When Leigh says he used to train aikido at the same dojo as Steven Seagal, Kurt shakes his head and, without looking up from the pizza dough he’s kneading into the counter, tells Leigh to get back to work. Leigh is bald on top, the hair from his horseshoe pulled into a thin salt-and-pepper ponytail that always looks wet. Yet he still opted for the Papa Johns visor over a full-coverage hat when we were presented the two options at the hiring fair last month by the corporate trainer who said, Welcome to your new family, as he handed over our uniforms. I swear on my black belt, Leigh says, his eyes big and serious, Seagal and I go way back. Leigh flips his ponytail nonchalantly to the side. Kurt grimaces, keeps pounding the dough with hammerfists. Kurt has tattoos on his fingers that look like they were done in pencil. You don’t have a black belt to swear on, Kurt says. And then, as if he’d been anticipating this response all along, Leigh counters Kurt’s jab by lifting the tail of his red collared shirt to reveal a black leather belt looped into his khakis that looks a lot like the ones I bought at Ross last year to match my shoes for Uncle Gary’s second wedding (third marriage). Leigh’s cackle quickly devolves into a cough which becomes full-on gagging. A few more heaves. He gathers himself and doubles down: But seriously, I earned a 3rd-dan black belt in aikido. Same dojo as Seagal. Kurt mashes his teeth and smears tomato sauce onto the dough and passes it to Leigh to sprinkle with mozzarella. I think about saying something clever like, Maybe we should call you Bruce Leigh!, but instead I do what I always do: I shut the fuck up and fold cardboard pizza boxes until it’s time to deliver the pie. I haven’t been a person who says funny things in a while, specifically since Uncle Gary’s second wedding, and Kurt scares the shit out of me, and I have reason to believe he is more dangerous than Leigh, who may or (probably) may not have studied self defense with a guy who, when I Google him on the way to my car, I mistake for the bad dad in Kindergarten Cop?
I slide two double sausages, an order of garlic knots, and a two-liter Coca Cola in the backseat. The Papa Johns magnet makes a kiss-smack as it secures to the roof of my mom’s Kia Rio. Something about working at Papa Johns has made me acutely aware that life is short, so I text Becky, I miss u. Dots flash, then disappear. Maybe she has a good reason to ignore me. Maybe she’s at the movies or saying goodbye to a friend who’s about to die or something, or maybe she’s giving my cousin Bill another over-the-pants handjob like she did at my Uncle Gary’s second wedding last year when she was supposed to be my plus-one. And I know we weren’t dating dating, but she didn’t have to say yes when I invited her, and she definitely didn’t have to give Bill an over-the-pantser. And what was Bill thinking? Yeah, it was his dad’s wedding, but that doesn’t give you the right to come in your tuxedo pants behind the big fern with anyone you choose. I think about Bill the asshole and Becky the backstabber and Gary the now-thrice divorced uncle until I deliver pizza and garlic knots and Coca Cola to a guy who looks back over his shoulder to make sure no one in his family is watching as he tips me less than the gas it cost to get to his house, for which I thank him. The whole drive back I wonder why it’s only pizza delivery drivers and cops who have to identify themselves with accessories on the top of their cars. I’m back in the parking lot of Papa Johns before I think of a good answer.
It’s dough-fight time, motherfucker!, Kurt screams as I reenter Papa Johns. I flinch, full-on duck actually, which would be super embarrassing if anyone saw. But because they’re all looking at Kurt who is squared up to Leigh, whose bewildered face looks like he just found out unfortunate news on a DNA test. Kurt is holding a stretched-out wad of dough shaped like a seabass. Leigh has his palms facing Kurt in the universal Woah, dude pose, and Kurt’s eyes look insane. And if I were a betting man I’d wager Kurt decided to snort some of that coke I accidentally caught him selling in the alley behind Papa John’s last week when I was taking out the trash, when Kurt glared at me with the same deranged eyes he’s wearing now and reminded me he was my boss, and that Papa Johns is a really great place to work for people who mind their own business and don’t try to be heroes. And I told him that no one has ever mistaken me for a hero, and he said, Let’s keep it that way. And gone is Leigh’s wacky smirk and aikido bravado. Gone is the swagger of a man who used to spar with Steven Seagal as equals. Settle down, Leigh says, we’re at work. And this makes Kurt look even more nuts. And now his face is red and the vein in his neck is a garter snake slithering in the soil. And Kurt yells that Leigh better pick up a pizza dough or else. And Leigh refuses. And this makes Kurt even angrier. And Leigh tells Kurt to calm down, but that makes Kurt beyond pissed, and now Kurt is drawing back the dough shaped like a sea bass as if he’s about fish slap Leigh, and now Leigh is ducking to the ground like he’s mid-earthquake drill, and now Kurt is wailing on Leigh, dough slapping the shit out of him, in the back of his head and neck and hands as hard as he can, yelling, Admit you’re a liar, over and over again. And the dough falls apart and Kurt keeps slapping Leigh with an open palm. Admit you don’t know Seagal, he says, again and again, until Shelly leaves the cash register for what I believe is the first time since I started working here, pokes Kurt real hard in the ribs with her cane, and says, I don’t care if you’re the manager, you cannot beat us with dough. And everything goes quiet, and everyone looks around for signs that maybe this is just a dream. Kurt scans the kitchen, each of his employees, and then Leigh, still huddled on the ground. Kurt says, I just don’t think it’s cool to lie, and I nod because I’m not sure what else to do. And Kurt says, We tell the truth at Papa Johns. That’s our policy.
Neither Leigh nor I say a word about the dough fight as we wipe down the foggy steel counters and shut down the pizza oven. No mention of the dough fight as we take inventory of the mozzarella and cash. Leigh stamps his timecard first, then I stamp mine. And I follow him out to the parking lot like I always do where he normally crosses the street to catch the bus by the CVS, but this time I say, Let me drive you home, and Leigh says, It’s OK, but then I insist. Just this once, Leigh says, stepping into shotgun.
I’m not sure what to say to someone who just got his ass whooped with a pizza dough, so I don’t say anything. Leigh traces stick figures in the dust on my dashboard — it kinda looks like two guys sparring. Or maybe hugging? Not sure. And I tell Leigh that it wasn’t fair what Kurt did, that Kurt exploited his managerial power in a way that wasn’t cool or right, and I think about telling Leigh that I believe him. His whole Seagal spiel. But I don’t say it. Because I’m not sure what I believe anymore. And I don’t know why, but I tell Leigh everything. About Becky. About my cousin Bill. About the rubdown at Uncle Gary’s wedding. Maybe I just want him to know he’s not the only one who’s been humiliated. And Leigh’s eyes flash lightning, and he says, What are you going to do about it? And he tells me that if I keep letting the world get jerked off at my expense, I will forever remain a spectator in my own life. You have to fight sometimes, Leigh says. Sometimes you have to be the hammer.
Why my circumstance is apparently so different from Leigh’s with Kurt is unclear to me, but Leigh keeps the pep talk going while I make a U-turn and head north on I-17 and then exit on Cactus. And when I eventually pull into cousin Bill’s driveway, Leigh is still going on about honor and courage and bravery. I text Becky, I don’t want you to give me another chance. I want to earn it. And by the time I look up from my phone, Leigh is halfway up the driveway. He knocks on Bill’s door. Leigh backs up into the grass and gets into a wide-based stance. He swipes at the grass as if he is drawing a line for Bill to try to cross. Are you sure about this? I ask, and Leigh tells me that the time for uncertainty is behind us. I get a message from Becky that says, Got a new phone. Who is this? And I think about how everything is lining up the way it’s supposed to. This has to be a metaphor or whatever it’s called, the chance to be a new person in Becky’s eyes. A fresh start. And Leigh is punching and kicking, still in his stance, as if running through a dress rehearsal before the main show. Leigh is as powerful and weightless as poetry. It’s really quite beautiful. And I believe him. I really do. And when a man answers the door and that man is not Bill, I remember that my mom told me that Bill moved to Casa Grande for a door-to-door sales job a few months back, and Leigh is staring bullets at this poor guy who has to be terribly confused. I turn to Leigh and say, This is wrong. And he tells me it’s too late for cold feet. No, you don’t understand, I say. This isn’t who you think it is. He’s not my cousin. He’s not the problem. Leigh looks at me like, Nice try, pal. And I realize we’re both still wearing Papa Johns shirts. Our name tags too. And it’s all happening so fast. And so I scream at the top of my lungs until Leigh breaks from his aikido stance. He’s not my cousin, I say. I made a mistake. Leigh suddenly softens. He places his palms together, close to his heart, and bows. OK, the man says. Then Leigh puts his hands in his pockets as if holstering weapons and walks himself home.
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Andrew Maynard is a writer and teacher based in San Francisco. His essays have appeared in HAD, Bending Genres, DIAGRAM, True Story, and elsewhere.
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image: MM Kaufman
Rejection Letters 