Pizza Girl

by Jean Kyoung Frazier

  * * *

  —

  ONE MORNING, I sat on the toilet and sobbed to a Powerade commercial.

  Billy and Mom had both gone off to work and I was alone in the house, sitting on the toilet, unable to shit. I wasn’t experiencing morning sickness or swelling in my ankles, I wasn’t needing to piss every time I took a sip of water, but I was lucky if I could shit even once a day.

  Shitting was one of my simplest life pleasures. Before I was pregnant, each of my mornings would start off with me stumbling to the bathroom, plopping on the toilet with the lights off, and having one quick shit before my eyes were even fully open. It had been a little over a week without this routine and I was slowly going insane. That morning, I’d been determined to have my morning shit, no matter how long it took. I sat myself on the toilet and brought Billy’s laptop with me. I was trying to watch Kevin Garnett highlights, something that always calmed me, when an ad came up before the video.

  A kid shooting hoops in a backyard with a net made from a milk crate, the backboard a piece of ripped cardboard. Another kid kicking a soccer ball alone in a field, a large bale of hay her goalie. The third kid just throwing a baseball against his bedroom wall, catching it, throwing it, catching it, over and over and over. A deep voice booms, “A mouse is drowning in a bowl of cream.” The kid shooting hoops pushed to the ground as he walks to class, his ball flies out from under his arm and bounces down concrete steps. “Most mice would just give up.” The soccer girl sitting on the sidelines watching a group of boys play a game without her. The baseball kid with his hands over his ears and his eyes closed as the yelling of his parents bleeds through the walls of his room. “But not this mouse.” The first kid gets up off the ground and rushes down the steps to retrieve his ball. The girl stands up and hops into the game without asking. The third kid’s eyes snap open and his fingers wrap around the baseball and squeeze until his knuckles turn white. “This mouse had fight. And, eventually, all that fighting churned that cream into butter.” The basketball boy practicing relentlessly on his milk-crate hoop transforms into the leading scorer in the NBA. The soccer girl into the forward that kicked the winning goal for Team USA at the Olympics. The third, the star shortstop for the New York Yankees. They stand together, in a line, a powerful trio. “And that mouse simply climbed out.”

  The screen fades to black, and bold white letters flash across—“We’re all just a kid from somewhere—Powerade.”

  Commercials were manipulative, I said to myself, a kind of evil, even the nice ones. The message didn’t matter, they were all essentially saying the same thing. They spent thousands of dollars on actors and writers to make a script, produce thirty or so seconds of content to tug on your heartstrings so, in turn, you’d open your wallet to buy whatever product they were pushing. I knew all that, endlessly ranted about it to Billy when we were watching TV. So why did I spend the next thirty minutes watching that commercial on repeat, crying nonstop?

  When my eyes finally remained dry through the entirety of the Powerade commercial, I clicked on others. Nike, Budweiser, McDonald’s, Walmart, Toyota, Gap, Axe, Petco, Crate and Barrel, a small business that sold meat-flavored chewing gum—they all knew how to squeeze my heart, make my eyes blurry and wet. The minutes ticked by as I clicked and cried. I eventually stopped on a Tide commercial where a dad and daughter spend a day doing laundry together to surprise Mommy, to show her she doesn’t have to do everything. She comes through the door and sees them folding crisp, clean shirts and pants on the couch and she bursts into tears. As they embrace, a Tide logo pops up in the corner of the screen.

  By the end of that commercial, I had no tears left and decided, finally, it was time to get up and ready for work. Two hours had passed and I still hadn’t taken a shit.

  * * *

  —

  DARRYL HAD CALLED me earlier that day and asked me to please, pretty please, take Doug’s shift that night.

  “Why would I cover for Doug?”

  “Because I need Sally to take my day shift tomorrow and she’ll only do it if I find someone to take Doug’s shift tonight. Did you know those two were dating? Personally, I think they both can do better.”

  “Okay, well, why can’t you fill in for Doug?”

  “I was already supposed to work tonight, but I got out of it, called in a favor with Kim.”

  “So, this is you calling in a favor with me?”

  “Please? You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I’m putting on my good underwear and buying wine that doesn’t come from a box.”

  “Special occasion?”

  “Carl called and wants to come over tonight. If things go well, I don’t want to have to be rushing out of bed and into work tomorrow, you know?”

  “Who’s Carl?”

  “Damn, bitch. Do you not listen to anything I say about my life?”

  “Oh, Carl, your cheating, lying ex-boyfriend.”

  “Do I pick up your shit and shove it in your face?”

  I agreed, even though I hated night shifts. Pizza deliveries past nine weren’t for dinner. Rarely families or couples sitting together at the dining-room table after a long day, cuddled into each other on the couch, no “tell me about your day” conversation. A lot of parties, or people in groups of three or more who had been smoking and drinking all night. They could be fun, would ask me to come in and chill for a little before I went back to work. Mostly, though, night shifts meant people alone in their houses, apartments, opening the door a crack and then only slightly wider when they saw it was me. They’d pay quickly, sometimes tell a hurried, stuttered story about how they didn’t do this often, they were usually out with friends at this time of night, had cooked a healthy dinner hours ago, it had just been one of those days, you know?

  Kim was also working at Eddie’s that night. She wasn’t bad, she kept to herself, cracked open one of her textbooks and read as she answered phones and jotted down orders. She was in her fourth year of community college, hoping to transfer next year to somewhere out of state. She told me once, in an uncharacteristic chatty mood, that she dreamed of becoming a doctor and moving to a third-world country to help decrease the infant-mortality rate. That night, she just said “ ’Sup?” when I walked through the door. I said “Hey” back. She returned to her organic chemistry book, I turned the volume up on my iPod. A song was playing that made me think of smashing things, large things, like watermelons, flat-screen TVs, wooden tables and chairs, jugs and jugs of milk.

  * * *

  —

  A MAN WITH SIX CHIHUAHUAS standing in an unmoving row behind him, one with its tongue sticking out of its mouth. A woman in scrubs with a large stain on the pants that was either blood or coffee. Three girls with braces wearing their moms’ clothing and heels, face masks, curlers in their hair, drying fingernails all the same shade of alligator green. A guy who took ten minutes of knocking before he answered the door, yelled at me that I should’ve knocked louder, the pizza was probably cold now. A grandma type who tipped me a single dime. A small party, door answered by two dudes in sombreros. They offered me a can of PBR, icy cold, beautiful condensation, and I hesitated, but turned them down. A motel off the freeway, a dark parking lot that made me nervous, so I laced my keys between my knuckles, in 411 a guy in a robe that barely covered anything, a pair of crossed legs on the bed behind him. Several nondescript men and women in quiet apartments, every movement—the knocking, the lock clicking open, bills being pulled from wallets, change from pockets, cardboard shifting, that final slam, lock back in place—sounding unbearably loud.

  It was an average night.

  Rita and Louie Booker also called in. They were their usual selves, filling the doorway with their barely clothed bodies, hands gripping each other tightly, like neither of them would even be able to stand upright without the other. Rita had a cast on her left arm from a biking accident, a story she told hi
lariously. “And so that’s the last time I ever try to do anything fucking healthy. The environment can suck a dick—I’m driving my F-150 to work again.” They touched and cooed at my stomach, and it didn’t bother me as much as when other people did it. I signed my name and a smiley face on Rita’s cast.

  I was driving back from their place, the radio was on low, the song just peaceful murmuring. One of the only bonuses of the night shift—the roads were empty. Empty roads in Los Angeles were a rarity. There were always people and they were always trying to get somewhere. Driving in traffic could send the kindest souls into yelling, spitting rage. I once saw an old woman who looked like she made the best apple pie, and remembered all her grandkids’ birthdays, lean her head out the window of her minivan and spit at a Camaro that cut her off. “Your parents must be blind, or cousins, both!”

  By midnight, everyone seemed to be where they needed to be. I could drive at speeds greater than ten mph, didn’t have to slam on the brakes every other second, weaved from lane to lane just because I could. There was just a half-hour left in my shift and I was feeling okay. Then I looked down at my hands on the steering wheel.

  Dad and I had the same hands. Small for our height, wide palms, thick knuckles, we both bit our nails until they bled. I’d spent many nights staying up late googling “plastic surgery for hands,” going deep—not just page 1, 2, 3 results, clicking and scrolling, trying to keep my breathing clean and even, in out, in out, in out, 35, 36, 37, I made it once to page 78. One night, I came across an ad for a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills who made a promise so grand and stupid it couldn’t be real, but what if it was?—“Let Me Fix Your Pain for Good.”

  I sent him an e-mail—“Hi, please help me”—and he replied quick, a little too quick, paragraphs about rejuvenation procedures, cuts, and injections, promising to make me look young again. I never replied, didn’t know how to tell him I was eighteen, my hands were still smooth, it wasn’t about looking young. I had my father’s hands, and in my dark, honest moments at 3:00 a.m. googling, I worried they weren’t the only things of his that I had.

  It could happen anytime, anyplace, instantly—typing a text, reading a book, cracking my knuckles, scratching my nose, turning on the lights, turning off the lights, grabbing a box off a high shelf, hanging with friends, sweating at parties, passing Mom an orange, holding Billy’s face, working, so much at work—I’d be happy, laughing, breathing, and then I’d look down at my hands and I’d be sure he had those moments too.

  I felt it strongly in the car. Dad was always going for drives late at night. I stared hard at my hands, our hands, gripping the steering wheel. He didn’t just go for drives late at night, he went for those drives in the very car I was sitting in. I nearly ran into a lamppost.

  * * *

  —

  BEFORE I EVEN WENT to work that night, Mom made sure that my cell phone was fully charged. “No excuses, you call us when you’re off.” I had called her when my shift ended at 2:30 a.m., said a quick “I love you,” to both her and Billy, and was driving home when I decided there was just one place I wanted to stop first.

  No lights were on in Jenny’s house. No lights were on in any house on the block, just streetlamps and porch lights. I parked in front of the house across from hers and watched, willing a room to light up, even a lamp to flicker. I didn’t believe she was sleeping. I knew she must have trouble going to bed, like me. Those bags under her eyes. Her constantly rumpled and stained clothes. I could hear it in the way she talked, someone who had been awake and thinking for too long.

  I only planned on stopping for a minute or two, possibly just driving by if I could get a good glimpse of her through the window. It wasn’t until I got near-simultaneous texts from Billy and Mom—“Where are you?” “Did something happen?”—that I realized over fifteen minutes had passed. I put the key in the ignition and was about to turn the radio up when, like magic, fate, force of my own will, the kitchen light flipped on and, a beat later, Jenny walked into my view.

  The kitchen windows were big and I could see her clearly from my car. She was wearing a baggy long-sleeve shirt and even baggier flannel pajama pants. She looked small and comfy. I watched as she walked slowly around the kitchen, touching the counter, cabinets, sink, the knobs on all the drawers. After her fifth lap, she stopped at the fridge and opened it, stood in its glow for a minute before she grabbed a carton of milk and started drinking straight from it. She chugged until milk started dribbling down the sides of her mouth. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and she started pulling things from the fridge—eggs, sticks of butter, onions, lemons, a head of broccoli, a handful of wilting asparagus, a pack of hot dogs, something that might have been raw chicken, another carton of milk, a tray with a sheet of foil over it, takeout boxes, lots of takeout boxes—everything, until it was splayed on the counter behind her.

  I wondered what she was going to make, what she could create out of the mess in front of her. She just stared at everything for a moment, and then, one by one, started putting everything back in the fridge.

  She took her time, putting things in different spots than they were before. I wanted to rap on the window, tell her that raw chicken needed to be stored on the bottom shelf of the fridge or the juices could drip down and coat everything in bacteria, but I also didn’t want to interrupt her process. She looked calm. When she finished she took another two slow laps around the kitchen and then started taking everything out again. I could’ve watched her all night.

  My phone lit up again and I knew it was time to go. I was okay now anyway, looking at my hands didn’t make me sick. I’d seen her, and in four days it would be Wednesday and I would see her again.

  I started driving home, rehearsing a story in my head to quiet Billy and Mom: Hey, I’m sorry I’m late, I left something really important behind at work and just couldn’t bear to let it stay there overnight, and I was craving something salty and sweet, potato chips and Kit Kat bars, that damn song from that damn commercial was stuck in my head, but all the gas stations were closed, and then I hit a pothole and got a flat tire and I had to fix it myself, I didn’t want to bother you guys.

  * * *

  —

  BILLY’S BEST FRIEND at work was a large man in his forties who went by “Semi.”

  Semi had recently gotten engaged to a Nice Girl, a second-grade teacher he met after rear-ending her Prius with his Hummer on the highway. His insurance paid for the accident, and he paid for several meals and drinks before she agreed to be his girlfriend. She went by “Lisa” and was considerably younger and smaller than him. I’d met Semi twice and he liked to make jokes about Lisa involving balls and chains, ninety-nine problems, all of them bitches. Every time I got up, I could feel his eyes on my ass. On Sunday, Billy told me Semi was throwing a party that night, one last blowout before his life was over and he became a married man. I fake-yawned, told Billy I was a little tired, he could go to the party by himself.

  “I don’t have to go to this, you know,” Billy said, his hand wrapped around the doorknob.

  “You should.” I kissed him on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself.”

  Billy left, promising not to drink since he was driving home, he would be back before midnight. Mom and I stood next to each other, staring at the shut door.

  I realized this was the first night Mom and I had been alone together in months, maybe longer. In general, I didn’t have a lot of memories of Mom without another person in them. Before Dad died, we were either with him because he was in a good mood or, more often, he was in a bad mood and we were separate—me alone in my room, headphones on, her alone, wherever, doing whatever it was she did in those moments.

  She turned to me and reached out suddenly, grabbed an end of my hair. I flinched and felt bad that I flinched, tried to relax. “You have a lot of split ends,” she said.

  Soon, we were in the bathroom. I sat on the floor, my back again
st the bathtub rim, Mom crouching behind me in the tub with a pair of scissors. She grabbed my hair, seemingly at random, and snipped. I watched pieces of my hair fall away, dark and sharp against the pure-white porcelain.

  “My hair also got dry when I was pregnant with you,” she said. “It drove me crazy every time I looked in the mirror, seeing how limp and frizzy it was.”

  I hadn’t noticed anything different about my hair. My mirror avoidance had been working. I never caught more than a glimpse of myself in storefront windows as I passed, or my fuzzy reflection on the shed TV before I turned it on. When I ate cereal, I used a plastic spoon, no chance of even seeing my nose reflected in the metal. It was impossible not to see the top of my head in the rearview mirror when I drove, but I made sure to look quickly when I had to, focusing only on the road behind me.

  “When you’re in the shower after you put in conditioner, you should get a wide-toothed comb and run it through your hair before you rinse. It helps strengthen your hair. I read that in some article.”

  “I don’t use conditioner.”

  Mom stopped. “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It makes showers longer, it feels gross in my hair, I don’t know.”

  “You should always use conditioner.”

  I wanted to turn around, grab both her hands, thrust them in the air with mine, scissors up, and scream, Yes, yes, this is what I want! Teach me, please. Guide me, move me if I’m headed in the wrong direction. Tell me how to do things. There’s so much I don’t know. “Thanks.” I kept still, stared right ahead. “I’ll start doing that.”

  She cut a few more pieces and brushed off my shoulders. “There. All done.”