Slice of Adulthood

Always Pizza Time

At 2:13am, on the second Saturday of August, there were only three people who could claim the depressing combination of awake and sober in the small town of Abbeyfield Station. They were all wearing the same orange shirts, decorated by a cartoon pizza.

Those unlucky souls were working the overnight shift at Alway Pizza Time, which was the best place to go in a one-bar-town after the one bar closed for the night. This also made it the worst place to work when Juan's Bar finally kicked out the slop pile of college kids, weathered life-ers, and the occasional high schoolers with a convincing enough fake IDs.

The three customers at Table 8 were of the "life-er" variety. Former football heros and mathletes of Abbeyfield High School who might have made a short-term escape from the town for college but always ended up back home. In their 20s they told everyone they were "this" close to moving away. Then their 30s came and they decided to accept the life sentence of Abbeyfield residency. By their 40s they'd produced a few sprog for the population, keeping the cycle going.

From his spot behind the counter where he was dicing tomatoes, Casey could see Jillian struggle to collect the bill from a rowdy trio. The ringleader fanned the cash toward her, daring her to lunge for it before whipping it away from her reach. The men, all older than Jillian's father ever was, hooted a discordant quartet of middle-aged laughter that reeked of whisky, discount fabric softener, and disappointment.

They wore Tommy Bahama shirtsleeves, boasting patterns that were aggressively summery, even for August. Three sweaty, slurring, wrinkled men whose only diversity from one another was their range of receding hairline types.

"What I wouldn't do to you if I was ten years younger," the man with the cash said directly to Jillian's bust. "I could teach you things you've only seen on the internet."

"Charming," Jillian replied humorlessly. "The bill?"

"Make her work for it," suggested a second from the table. "I'll bet she's not as innocent as those Bambi eyes pretend."

"Bit skinny for my taste," the third one declared. "I like an ass I can grab hold of..."

Just as Receding Hairline #3 was reaching his wedding-banded left hand toward Jillian's 18-year-old rear, Tania, the supervisor came to the rescue of her waitress.

Tania was a severe-looking woman, but not exactly unattractive in her severity. Her blue eyes glowed against her tanned-leather skin and black hair like a pair of jarringly bright LED headlights.

"Jillian, can you go check on Table 60?" Tania said. It was a code the staff used at Always Pizza Time: Table 60 meant to go on a break.

Tania was competitive Roller Derby lady with linebacker shoulders and a distractingly large rack to balance them out. All natural, she insisted, usually following up with graphically detailed stories about girls she knew who had violently ruptured their implants in the rink.

Tania liked to tell people that slamming into and tackling the other team in the rink got all of her aggression out, but wise people didn't test that theory.

Table 8 must have been smarter than their behavior and dress indicated, because as soon as Tania sent Jillian off the floor the men quieted for the supervisor like ashamed schoolboys.

Casey's eyes followed Jillian as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving Tania to scold the inebriated men, but Jillian refused to make eye contact as she neared him.

"Those guys are assholes, Jill," Casey said once he decided she was far enough into the kitchen that the rowdy customers couldn't hear him.

"I could have handled it myself," Jillian said without looking at Casey.