(This excerpt from my published novel is censored for the internet)
He went to the kitchen, to the clock, and punched in. An hour after lunch rush was over, a mustached guy in a tan polo shirt sporting a Chicago Cubs 1989 Championship pin on it walked up to the counter. He was balding, which irritated Raven; hair was everything. He twisted some of his wire bracelets. “Hi, welcome to Boogers On Your Pizza. How can we help you?”
“Do you always greet your customers like that?”
Raven reached back and pulled on his long black ponytail. “Of course not. They might believe me. I only joke with the top managers because they always look so unhappy.”
“How did you know I was a manager? I’m supposed to be checking out the place, undercover.”
“Oooh. Then wear sunglasses.”
“I’m serious.”
Raven smirked. “But I see you here at meetings with middle management all the time! How drunk do you think I always am to not remember that?”
“Oh. I suppose.” Then the man sniffed. “Do you smell like beer?”
“Yep,” Raven admitted.
“You do smell like beer!”
Raven glanced back at the beer taps. “Sure. It’s all over me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m dripping in beer.”
“You’re fired.”
“No. You are. The keg exploded the sh## all over me. I’d never changed kegs before and it’d be nice to be shown how things work, but now it’s a little too late. Trial by fire. Or, I guess, trial by exploding projectile beer. Cool.”
“You hurt your arm? A burn?”
“A tattoo. So no, I’m not going to sue the place. Chill.”
Becky walked out front, prissily pushing a big aluminum cart with a box on it of new kale to freshen up the salad bar. “Oh hi old yuppie pizza guy.”
“I’m supposed to be undercover. And couldn’t you just carry that?”
“Yeah, right. And hurt myself for this pay? Still, you’ll notice how hard I’m working and tell the big white God.”
“I’ll take a slice of mushroom and sausage,” he ordered from Raven.
“Would you like a scale with that to see that we don’t overdo the meat?”
“No. I can just look at it and tell.”
“And lots of parmesan to soak up the grease? Grease isn’t good for you so you want to soak it up.”
“It’s not supposed to be greasy.”
“The sausage is. What do you expect? It’s sausage! Do you think we’re just going to hand it to you wrapped up in paper towels?”
“Sure.” He nodded. “I’ll have some parmesan.”
“And this isn’t raw dough under here; it’s real cooked. It’s a layer of cheese to keep the sauce from soaking down into the crust and making it soggy. But when it’s melty it looks like raw dough. It confuses the picky people who actually look at what they eat.”
“I know that. It’s our trademark.”
“I’m just pretending you’re undercover, if that’s what you want to be, and I’m telling you so you don’t act like a stupid customer and bring the slice back, whining, my pizza isn’t cooked all the way and I’m f###’n gonna be irritating about it!”
“They do that?”
“Some. For some reason.”
“And a Cherry Coke.”
“An old lady told me that Cherry Coke used to be better in the good ole days. What have you corporate people done to f### up the Cherry Coke?”
Here it is in paperback, and it already has a review:
Or read it in Kindle TODAY, NOW!
http://www.amazon.com/Punk-Minneapolis-ebook/dp/B004BLJAPA/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1290263216&sr=8-2
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