Please Ignore Vera Dietz(45)
Author: A.S. King

During the early summer, I started work (day-shift pizza maker) at Pagoda Pizza at noon, while Charlie and Jenny were still asleep up in their tree house of lust, and I didn’t get home until six, when they were already down on Twenty-third Street doing God-knows-what. Dad finally gave me Mom’s old Nissan. He even put a decent stereo in it. (And even though I found it totally hypocritical that Mom had a PRACTICE RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS bumper sticker, I left it on to remind myself that I was not a low-road zero.)

My job at Pagoda Pizza was okay. It took me about three weeks to hate pizza.

One night after work, I drove over to Zimmerman’s to say hello to Mrs. Parker and Mr. Zimmerman, if he was there, but when I walked in the door, it was a sea of new faces. I finally found Mrs. Parker back by where they kept the large dog breeds.

“Vera!”

“Hey, Mrs. P.”

She told me she was sorry to hear I hadn’t gotten the job. “Things have changed a lot around here,” she said.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I was hoping to volunteer a few hours a week, but this new job is keeping me too busy.”

“They’re moving us soon anyway,” she said. “The new boss doesn’t think it’s a good idea to mix business with—you know—charity.”

“Huh. That’s sad. End of an era,” I said, scratching a black Lab mix under her chin until her paw started to move uncontrollably.

“We’re going back to the old facility in town. Probably at the end of the summer. September, I think.” While she said this, two girls grooming a dog behind the glass in the adoption area caught my eye. One of them looked like Jenny Flick. She was wearing a volunteer T-shirt and had her hair in a ponytail.

“Is that Jenny Flick?” I asked.

Mrs. Parker shrugged. “I can’t keep up with names. They send us new kids all the time. The community service program with the school is a mess,” she said. “They spend most of their time screwing around and think they can get credit for it. Such a waste.”

“Huh,” I said, spotting Jenny’s ample eyeliner as she turned around.

“It’s so different from how it used to work,” she said. “Half these kids don’t even like animals.”

Even though Zimmerman’s wasn’t my favorite place in the world anymore since I’d been denied my dream job, I was steaming mad about this. All of it. After so many years of Mr. Zimmerman’s support, the adoption center would move back into town, where fewer people would get a chance to adopt pets that needed good homes. The mere thought of apathetic high school kids taking advantage of Mrs. Parker made me cringe. But of course it was more personal than that, because Jenny was working there—in my store, for my old boss. The only place in Mount Pitts that hadn’t been touched by her was now hers. But while twelve-year-old Vera stormed around like a drama queen inside my head, saying things like “Charlie probably made her do it” or “I should tell Mrs. Parker she’s a drug fiend,” I tried to look at things like an adult (Dad) would. I rationalized and used my head. When I was done, I arrived at a solution.

I would ignore it. I would stop going to the Pagoda Mall. I would stop going to Zimmerman’s Pet Store. I would stop thinking about being a vet. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe it was cruel to keep birds in cages. Maybe cats weren’t meant to shit in a box. He always said human beings spent more money feeding their pets than they did feeding the world. He’d say children—some just miles away—were suffering from hunger and malnutrition while we spent our money on red-white-and-blue rubber bones, exercise balls, catnip mice, and hot rocks for iguanas who wouldn’t even be living in Pennsylvania if they had the choice.

A BRIEF WORD FROM THE PAGODA

It’s true. 47% of children in this town live below the poverty level. Many of them are hungry right now, while you’re reading this. Some of them would be happy to eat one tin of that dog food you slop out twice a day.

MONDAY—FOUR TO EIGHT

When I called Marie to tell her I was coming back to work part-time, she told me that James had agreed to move back to day shift so my dad wouldn’t freak. This, for a pizza delivery driver, is the ultimate sacrifice. He will lose approximately twenty dollars a day, probably forty on Fridays, which means James has made a $120-per-week effort to make my father (a man who would never give up $120 for anyone) more comfortable.

Going back to work without James there is weird. Marie found this middle-aged guy named Larry to work four-to-close on weeknights, and he’s okay, I guess. Lazy. Can’t mop the floor without leaving black, dirty streaks and puddles everywhere. Folds about two boxes a minute (so he doesn’t get paper cuts) and smells like garlic.

Ex-cheerleader-turned-food-service-worker Jill quit the job while I was out, which is a surprise. Marie says she’s chefing over at the local diner now, with the Greeks. I bet her skinhead Nazi boyfriend is thrilled about that.

Marie gives me nearly all suburban runs, since, while I was grounded, two pizza delivery drivers were robbed in town. Nobody from our place, but still, she’s looking out for me, and I’m glad. Anyway, garlic man Larry can handle the town runs. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You going anywhere near Fred’s Bar?” Larry asks, squatting a little to see all the pies and figure out what goes on whose pile.

“I hate that place.”

“Well, I’m going into the east side,” he says, with that look on his face that only the east side of town can give you.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll take it,” I say, although I know I shouldn’t be going to Fred’s Bar.

My farthest and final run is out to the government townhouses that they just built on Hammer Lane. Nice place—new, beige siding, nice landscaping with mulch. A great way to drag your family out of the stinking town and raise them up in the fresh air while maintaining an income from welfare and remaining unemployed. (You should hear what Dad says about places like this.)

I’ve only been here once before, so I’m unsure of the numbers. I slow down, find the even side of the street, and eventually find #224.

I am so not paying attention when the guy opens the door with his pants down that I hand him the four sodas before I see what’s going on. Then, instinct tells me to ignore him. Keep eye contact. Do not look down.

I hand him the pies. “That’s ten-oh-five, please.”

He stands there, pants around his ankles, two large pizzas balanced in his right hand and four Sprites in his left. He stares at me as if I’m supposed to do something.