by Graziella DiNuzzo

I was on my way to the Bronx for a surprise visit to see mamma and papa. If I let them know in advance, mamma would have yelled at me and make me swear on my children’s lives that I wouldn’t come. The weather is too cold, or hot, there is too much crime happening in the neighborhood, the traffic is going to be bad, you should stay home and do your laundry –  just some of the usual reasons.

So, I learned long ago to wait to call mamma when I got to the George Washington Bridge. No doubt, at 88 and 89 years young they would be home.

I hung up with mamma, who yelled at me for not telling her, etc. She told me she had minestrone soup cooking, but would have made my favorite eggplant, yadda, yadda. Why didn’t I tell her? You always do this!  What if we weren’t home?

Mamma was right about the traffic on the bridge. Truth be told, she’s right about a lot of things.

As I inched my way across the bridge, I thought it would be nice to bring them a pizza. I ask my phone for pizza shops on Allerton Avenue and I call the first name that pops up. Yes, I know I should not have been on my phone but with the usual traffic I could have written an essay and vacuumed the back seat of my car. Nope I wasn’t driving.

“A large pie with broccoli and mushrooms, “ I tell the guy who answered the phone. “Okay, fifteen minutes,” he says in his abrupt Bronx tone.

I go back to the music and my gorgeous view of Manhattan and the World Trade Center Freedom Tower. As always, I think of the day when I crossed the bridge after 9/11 and the towers were gone – it’s still so surreal.

Hitting the first pothole on the Cross Bronx Expressway wakes me from my bittersweet ride down memory lane. I love New York.

These days, Allerton Avenue has parking kiosks – and as many parking spots as a Manhattan street – hardly any. C’mon New York, I’m just picking up pizza – shouldn’t there be a space for that? I circle the avenue a few times and find a spot four blocks away.

I walk into the shop and tell the tall man, “I’m here to pick up a large pie, broccoli and…” Before I can say “mushrooms, “ he looks straight into my eyes and violently lifts his arms up and down into the air and back down to his side and back up again, and down again. He starts shaking his head and walks back and forth in front of the large pizza box sitting patiently on top of the oven.

“YOU CALL ME TO MAKE THE PIZZA AND I MAKE THE PIZZA AND I WAIT AND I WAIT AND I SAY I MAKE THE BEAUTIFUL PIZZA AND YOU NOT HERE AND LOOK!” he yells while opening the pizza box in total disgust.

From my vantage point at the counter, the pizza looked good to me and quite delish.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I say softly, I was in traffic on the George Washington Bridge and didn’t realize…”

He interrupts with more yelling, “I MAKE THE PIZZA AND PUT THE BROCCOLI…”

A young Mexican man sticks his head out over the swinging kitchen doors.

“HER!” The tall, angry pizza man yells at him while pointing at me.

“Oh, she the one,”  the Mexican young man says, “oh, oh, “

I was happy to be the only person in the shop.

I try to apologize again in a damsel in distress tone,  “I really had no idea it would take so long…”

I try again,  “you know I am from this neighborhood and I can’t come home without picking up the best pizza…”

The tall angry pizza man has his back to me and the young Mexican man is just watching my mouth move – still perched over the kitchen doors.

“How much is it?” I ask nervously thinking this is getting deep.

“I DON’T KNOW!” Tall angry pizza man yells while looking down at my pizza.

My pizza. I just want my pizza.

“HOW MUCH?” the tall angry pizza man barks at the young Mexican’s face, which remains perched over the doors.

“$18,” the young Mexican man says.

The tall angry pizza man walks towards my pizza box and slams the lid of the big brown box.

There is silence. I really wanted to laugh, but no one else would.

Okay, what to do now? I just need to get the pizza and get out. I put 20 minutes on the meter, but I hate to leave him in such a bad mood. The pizza meant so much to him. I mean, he made it with so much pride about 30 minutes or so ago and I let it sit there. Poor pizza, poor pizza guy, bad me, bad bridge.

“Hey, don’t worry,” I say to the back of tall angry pizza man’s  head. “I was planning on heating it up later anyway.” I should really just shut up.

But nah, I go in again and keep talking pretending to myself that he didn’t hear me, “hey, don’t worry, I was planning on heating it up later anyway.”

I want to please him. He stares past me, fixated on the the door and hands me the box.

Then he hands me change from $20. I didn’t want the change but that may be insulting. Two dollars doesn’t the cover the cost of what I have done to him. I didn’t want to leave him like that. He looked so hurt.

“Thank you…I’m so sorry, “ I say as I take the big brown box. It really was a really, really big box.  I feel self-conscious and awkward.

They are staring at me as I carry the cold pizza towards the door like a dead animal on its way to a burial.

I turn around and feeling quite pathetic say,  “Hey, thank you again.”

They just stare at me in disgust. I push open the door and walk into the blinding Allerton Avenue sun.

When mamma answers her door, I hand her the box and she almost drops it while yelling at me in Sicilian. “Why, why, why, did you do this? I made minestrone…and your father gets constipated eating pizza…blah, blah, blah.”

I walk quickly behind mamma as she struggles to find space on the table for the box. Dad shuffles in from the other room and starts yelling at me – yeah about the pizza.

I sit down and inhale a cold slice. Yummy! When I see my sister later that day, we both wondered if I should call tall angry pizza man to see if he was okay.

About two weeks later, my sister decides to walk into the same shop and order a pie. We’re weird like that.

She says to the tall pizza guy, “my sister ordered a pie a few weeks ago and she said it was so good.”

“YOUR SISTER! “ he shouts.

‘THAT WAS YOUR SISTER! THE GIRL FROM THE BRIDGE!”

This is New York. Now how many customers come and go on any given day from a busy corner pizza shop? Really, really?

Maria starts to laugh and texts me that she’s at the pizza shop and the guy remembers me. I spit out my coffee and laugh out loud.

What!

So yesterday, as I was on my way to another surprise visit to mamma and while sitting in traffic on the George Washington Bridge, I think it would be nice to have a slice.

But this time I know better! I will call when I get a few blocks away from the shop.

I will be early! I will not be late! I will pick up a piping hot work of art and everyone will be happy with me. Mamma and papa did end up eating a slice last time.   And just to be sure he doesn’t remember me I will order something different and keep my dark glasses on.

“A large plain pie,” I say to the man’s whose voice I know. The man I hurt.

“Okay, fifteen minutes,” he says. Fifteen minutes is the magical pickup time for all pizza orders for as long as I can remember.

I walk into the shop with a big smile on my face.

“I ordered a large plain pie,” I say with confidence.

“Yeah, it’s in the oven… a few more minutes,” he says eyeing the oven.

“No problem, I don’t mind waiting,” I say. That’s nice. He sounds like he’s in a good mood, I think to myself.

I am happy. Life is good. Maybe this time mamma will even let me leave the leftover pizza with her instead of forcing me to bring it back home.

The tall pizza guy gently takes the pizza out of the oven and slides it into the very big brown box. He brings the pizza  to the counter and says,

“You’re the girl, the girl from the bridge.”