Just as my older sister had paved the way with my babysitting gig, my older brother laid the foundation in the pizza and fish biz. Thoone’s Carryout was about 2 miles from our house. It was around the corner from the grocery store, a little hole in the wall. Its food was simple and it was pretty good. It was cheap, and the Thoones’ customers were loyal. It was owned by a ma and pa, literally. They did the cooking, they took the orders, they were the cashier, the bagger…they did everything….with a little help from the teenagers they took under their wing.
I started at Thoone’s in the summer of ’94. I had just turned 15 and I thought I was lucky because I was able to get a work permit and finally get my first REAL job. My mom dropped me off on my first day in her emerald green Chrysler. She touched my cheek and told me how proud of me she was…her baby, at her first real job. I shook my head, embarrassed and leaned on the door handle. I stumbled as I stepped out of the car, but caught myself before actually falling.
I stepped into the tiny waiting area of Thoone’s, a bell above the door announcing my entrance. I stood awkwardly, waiting. I was wearing khaki pants with a purple and green striped t-shirt. My feet were comfortable in my favorite Keds tennis shoes. I started to look around as I waited. I noticed a bench so I sat down and studied a newspaper article that was framed. Apparently some newspaper reporter thought Thoone’s was Northwest Indiana’s best-kept secret. At that time, I was on a strict diet of Lipton soup, French fries and candy. I was a very picky eater and turned my nose up at most foods. My parents ordered pizza and perch from Thoone’s regularly, and I refused to eat it. It was pretty ironic that I was now working here.
My musings were interrupted by a mumbled, “Well, don’t just sit there, come on.” I looked up to see Mrs. Thoone (everyone called her Ma). She was about 5 feet tall, but her poor posture made her seem like she was 4 ft 2. Her ginger colored hair was graying at the temples and was pulled back in a messy French twist. Wayward strands stuck to her forehead and neck, wet with sweat. Her gnarled hands were resting on the counter next to an ancient looking cash register.
I approached the counter where she was standing and she sighed, exasperated with me already. “Well, you can’t very well climb over the counter, now, can you? Use the door!” Oops. Duh. I turned to my left and went over to a tall, skinny door that creaked when I opened it. I walked into The Kitchen. Big butcher-block tables, several stoves, a big pizza oven and fryers were all around. In the back, I saw a grumpy looking old man with shaggy white hair, wearing a white undershirt with white jeans and a white apron. Ma motioned toward him. “That’s George. Say hello, George.” The man nodded his head in response and grunted in my general direction. I smiled and said, “Nice to meet you!” The “oo” on “you” was held a little long and hung in the air awkwardly. I looked down at my feet and cleared my throat.
“We have a lot to get done! A LOT to get done. Where to begin? I guess I’ll have you do the phones. Now, when the phone rings, you answer it and you say, ‘Thoone’s Pizza and Fish. Erin speaking. How may I help you?’” I nodded. She continued, “The person will place their order. You write it down and give it to me or George.” It sounded simple enough. This job was going to be a breeze! I settled into a folding chair positioned near a phone attached to the wall with a pad of paper on my lap and a pen poised.
As I waited for the phone to ring and give me purpose, I stole furtive glances at George and Ma in action. They moved like old, rusty robots, stilted and systematic. I watched Ma as she turned on the deep fryers and made the batter for the fried fish she was expecting to sell this evening. As the grease began to boil it exploded into hot fiery missiles, landing on Ma’s arm every 2-3 minutes. She seemed to barely notice this as she shook the fry baskets. She would touch the affected area momentarily as she let out a low and monotone, “Ow.”
George was a few feet down from her working on some pizza dough with his bare hands, adding flour as he kneaded the lump in front of him. Both frowned. Neither spoke. I studied my fingernails, willing the phone to ring. When it did, I answered on the first ring.
In a rush of excitement, I blurted out, “Hello? Uh-er, I mean Thoone’s. This is Erin. Can I take your order?” I heard Ma sigh heavily. My one responsibility! I had messed it up already! I felt my cheeks flush as I turned away and wrote: ‘one large pizza: ham, onion, green pepper and mushroom. Will pick up in one hour’. I hung up the phone with flourish and tore the green slip of paper off the order pad. I padded over to George and set it down in front of him, silently. Heading back to my station, I heard George speak my name for the first time, and I could feel my palms start to sweat.
I turned around. “Hmmm?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. He bellowed, “You just took this order?” I wasn’t sure how to respond. It was obvious that I took the order. Instead of questioning his intentions, I nodded. He started swearing under his breath, and I looked quickly at Ma. She came rushing over, wiping her hands on a towel as she wriggled in between us. She groped for the glasses that hung around her neck, finding them and placing them on the bridge of her nose. She held the small green paper at arm’s length, studying it. At the same time, she asked, “What is it, George?” He shook his head and uttered a word I barely heard: “Ham.” Ma groaned. I stared at both of them, bewildered.
Suddenly, as if something inside of him had snapped George closed the distance between us in less time than I would have thought he’d be capable of. He took me by the arm, leading me toward a large blackboard. At the top of the board, a menu had been printed. George pointed to it. I gawked at him, wondering when he was going to let go of my arm. He barked, “Look! Do you see the menu?” I squinted up at the small rectangular print out with coffee stains on two of its corners. It was stapled above some tattered photos and thank you cards. “Do you see where it says ‘Pizza’? Read me the topping choices.” Shakily, I spoke aloud the plethora of ingredients listed above me. When I finished, George had a satisfied expression on his face. His arms were crossed in front of him. I looked down at my arm, thankful to be free of this old curmudgeon’s grip. “Well?” I jumped, realizing that he expected some sort of answer from me. I opened my mouth. I closed it. George had had enough. He lunged forward as he growled, “You didn’t say: HAM!” I stole a quick glance back up at the weathered menu, willing ‘ham’ to be written there. It wasn’t. Damn.
“You’re going to have to call that customer back and tell them we don’t have any ham.” I could feel a pool of sweat forming in the small of my back. Shit. “Um…well…you see, I didn’t actually get their number so…” Now it was Ma’s turn to be incredulous. “Whaaaaaat?” (this was said with such nasality…it was like every Chicago accent joke, standing in front of me, in the flesh). I swallowed and looked at the phone. “Well…I…er…” Ma and George exchanged nervous glances. “Surely you got their name.” George was pleading. I silently shook my head as I backed up, trying to hide.
Before realizing what had happened, I heard a loud thud and the sound of glass breaking. I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut, wishing I was anywhere but in that kitchen. When I looked around to survey the damage, I saw that there was not one, but two broken picture frames with old black and white photos peeking out under the wreckage. I immediately bent down, trying to pick up the broken pieces of glass. I cut my pinkie finger when George bounded over, letting out a terrible howl.
“My pictures! Look what you did! Oh! Oh! Ma!” I did a backwards crab crawl away from the scene of my crime, staining the floor with blood as I scooted. There was a period of silence as George got a broom and swept up the glass. Ma bandaged up my finger without saying much. When she finally did speak, she said, “Maybe that’s enough for one day, kiddo.” I was like a bull in a china shop, and we both knew it. If it were up to George, I probably would have been fired on the spot.
I left Thoone’s that night on foot. Ma insisted that I call home for a ride so I faked it, preferring to enjoy the warm night as I contemplated my future in the food service industry.
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