Book Six, Chapter 7: Hot Head

On-Screen.

I was in the back kitchen, the proper kitchen, where prep cooks were chopping vegetables and cooking off sausage so that it could get to the level of doneness they wanted when it got on the actual pizza.

It was my first day, and I was the only player there.

The schedule was designed that way to force us to actually get used to the place. To be fair, it was quite a big place. This was no mom-and-pop shop. This was something only an entire family could have put together.

And they did.

Most of the employees were somehow related to the Bonaventura family.

Not Artie, though, the head cook. He made that clear.

He must have been five foot four, but I doubt he was like that when he was my age. He just kind of shrank with time into a wrinkled, gnarled old man who drank and smoked on the job and smiled at every joke.

Boy, was he a kidder. When I asked him about how he came to work at Pecatto’s, he said this:

“I was a kid. Younger than you, maybe fifteen. Just sittin’ on the street, on the corner like we did back then, us boys, skippin’ school, cousins spittin’ when Dante Bonaventura comes by. He thumps me on the ear three times and says, ‘You gotta do somethin’ with your life, Artie.’

“And I put up my fist and say, ‘No.’ ’cause I don’t want a job. I was a bum. And every day, he comes by and thumps me on the ear three times. After a week, I’m tired of gettin’ thumped on the ear. So when Dante Bonaventura comes up again, I say, ‘What do I gotta do to make you stop thumpin’ me on the ear?’

“And he says, ‘You gotta come make pizza for me at my family place.’

“And I say, ‘Okay, what then?’

“And he says, ‘Then I’m only gonna thump you on the ear two times.’”

He started laughing, a deep, raspy laugh. He looked at me expectantly.

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Gus Junior, Dante’s nephew, is in charge now. Still comes around to give me my thumps every morning.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You laugh at my story, huh?” he said.

And then an order came through for a pizza with sausage, pepperoni, bell pepper, onions, and mushrooms.

Artie jumped into action like some sort of jungle cat.

His arthritic fingers were able to weave together that pizza right on the wooden pizza paddle, without regard to company policy (a well-sanitized and floured countertop was the policy).

He must have had the thing in the oven in less than a minute. Then he was back to leaning by the fire exit, smoking cigarettes.

“Now you work while I take a break,” he said.

I nodded. And then five pizza orders came in. I was On-Screen sporadically the whole time, so I actually had to make them.

None of the relatives would stop to help. The way I understood it was that they all had jobs here, but they just did those jobs, and then they left. Because they had real jobs elsewhere, they were just helping out the family pizza place.

Those folks were prepping ingredients, not saving a drowning teenager who had never made a pizza in his life.

Five pizzas at once was quite the challenge. It was a comedy, so I leaned into my inexperience.

All I could think was: If I mess these things up, am I gonna be punished for it? Or are they just going to ignore it if I put enough effort in and make it look like I struggled?

I was so afraid of getting complained about that I just took my time. One by one, I stretched out a ball of dough, painted on the sauce, and did my best to copy what Artie had done so easily.

On to the pizza peel, and then to the oven.

Old Hot Head, the animatronic oven, looked the same from the back as he did from the front, and he watched me as I made my pizzas. His eyes would move from side to side, and I swore he was judging me.

As I put my final pizza into the oven, I stared through the giant stone slab and into the main part of the restaurant.

Hot Head’s mouth was designed to remind you of hell.

There was no avoiding it.

The base where we put the pizzas was a glowing red rock with strange crevices and fire everywhere. The pizza would get put in and be cycled around until eventually the chefs on the other side would take it out, put it in a box, and give it to the customer, or send it wherever it was supposed to go.

I didn’t want to reach too far into his mouth accidentally and have the big metal door with painted lips come slamming down on me, or worse, have me gobbled up whole.

Luckily, though, I was done—no more pizzas.

Or so I thought.

A delivery order for five more pizzas came through just as I was finished.

I looked around for help, and while Artie was somehow asleep while standing, and all of the relatives were hard at work prepping vegetables, there was one guy, Trip, who I could tell was not just a background character.

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“Need a hand?” he asked.

“As many as you got,” I said.

“Well, I got two,” he said.

Then he jumped in to help me with some pizzas, as even more orders came in.

Trip was probably college age, which meant he was older than me in this storyline. He had that kind of cool older kid vibe. He was also the heir apparent, Gus Junior’s son, so it made sense that he knew his way around the oven.

He stepped in with me and started making pies one after another, not with the speed that Artie had, but certainly with more consistency.

“You just gotta learn a rhythm,” he said. “It’s all about working on that rhythm, huh, Hot Head?” he asked the oven, which gave no answer other than to have its big eyes move from left to right.

Trip wore a visor. I did too. There were three options: the visor, the cap, and a paper hat. For some reason, the visor was the least-picked option.

As soon as we were done with the new rush of pizzas, he told me, “I’m supposed to send you down to the office so you can watch the orientation videos.”

“Great. I’ve been disoriented this entire time,” I said.

He laughed at my joke, and then I left the kitchen, hoping that I wouldn’t have any more scenes there, even though that was technically my job.

And who was I to complain? In the kitchens, I never had to talk to customers. Carousel was already a death game, adding on customer service to that would’ve been too much.

I had spent my entire day trying to find evidence of the supernatural, but all I could really find evidence of was the history of the restaurant. Which, from what I could understand, went something like this: