he grumbles as he eats a piece of pizza. I toss the fries in extra salt, like he asked, and place the bowl on the table between us. He motions for me to take some and eat. It’s the first time he’s offered me a meal and I’m grateful for it.
The first bite of the pizza is heavenly.
Everything here is made from scratch; the sauce is tangy, the flavors explode in my mouth, the sausage is a little spicy and goes perfectly with the sauce, and the cheese finishes everything perfectly.
In typical Chicago fashion, the crust is crunchy like a cracker; it’s something I’ve never had before.
“You like it? Cheese is from Wisconsin, some of the best stuff out there.”
“Mmm–it’s delicious. Thank you,” I say sincerely. He’s the first person in a long time who has been kind and helpful without making me feel like shit.
“You got a place to stay? And don’t lie, kid.” Tears burned my eyes and my throat got tight. I don’t want to lie, but I also don’t want to tell the truth. I’ve tried hard to make sure I was clean and didn’t look like I had slept outside these last few days.
“No,” I shook my head. My stomach turned, and I put down the piece of pizza I had been munching on.
“Upstairs,” he points, “there’s an apartment up above–it came with the building.
My son stayed up there for a while before going off to school, so it’s empty now.
Needs some cleaning, but it’s yours if you want it.
” I’m at a loss for words. This man doesn’t even know me, and he’s offering me a place to stay?
“Two things: Don’t steal from me or lie to me. Other than that, if you keep up the good work, we’ll be good. Deal?”
“Yes, sir.” I say quietly, and he nods in recognition.
As we finish our lunch, the ticket machine in the kitchen prints off an order, and we get back to work in silence again.
We spent the next two years working side by side, sharing a little at a time about ourselves, making sure the place stayed open and customers are fed.
It’s the first time in my life that I didn’t feel worthless and I had a purpose. Even if it were a small one.