Douglas

The sound of whirring machinery filled the basement, every flour-dusted surface practically vibrating with the combined effort of 8 mixers.

Doug was used to it, though. The sound had long since faded into the background. It was silence that he now found irritating. Without that constant distraction, all he could hear was the clangorous beating of his misshapen heart.

He made dough every evening, for hours on end, filling dozens of pans with pizza crusts and then leaving them overnight to rise in the cool basement. He begrudgingly used a flight of buzzing old refrigerators for this final step. If he had his way, he’d just leave them on the counter or stacked on the cement floor. The food-safe labels were overcautious, and it cost him a fortune in electricity.

Still, it was all worth it. In the end, this was just a proof of concept. With a partner, and the financial backing she could bring, this would scale up, and he’d be living it large in Elizebeth’s Haven, or even Seattle.

Doug smiled to himself as he pulled a ball of dough from a mixer and smacked it down on the floured counter.

Using a rounded cutter, he sectioned it off into four equal parts and then rolled each of those up into a ball again.

Next, he lightly covered one of the pans with olive oil. It was the cheap stuff; he wasn’t buying top-shelf oil for lubricant. He’d still be using canola if it wasn’t for those tools in Hermit’s Rest.

Those fucking hipsters.

He thought about that every time he oiled a pan. Every single time he lifted the bottle he considered the extra pennies each pan cost him. He’d picture their smug faces.

Then he’d imagine holding them down.

Slapping each ball of dough down into a pan, he used his thumbs to stretch and press it into the edges. He had to use a thick, heavy dough for this; otherwise, it would all pull back to the center and leave the pizza uneven.

Hold them down. Make them drink that fucking oil.

Doug tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead, absentmindedly forgetting the state of his hands. As he smeared oil and flour across his brow, he erupted with anger.

Grabbing the pan, he threw it like a discus into the brick wall to his side. It landed with a clank on the floor.

Pounding, his heart thudded its irregular rhythm in his chest.

From the fridge he pulled out a bottle of cheap local beer, “Seadog’s Own”, and brought it back to his counter. Cracking the cap off the surface, he used the beer to wash down his blood pressure med.

He thought it was just a headache coming on, but really, he’d forgotten his pills.

This was becoming a common occurrence. Remembering that shouldn’t be on him. Most men his age had a wife keeping track of all that. Surely he deserved the same.

He had to keep working; he had to keep his eye on the prize.

Nothing could go to waste.

Doug crossed the basement and picked up the pan. The dough had fallen out onto the cement floor, but overall, it didn’t look bad.

Taking the whole thing over to the counter, he pressed the crust back into place, picking out the bits of debris he could see and give it an additional dusting of flour to revive the color.

What is a bit of dust if not extra protein?

Once he added it to the stack, it was as if nothing happened. He could move on and get the rest done.

He had 75 to make tonight. Someday, that number might triple; maybe he’d be making ten times that many. Next year, he could be a millionaire!

If he could show her how capable he is, he’d be supplying crusts to the other Pizza Shacks on the island in no time.

Unless that pig Brad, convinces Mrs. Cruz to fire you.

He slammed his beer down on the hard work surface, causing it to foam up and into the flour.

Brad was the big hurdle to overcome. If he could get past him, everything he’d ever dreamed of would come true.

But that was the rub.

He reached the back wall and placed a finger on the picture he looked at every day while he worked.

He has her ear.

More dough into more shells. More shells into the car and more pizzas sold.

How could do this over and over again change anything?

Just do your job.

That was the key. He had to keep his head down and let the universe work. It wanted what he wanted. He knew it, because past the awkward beating of his heart, he could hear it now.

His chest felt tight…it was time to switch gloves.

He pulled the latex gloves off his hands and tossed them into the trash. They were full of blood.

When his heart was pounding, the bleeding increased. He had to calm down and let things happen.

He slapped some flour against the open wounds and put on a fresh pair of gloves.

He had a lot more to do tonight. He couldn’t slow down.

It’s all for her.

He looked to the picture again, maybe for the thousandth time that night.

It was the Christmas party from 3 years back. She’d invited him herself and even stood next to him in the picture…

Blown up like that, it wasn’t just a team photo.

It was just them.

Someday, it will just be the two of you.