“Chloe? Can you come back here?” I yell to the front of the store, where Chloe is washing the windows and getting readyto paint a new mural. Besides being one of my closest friends, Chloe is my sole full-time employee, and in house art maiden.
While she’s happy enough slinging pizza, what lights her up most is expressing her creativity. She paints the restaurant’s windows for every season, sometimes even throwing in obscure holidays or sporting events just for the hell of it. When she isn’t working with me at the pizza shop, she’s using her artistic talents to paint murals and windows all around Tuft Swallow. But even though her heart isn’t in the restaurant business like mine is, she’s one of the most reliable people I know.
She pops into the kitchen, her wavy pink bob swinging just above her shoulders, a pair of her ever-present paint-covered overalls buckled on one side over a ratty white tank. It’s impossible to look at her and not see an artist. “What’s up?”
“Can you watch the store while I cook these sauces in my apartment? The stove won’t light and we won’t have enough sauce to make it through the day if I don’t get these extra batches simmering.”
Chloe wipes her hands on a towel and comes back to the stove. “Sure. I’ll be here, anyway. Did you need me to call Wade for you?”
“Nah, we’d better get Thayer on this right away.” Thayer Longspur, Tuft Swallow’s resident reluctant handyman, is my first choice when it comes to restaurant repairs, because he’s the best, despite how much he seems to hate doing it. My landlord may be responsible for fixing things, but he’s not great at it, and I usually end up calling Thayer, anyway. If I want my stove fixed today, it’s best to skip over the part where I let Wade make an attempt.
“I wouldn’t mind if you could give me a hand bringing these pots up, though.” I can carry a line of plates as long as my arm, but I’ve never figured out how to translate that skill to cooking pots.
“Sure thing.”
I take the two largest pots and walk to the exit, leaving Chloe to take the remaining two. After years of doing grunt work in restaurant kitchens, I’m used to carrying more than seems possible for a woman of my size. I may be a little on the chubby side according to what you see in the media, but there is no denying the strength in my arms.
One of the best parts of living in an apartment above the restaurant I run is the commute. You can’t beat being able to roll out of bed, walk down the stairs, and be at your workplace. It’s been five years since I lived in the city and I can still vividly recall how soul-sucking it was taking public transit to and from work on top of the fourteen-hours I’d already worked in someone else’s kitchen. Moving to Tuft Swallow was the best thing I ever could have done for my work life balance, and that’swithstill working fourteen-hour days more often than not. Being out of my mother’s, and my four meddling aunts’, reach is just a bonus. A peaceful, gloriously quiet bonus.
I make it to the top of the stairs on the side of the building and kick the partially open door of my apartment, letting it swing wide before making my way inside.
“You’re still leaving your door open when you’re in the store? That is so unsafe, Tina. You need to make sure it catches before you walk away, you know.” Chloe follows me into the tiny apartment, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen while I set out each of my pots on a burner on the avocado green electric stove. “You can’t keep leaving it open to the world.”
“Here, pass me those.” I ignore Chloe’s speech and gesture for her to pass me the pots she carried, placing them on the remaining small burners.
“Don’t avoid the question. How can you leave your door wide open like that? Anyone could come in here when you’re at work.”
I scoff. “It’s Tuft Swallow. Who would come in? The worst thing that could happen is I’d find Winston in here eating the contents of my underwear drawer again. And I assure you, most of those underwear have seen better days. He’d be doing me a favor.” I have a solid collection of cotton granny panties, but they can probably use updating soon. Working as much as I do doesn’t leave a lot of time for shopping, though, so I make a mental note to order some panties online. Thank God for online shopping.
“How do goats even climb stairs?” Chloe chuckles before schooling her features. “No. Don’t distract me. You need to start closing your door. And locking it, preferably. Tuft Swallow is small, sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s completely safe. You need to be more careful.”
I wince at the note of concern in her voice. I suppose I’ve grown somewhat complacent since relocating to Tuft Swallow, but it’s not as bad as Chloe is making it sound. So I leave my apartment door slightly ajar occasionally. It’s not like it’s wide open. A person would have to come up the stairs to even be able to tell. But despite how confident I am about my safety, the last thing I want is for Chloe to worry.
“Okay, okay. You’re right,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll make more of an effort to remember.”
She squints at me, hands on her hips, as though she’s trying to parse the lie. Detecting none, she says, “Fine. I’ll be checking on that from time to time. Think of it like…a surprise inspection from the health inspector. Except I’m a safety inspector. Your safety, to be precise.”
I roll my eyes before turning to face her. “Yes. Fine. I will close my door from now on. Happy?”
“Immensely,” she says, a smug smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “And if you don’t do it, I’ll call your mother and have her drive down here from Boston to straighten you out.”
My eyes widen at the threat. “Don’t you dare, Chloe. You know what she’s like when she comes here. She’ll take over my kitchen and before I know it, we’ll be serving a full menu instead of just pizza, wings, and the occasional pasta special. Nobody wants that.”
Except... maybe the people of Tuft Swallow do want that? Maybe that’s why business has been so slow. Of course, it’s always possible that opening a big city style walk up pizza place in such a tiny town wasn’t a sound business decision. Maybe I really am in over my head.
You'll Poke An Eye Out
Nick
“No, no, no. Doit again. Tuck your arm in closer to your body and give me a nice underhanded lob. You’re holding your arm out too far to the side. You look like a kid skipping rocks on the pond for the first time.”
I take a deep breath, grip the bean bag, pull my arm back, and throw the damn thing the way my cornhole coach, Peter, is describing. At least, I attempt to throw it his way. As soon as it leaves my fingers, I can tell it won’t be landing anywhere near the cornhole board. Again.
“This is why I told you to cut back on the workouts, you lunkhead. It’s these things right here.” He pokes at thelatissimus dorsi muscle protruding from my torso under my arm. “This muscle is too damn big. You can’t even put your arms down. You’re like the little brother in that Christmas movie. You know, the one where the kid shoots his eye out?” Peter seems to take pleasure in berating me for my terrible cornhole skills. It reminds me of my childhood here in Tuft Swallow, before I left to become a professional MMA fighter.
Back then, the kids, and even some parents, couldn’t wrap their heads around my complete lack of skill with the sport, and they gave me such shit for it. Hell, it’s not like I can blame them. I couldn’t even wrap my own head around it. I was like a duck to water with any martial art, but put a bean bag in my hand and I was... well, I was more of an odd duck. And trust me, it came as no surprise to me when they started calling me Odd Duck instead of Nick. I wasn’t even bothered when the nickname stuck.
I kind of like ducks.
