A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [119]
Gordon’s first want ad attempt had given him the confidence to try four more. The difficulty was explaining away the twenty-five-year gap without actually telling the truth. Petro, the Athens owner, asked only if he knew how to read and write, then hired him on the spot. The Athens Pizza and Sub shop was across the street from Paramount Shoe Manufacturing. Twice a day, at noon and then again with Paramount’s four-thirty shift change, the line stretched out the door. The pizza ovens were manned by Petro, a sweating, bald gentleman whose few English words and phrases shared a common modifier: “Fucking-hot, fucking-ready, fucking-get-out-of-my-way.”
Gordon’s job was making subs. Chad, a seventeen-year-old Cambodian American who was getting his GED at night, was head sub man. For three days the soft-spoken young man patiently trained, then quizzed Gordon in the various combinations. Each sub’s ingredients were listed on the huge sign behind the counter, so Gordon had only to look up if he forgot, but he was constantly on edge. Chad kept assuring him he was a great sub maker, but Gordon’s problem was his size. He was always in the way, particularly of Petro and his long-handled wooden paddle sliding pizzas in and out of the huge ovens. Gordon was getting faster on his feet, flattening himself against the wall beyond the reach of the turning paddle. The pay was better than the Market. He was working full eight-hour days and could eat as much as he wanted. On the fourth day he was cutting a meatball sub in half when Petro rushed toward the sink with his paddle afire. As Gordon leaned to get out of the way, the big knife sliced his palm. No amount of toweled ice would stop the bleeding. Chad wanted to drive him to the hospital, but he refused. Even Petro said he should fucking go and get stitches, but he couldn’t. Dennis’s warnings about not having insurance had come home to roost. One trip to the emergency room could end up costing hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dollars. Chad drove him home. All that night his hand throbbed with pain. The next day, he tried to work with a glove over the bandaged hand, but the bleeding would start with the slightest pressure, filling the rubber fingers with blood. Chad had to drive him home. The next day, Gordon folded a hand towel over the cut, this time binding it with duct tape. He forced on a glove and went to work. The same thing happened. Again, Chad drove him home, but right before Gordon got out of the car, he told him that Petro said not to come in tomorrow. He had hired someone else.
“I’m sorry. It’s not fair,” the young man said softly.
“No. Well, I know. It’s hard, but I understand. He’s got a business to run.”
“But it was his fault!” Chad said.
“What does that matter?”
“It matters a lot!”
“No, it doesn’t. Not really.”
“Well, it does. In this country it does,” he said with the passionate certainty of hard-earned patriotism.
Delores was horrified. She bound his hand so tightly with gauze and adhesive tape that his fingertips turned blue. “You need stitches.” She snipped away the tape and bandaged it again. “It won’t cost as much as you think. I’ll give you the money.”
“No!”
“All right, I’ll lend you the money.”
“I don’t have a job. As it is I’m a month behind on my bills.”
“Stop being so damn proud. If I needed money, I wouldn’t have any problem asking you.”
“The problem would be me not having any.”
“But if you had it, you would if I asked. Right?”
“Well, yes. If I had it. And you needed it,” he said uneasily, seeing the hurt flicker in her eyes, then vanish as quickly. She was as generous in forgiveness as in everything else. He envied her that, if for no other reason than the actual pain and sense of loss he felt when he had to