An award-winning author, poet, and emeritus English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Anti-Heroin Chic, The Galway Review, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s poetry/fiction include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems, Gunilla’s Garden (2025), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys boating and fishing in Washington State.

Prospects

By Sterling Warner

My first day at Lorenzo’s Pizza lacked promise. “I’ve made it a point to arrive early to work art former jobs,” I told Alex, my new boss, attempting to make a good impression. “My time at Lorenzo’s will be no exception!” He seemed preoccupied, so I added, “I’ve studied the menu here for three days and memorized every pie and sandwiches the restaurant sells.”

“A pity,” he replied. “You must have a lot of free time.”

“Er, not really, sir.” (Caught in a lie already! Shit.) I needed to temper my eager attitude.

“Call me Alex—not sir—now change your shirt,” he growled. Throwing a red and white striped shirt at me he added, “There are aprons in the back closet next to the mop bucket.

Smiling, I changed shirts and strapped on the cleanest apron available. (They all had lumps of sauce on them that blended in with the maroon cloth.”) “What next, Alex?” I asked, still ready to please. (I hated to work. I wanted money. I needed this job.)

“Roll out dough, and then, using the round pizza stamps, cut small, medium, and large skins; don’t forget to put wax paper between them.”

I did as Alex instructed—more. Much more. I sliced salami and pepperoni sticks into small pieces, cut my hand thrice, bled into a vat containing fifteen gallons of tomato paste, and mixed Lorenzo’s secret spices into the concoction. Meanwhile, citric and malic acid burnt my open wounds like hell. Nobody noticed my injuries, however, because both hands were smeared with pizza sauce! I wasn’t about to seek first aid fearing my carelessness would be just cause for termination. (Did I tell you I needed this job?)

Based on my initiation into the world of a pizzaiolo, future prospects looked dim. My first customer, an angry drunk father, hobbled into the parlor looking for some dude who eloped with his 22-year-old daughter. “I’m gonna kill that fuckin’ hippie when I find him….Gimme a cheeseburger,” he sneered.

“We only sell pizzas at Lorenzo’s,” I grinned, aware that Alex had taken interest in my customer rapport.

“Gimme a pizza-burger then and hurry,” he snapped, “I wanna eat before I shoot the asshole who kidnapped my baby girl.”

Alex brushed me away from the counter. “I’ll take care of him. Go bus some tables, wipe ’em down, and replace burnt-out candles.” (Happy to defer one jerk to another, I grabbed a sour rag and left the kitchen order counter.)

Out of the frying pan? Hardly. My inaugural shift continued to suck bigtime. Pushy kids dominated the afternoon celebrating one birthday party after another, demanding I refill soft drink pitchers, inflate balloons, and deliver pizzas to their tables. (Hey, I remained a cool head. Besides, what right had I complain? All those tasks had been mentioned in my job description.)

Still, every time a bossy twerp screeched, “Hey pizza man…play the Roadrunner cartoons,” I grew less patient. Nonetheless, I remained a trooper, looped the film on sprockets, played and replayed the same damn toons. Eventually, my feigned smile broke into a toothy grin when the old projector’s bulb burned out. Even so, the roomful of brats drove me crazy running between tables and shouting, “Beep! Beep!” like the damn bird. (I empathize with Wile E. Coyote; he’s a kindred soul.) Mercifully, both parties and attendees dwindled.

By four o’clock, designated drivers ushered the last group of kids outside and into respective carpools. (What a relief!) While I meditated on the blessed touch of silence, a high school debate club burst through the doors and everyone started to argue. Debate practice? Doubtful. Some bitched about classroom grades, others gossiped about relationships, and still others bragged about clothes, cars, and unlikely accomplishments.

Soon, all hell broke loose—but with a difference—once the Cheetahs, a local female softball team, arrived. Indeed, the debate club’s high-pitched banter paled next to the congregation of victorious players. Triumphant, pumped, and brash, most of them ignored the kitchen and headed straight to the bar. “Let’s start out with five pitchers of Budweiser,” a flat chested woman named Lomax—according to her jersey requested.

I marveled at their capacity to consume beer—a talent that definitely supercharged the team’s unbridled enthusiasm. They exceeded the children’s uproar by forty-five decibels, intimidated the debaters with catcalls, and sent both the club and scattered customers packing in less than thirty minutes.

Meanwhile, the Cheetahs took to dancing on tabletops, singing acapella karaoke, and riding a coin operated horse (I can still picture them slapping its haunches, shouting, “Go, Trigger, go!” and groaning with pleasure). Uncertain what to do, I turned towards my boss.

“Hey, Alex. Should I ask them to get off the tables,” I inquired.

“Why? They’re babes and certainly aren’t hurting anyone,” he uttered before looking away from me and encouraging their behavior like a cheerleader. “Go girls, go, go, go,” he shouted at two women chugging beer after beer. (On the bright side, by the time the Cheetahs all left, I had mastered the art of pouring beer with a three-finger head from tap!)

Thank God for teenagers—the evening’s main crowd—who respectfully ordered pizzas and sodas kept to themselves, as they fed each other pizza slices, snuffed out table candles, slunk into shadows, and canoodled until they left. Between their minimal demands and customers who dropped by to pick up take-out orders, I ultimately closed the parlor without incident, an accomplishment in itself.

Now, at the end of the night, I had to: 1) count money (we didn’t accept checks or credit cards at Lorenzo’s), 2) reconcile cash with sales tapes (no problem. I excelled at counting…I should have been a gambler), 3) write-out a deposit slip (super…I loved to write), and 4) make a bank drop (no sweat—though I don’t drive; I rode my bicycle everywhere—night and day).

Pouring myself a Guinness from tap, I sat down with the adding machine (it would be another decade before clunky computers arrived), totaled receipts, and, after recounting legal tender three times, I realized I must have fleeced some customers because I was $49.99 over a matching total.

Put yourself in my position. (Actions have consequences.) On my first full day of work, I wanted to set the gold standard for employee dependability, diverse skills, and ultimate patience. True, common sense resolved my monetary quandary, yet I felt conflicted. (Would my choice lead me to “The Lady, or the Tiger”?)

Some said I should never have pocketed overpaid money from the till simply to cultivate the impression that I was a model worker and customer service phenom. (Perhaps.) Other’s claimed that even though novice employees should have known that management seeded the cash register with $49.49 each morning, I was fortunate to get fired.

A week after Alex canned me, he shot and nearly killed my replacement over a stupid football bet. (I never realized Alex packed…. Perhaps that’s why his girlfriend Jezelle—a gun control advocate—dumped him.) Regardless, neither she nor I were the sort of people to question fate, so we waited until after Alex’s incarceration before moving in together.