“Is he Italian or not? Simple, simple question girl!” Salvatore’s dad yells. He’s practically making out with my forehead he’s standing so close to me. He’s not even my boss but for some reason this man treats his son’s restaurant as his make believe castle where he’s king.

“Yes, I, um I think so. Well he looks…yes, yea he’s Italian,” I mutter as I look over at my first customer of the day. He sits alone in the corner side walk table. He smokes a cigarillo and takes off his slick black glasses to reveal the smallest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. There are molecules out there bigger than this man’s eyes. He holds up the latest copy of the “Oligi” and the mystery’s solved. Only a true Italian would read the newspaper which gives daily updates on the sacred homeland.

“Well then you have to redo this,” he shoves my newly made espresso in my hand spilling it all over my fingers. “Italians know the difference between instant espressos. Go, go next door and make fresh! Now!” His voice rising with each word. Someone needs to let this man know that feudalism is long gone. I walk away before he can finish the sentence

I can’t get mad yet, It’s too early. Just breathe and make more coffee. You’re alive, you’re healthy. Don’t freak out, he’s not worth it, none of them are worth it.

I rush next door to the attached restaurant owned by Salvatore’s cousinbrotherfriendI can’t keep track anymore. It’s a bit more upscale than Salvatore’s place, white table cloths instead of our classic plastic checkerboard table covers, but for some reason we’re always busier and sometimes use the sidewalk tables next door when we have an overflow of customers. We don’t try to pretend to be something we’re not. We are exactly what the people picture. We are the tiny pizza joint in Little Italy with the huge personality.

I remake the espresso in an instant with ease, and silently bless that summer spent as a barista with the drunken Scottish chef. I bring my caffeinated masterpiece over to Mr. Real Italian with his sugar, spoon, and napkin. Everything’s perfect. He smiles approvingly. Suddenly, a ping of joy comes over me and I feel proud to make this Italian immigrant with the tiny eyes happy. Salvatore’s dad mumbles something and walks down the street; finally I can breathe. I make my way toward the pizza oven and try to wipe some of the sweat beads off my forehead. It can’t be noon yet, but already the summer heat wave sets in and I look out at the sidewalk; it’s boiling. I rush over to the inside bar, my personal dugout, where I keep all my amenities to make life in the war zone tolerable. I’ve got my diet coke, cigarettes, cell phone, and my daily reminder that I’m actually living in NYC for the summer; the New York Post. It’s almost always opened to page six where I can get lost in the ridiculous tales of the city from the night before. I feel like Cinderella gazing through the pictures of the gaudy and fabulous galas where the gaudy and fabulous people congregate, but Cinderella never got this much attention, at least not until she had a makeover or even a shower.

I pick up the diet coke and rub the slushy can over my forehead. Sweat, water, dirt, it’s all over my face now, it’s all the same. Just as I’m reading about the huge cat fight that broke out between the two cokehead socialites at Bungalow 8 last night I feel a hand and then a whole arm wrap around my waste squeezing my hips. I don’t even have to turn around to see it’s him, I can smell him, smell his presence hovered over my body.

“Morning little girl…” he whispers pushing his tongue inside my ear.

“Get the fuck off me Luigie!” I scream. I can see Mr. Real Italian out of the corner of my eye take one last sip of his espresso and leave. I use the bar for support trying to push him off but his scrawny arms hug tighter and I’m trapped. He smells like raunchiness.

I try another approach. I relax and let him win. He loosens his grip.

“I’m a little girl? You’re the one that’s like fifteen Luigie!” I try to touch his face.

“Oh still trying to grow that beard…you’re so cute!” I laugh, he lets go. He’s pissed or trying really hard to be.

He mumbles something in Italian. He is the single reason I see Italian as a dirty, dirty language.

“What’s that Luigie?! You’re going to have to speak up. Remember you’re in A-M-E-R-I-C-A now!” I laugh, it feels good to be mean and I know exactly where it really hurts.

He looks down and walks away towards the kitchen. I’ve hit a soft spot and I feel bad. I follow him into the kitchen. I hate to admit how much I like him. How much potential he has to be liked.

“What’d you do last night?” I pry, trying to change the subject .

He approaches me quickly, practically lunging at me, and grabs my shoulders looking deep into my eyes. It’s scary to look this close into someone’s eyes but Luigie seems so comfortable. He’s the kind of attractive you can’t really figure out. The kind of attractive not on the billboard but on the real high-end runway shows. Take him out of his uniform of white cotton and pizza grease and he could turn some heads. Then his lack of English wouldn’t be a disability but a sexy mystery. He opens his mouth.

“I fucked you in your sleep, you don’t remember?”

How do these kind of men have mothers?

I knee him in the balls as hard as I can. So much for trying to see him as an ally in this place. He’s exactly like the rest of them.

He bends over grabbing his stomach and cursing to himself in Italian. I make my way back to the bar.

“Lesbian,” he mumbles. I pretend not hear.

I browse through page six and am about to find the horoscopes section when I hear Luigie from the oven belting out that cliché Italian song used in all of the Prego commercials. This act can only mean one thing: tourists approaching. I look down at the sidewalk tables to see an older couple gazing romantically at our cute little restaurant with the cute Italian pizza boy. They’re in.

“How are we doing today?” I belt approaching the tables, menus in hand.

“We can sit..?”

“Anywhere!” I sweetly interrupt. The couple picks the middle table with the shaky leg. They take off their cameras and put their khaki hats and water bottles on the table. Arizona? No, they’re mid-westerners for sure.

“Can I get ya’ll something to drink?” The ya’ll usually gives away that I’m not authentically Italian but it’s endearing just the same.

“I’ll have a lime Pellegrino.” The woman points to the menu like she never knew this kind of water existed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry we just ran out of that. But we have a wide selection…”

“Yes! Lime Pellegrino. Right away!” Salvatore suddenly appears behind me. He grabs my writing pad and pen and bumps right in front of me. The boss is here.

“We have a special today just for you, two pizzas and a glass of wine…” his voice fades into the background as I quickly run back into the kitchen. I hate being snubbed and I’m certainly not going to wait around the table to watch him snub me more.

I stand by the pizza oven fighting for fan space with Luigie. The sticky air mixes with the brick oven pizza fumes and I have to hold on to the counter to keep from self-combusting. After a few minutes with the mid-westerners, Salvatore races into the kitchen. Short, stocky, sleazy: he’s everything an overbearing Italian boss should be.

He throws the order at me shouting, really shouting, “How many times I tell you, we ALWAYS have everything! We don’t have? We run to store, we get! Mamma Mia! Stupid girl!”

“I know but…sorry” is all I can muster.

He puts his arm around my shoulder in the older brother after-school-special type of way.

“It’s fine. You know how to do…you are the best girl!” the lion has a heart, or at least pulse. He gives me the mid-westerners order and points to the kitchen. I run.

The kitchen smells worse than the sewers outside. Meat, hot meat, sits everywhere. I look at the order written in Salvatore’s chicken scratch:

TWO HOUSE SALAD -1 NO Tom.

I grab one of the Mexican cooks and point to the order. He shakes his head.

“Two salads, NOOOO tomatoes on one,” I say loudly and repeat a couple times. Hand motions, body language—I try everything to get him to understand. He’s still lost. I roll my eyes at him even though it’s not his fault.

“Luigie!” I call from the kitchen “How do you say NO TOMATOES in Spanish?”

Luigie storms in the kitchen and hands me a basket of bread “You take this to the customers!” He grabs the salad order out of my hand and starts yelling at the Mexican cook. I feel bad for the Mexican cooks. They do the most work and get the least. Hidden in the back like slaves. I feel bad. But in this place it’s everyman for himself, and I’ve got to feel bad for myself more.

I bring the bread to the two mid-westerners and try my best to manage a smile.

“So it’s just you and all these guys?” the man asks.

“Yea, but don’t worry I can handle them,” I say. Everyday a customer asks me this question and every day I give the same answer.

I can hear my phone ringing from the back and run into the bar to see that it’s of course my mother calling. I breathe and answer, I can’t press ignore on her for the 2^nd day in a row.

“Honey! Hi! How are you? Haven’t talked to you in a while? How are things? Are you working?” Welcome to the realm of a million questions.

“Hey mamma,” I half whisper, “Yea I’m at work. What’s up?”

“Oh sorry babe, just checking in. How’s everything going? How’s the weather? It’s hotter than hell in Atlanta.”

“Yea, its fucking miserable here too. I feel like the sidewalks are about to catch fire.” I bend down behind the bar so Salvatore can’t see me chatting.

“What about the sidewalks? What fire?” she anxiously replies. Too anxious to handle hyperboles right now.

I look up to see Mauricio standing on the other side of the bar. Holding his hand up mimicking me on my cell phone. He doesn’t speak a word of English but that doesn’t stop him from making fun of me whenever he gets the chance.

I punch him in the arm, lightly. He’s wearing an Italian soccer jersey and his hair hangs down below his ears. It seems he took my advice from the day before when I pointed to his hair gel and screamed “No!”

“Sorry mamma, customers are waiting I gotta go, call-you-tomorrow-love you miss you-love you soooo much! BYE!”

I’ll call her back on my way home from work so that I don’t have to walk home alone.

I offer Mauricio some of my diet coke and he makes a disgusted look on his face and pats his belly, his skinny belly, which doesn’t need anything diet. He grabs for my cell phone and I fight him for it. Just as I’m about to let him win I hear Salvatore whine from the kitchen, “Hello! Hello! Where are you girl!?”

I look out at the sidewalk tables and see mid-size family with matching American flag t-shirts standing in front of the restaurant contemplating their move. I race out to them menu’s in hand.

“Hey guys! Please take a look at our menu! We’ve got a couple lunch specials.” I practically throw the menus in their hands. They look over the selection smile, returning the menus and slowly make their way to the next sidewalk restaurant.

Salvatore runs up behind me. Here it comes.

“Why?! Why they not eating here?! What do you say to them?!”

“Nothing Salvatore! I showed them the menus and they didn’t want to eat here!”

He rolls his eyes shouting louder, “Mamma Mia!”

I snap. “What the fuck Salvatore I can’t force people to eat here!” I’m screaming now. I swear he’s about to throw a punch when the cops pull up on their motorcycles. Here we go, time to wine and dine the pigs. Salvatore leaves me to greet the same four NYC police officers who dine with us more frequently than I can remember. Everything is made for them, nothing is ever charged. I never thought my life would involve such movie-worthy moments.

The cops sit at the bar and Salvatore sits with them. Beer, Pellegrino, I pour them everything and try to ignore their stares. Salvatore whispers something to the black one and then looks over at me like he’s about to take a bite out of my neck.

“Jesssssssssssie!” It’s Luigie.

I run over to the pizza oven, half relieved to get away from the scene. He hands me the restaurant phone. “I don’t know. I can’t know what they say. You talk.”

I grab the phone. “Hello? Number 28 Restaurant and Bar how may I help you?”

“Hi, yes I’m calling from Bellevue Electric. We have a problem with the bill from last month it seems-” The phone is muffled and I can barley hear the voice over the laughs of Salvatore and his guests.

“I’m sorry, can you hold on?” This is not a part of my job description. I walk over to Salvatore and try to hand him the phone.

“What?” He can be so mean.

“It’s bill people. I don’t know. You talk to them”

“No, you say I’m not here. I call later”

I roll my eyes and take a message. Poor electric company. They’ll never see that money.

Mauricio’s sitting at the corner table rolling silverware. I walk over and sit beside him helping him fold the napkins just right. He lights a cigarette and we share it as we roll. It feels good for once to not speak.

Three boys approach us. They look like they’re from Switzerland or Germany or anywhere else but here.

“May we sit outside?” one of them kindly asks.

“Of course,” I smile. My customers remind me that there are kind rational people in this world who don’t spend their whole lives yelling.

I place menus in front of them.

“Three beers,” the really blonde one says.

“Okay, we have…” I say trying to list all of our beers.

“We don’t care miss, just whatever three beers you have,” the medium blonde one says, laughing.

“Okay, you boys really know what you want from life, huh?” I sweetly say. We all giggle.

“Any food for you boys?”

“Yes, what is the difference between black olives and green olives?”

“Um, well not much but in my humble opinion black olives go much better with pizza.” They take my suggestion and order a large pizza with black olives. I walk back to the oven and Luigie, who’s been staring at me with the three boys.

“Here you go!” I try to fight his resentment with happiness.

“Slut,” he mutters as he grabs the pizza order.

Salvatore’s on the sidewalk bear hugging his cop’s goodbye. As soon as the cops speed away he runs back to the kitchen talking softly on his cell phone. I walk back to Mauricio and split another cigarette. Moments later two hip Indian looking girls arrive at the left corner table and sit, cigarettes in hand. They look ready for a drink. Salvatore appears from the kitchen open arms greeting the two beauties. He holds one closer to him and kisses her gently on the neck. It’s true what they say about Italian men. It’s all true. He motions for me. I’m there.

“What do you babies want? Anything you want” He can be nice when he wants to be.

“I’ll have the chardonnay,” girl number one says.

“I’ll have the pinot…how are you doing today sweetie?” girl number two asks me sincerely.

“Oh I’m good, tired. I’ve been…” I’m interrupted once again.

“What? What is this? Drinks, orders, you go!” Salvatore shouts.

I run back to the kitchen and open the fridge to get the huge jug of Carlo Rossi we keep in the back. We use it for every single $9 glass of wine we sell. I hate being so deceitful but no one has caught on yet.

I bring the girls their wine and Salvatore grabs my arm. I freeze.

“Where’s my glass?” he says and gives me a fake puppy dog face that’s truly nauseating.

“I wouldn’t give you water if you were dying of thirst,” I shout as I take back my arm.

The girls break into laughter and follow it up with a couple ‘oh she got you!’s.

He smiles and grabs my face.

“Look at this face. Do you see the way she talks to me?” He motions to his two girlfriends. “She’s the best, this one!”

Luigie calls for me and I run back into the kitchen. He’s rolling dough and motions to the ringing phone. I pick up.

“Hello! Number 28…can I help you?”

“What? Hello?” The line is so muffled. She continues, confused, “Who the hell is this? Where’s Salvatore?”

“Oh, yes hold on one sec. Who’s calling please?”

“His wife!” My stomach drops as I realize the voice on the other end is the most unfortunate wife in the world.

I glance over at Salvatore working the girls.

“Um yes, so sorry he’s not here. Can I take a message?”

Click. She’s gone.

I hang up the phone and look over at the boys. Shit! I forgot their beers. I rush to the bar and try to work the keg, which is always tapped. All I get is foam.

“Salvatore! Luigie! Mauricio!” I scream, but no one wants to hear me. I work the keg as best I can and bring out three glasses of foam to the boys. Maybe they won’t notice.

They laugh when I put the drinks in front of them.

“Sorry,” I say. Salvatore rushes behind me.

“New beers right away boys…sorry she a little stupid.” He grabs the glasses and rushes inside. I follow him to the bar.

“Why? Why you do this?” he says.

“I tried calling you but you wouldn’t answer. I don’t know how to change the keg.” I don’t know why I even bother trying to defend myself.

He changes the keg and walks back to his girlfriends.

“Order up girl!” Luigie shouts from the kitchen. I grab the large pizza and bring it out to the boys.

“Um, I think these are green olives,” the really blonde guy says as I’m about to walk away.

“Oh shit. Sorry He must’ve…”

“What’s wrong here?” Salvatore’s back and he’s pissed.

“Luigie put green olives instead of black.”

“You told him green?”

“No. I wrote black but I think he misread…”

“You tell him! You have to tell him! You know this is so….Mamma Mia! Not hard girl, this is not hard! Why you always make hard?” He’s really screaming now and all the sidewalk traffic stops and stares.

“I just…” I try to speak.

“No! You go, I’ll do. You can’t do anything!” He turns towards the boys. “Sorry. Free pizza for you.” He grabs the pizza and storms back to the kitchen.

I rush back inside. Everything’s getting blurry. I can’t run to the bathroom fast enough. I see Mauricio from the corner of my eye. I think he tries to stop me but I can’t even look at him.

The tears fall out like faucet water the second I close the door to the unisex bathroom. It’s so small and I’m forced to look at myself in the mirror. Look at myself balling and wailing out of control. I rush water over myself and try to stop crying and start breathing. I pat my face off with a paper towel, blow my nose as hard as I can, and take a deep breath. It’s time to get ready for the night shift.