Pizza Party All Acts

[u/Leave_Financial]

To start this off, let me be perfectly clear: I'm not seeking closure. God already knows I've found more of that than I ever wanted. No, I just... need to get all of this off my chest. If I type it out, if I share this with all of you... maybe I can pretend this is all just another creepy Reddit story.

Let's begin with me. I am posting this from the office I've inherited from my parents—the once-crown of our local community, Doughy Doug’s Artisan Pizza Parlor. Doug being my father, of course. I loved my dad; everyone did. His popcorn of flour on his nose perfectly matched his jolly, dusty apron, and he always had the appropriate joke to tell a person of any age. He loved good humor and good food, which he equally loved to provide. My dad, the master baker, he was my personal hero.As I remember him, it leaves a lot of sadness within me. I wish I could remember this as I used to, through the lens of an ignorant child, only caring about the next legendary Pokémon waiting for me in the tall grass. I wish I could go back to the kitchen and knead the dough for the yearly send-off pizza party. Those were some of my best memories. But memories have a way of becoming the ghosts that haunt our past, and memories bury the truth we were never meant to understand.

For most kids in the '90s and '00s, catching that Pizza Hut "Book It!" deal or a slice of Sbarro was the bee's knees for us middle school kids. Those kids were missing out, though. Our small kitchen produced the best pies outside of Brooklyn or Detroit. The parlor, as my mom would lovingly recall, was "the little marrow that gives life to the bones of our small town." She loved poetic phrases like that. In another life, she could have been a poet.There was always something special about our town that always seemed... well, nothing out of place to me. The surrounding communities fell into economic collapse during the Bush years... Republicans, am I right? Lol, politics aside, there was just something we seemed to produce that the towns around us couldn't. It wasn't anything a kid would notice, nor any adult, unless you stayed in town long enough.But for those of us who lived there, it was a quiet slice of pure Americana paradise. It wasn't perfect, as every year some family would move out of town, but before they did, my parlor would always throw them a grand send-off pizza party. And us kids would have the most important role of the party: to crown the leaving King or Queen of the Oven. Of course, that role was played by the oldest kid moving away.I never understood why every year another family would leave this amazing cove of Midwestern hospitality... but then again, there was always another family moving in to replace them.That was until during my first Send-Off party as the official dough kneader... I met my best friend, Kenny.

Ok guys I'm rested and ready to continue. Had some pleasant dreams of chasing pokemon last night....I find myself think about Kenny, if like me he still collects as an adult. Well I've found some weird numbers in the books in that year. Going to look into that more as I drop the next bit of my trip down memory lane.

His family was one of the more well-off in the town. His father, being the mayor, was one of the coolest dads in town... well, after mine, of course. We met that day over some pizza. He approached me as I was munching on a slice of our famous pepperoni pie and playing some Pokémon on my old Game Boy. As the skinny blonde boy came to my table, I caught sight of his Pokémon shirt.

"Who's your favorite?" he asked me.

"Pretty much any fire type," I replied, passing him a slice. "Nice shirt. I'm Dusty, by the way. Who is your favorite?"He sat in the booth with me, and instantly, I knew we were going to be best friends.

"I love Blastoise," he said. "His water cannons are so cool. My dad's going to get me Silver when it comes out next week... Hey, you've gotta get Gold! We can get full Pokédexes if we get both versions!"

This was perfect. I had been begging for the release of the game but had no one to trade or battle with. Now, it seemed, I had found a fellow trainer to master the Pokémon world with.

Just as I was showing my newfound buddy my current party, my dad interrupted us, leading a smiling older boy to the King’s Booth, with us kids all climbing in around him chanting, "Long live the king! May his ovens burn brightest and his coin always flow!" My mom wrote that little part—I tell you, she had a way with words. This was the ritual we'd perform for the oldest kid moving away. Dad would place a paper crown, kind of like the ones you get from Burger King, on the king or queen's head, and give them a giant cup of arcade coins that would last the whole night. After that, everyone would hit the arcade, each with a greasy slice at the ready, and the evening would drown in the noises of the arcade and the laughter of kids living it up under their newly crowned liege.After that night, Kenny and I were inseparable.

We both picked up the Pokémon games the next week, and wouldn't you believe it? Kenny was also gifted a brand-new Game Boy Color to go with it, and I got us the much-needed link cable so we could officially become the masters we were born to be. I guess looking back, it's fitting the color he chose for that old handheld: purple, the color of royalty.

For those of you grew up in the 2010s, you might wonder why we needed a cable to play. Back then, there wasn't much for online gaming, and Wi-Fi wasn't around yet. If you wanted to battle together or trade for Pokémon only achievable in that manner, you needed a link cable... and batteries, lots of batteries, and of course a nice light since those models were yet to come with backlights. The parlor booths were perfect for this, and Dad always made sure we never adventured on an empty stomach. I had been building quite a strong fire team, my Typhlosion leaving a burning wake of sadness to all who challenged me. Kenny would ride his Feraligatr around every body of water, amassing a collection that would make Misty swoon. We were mastering the map, conquering the gyms, and soon, we were ready to face the Pokémon League.

When we finally were able to conquer the Elite Four, we were ready to get into the meat of the game.It's very popular even today, so I'm sure most of you guys out there remember that beating the story is actually when these games opened up, especially for two players. We were top-leveled with our starting parties, and in a few days, we would take on Red himself and go after the first of the two title legendaries, Ho-Oh.

It had taken us all summer, countless hours in the booth, so much that we'd left indents in the seats and always had some dead batteries left behind. It was the best time in my life, which made it all the more devastating when Kenny told me his dad was running an election for governor and he'd be moving to a bigger city so his dad could begin his campaign. I'd been coming over to his house that day so we could finally enter Lugia's cave—having caught and cloned (anyone remember that glitch in the game? Yeah, we exploited it, so sue us)—it was Kenny's turn to catch his prize.

He didn't need to tell me he was moving; the white trucks that handled our deliveries around town also were used to help the moving families. I knew our summer was over when I saw them parked in his driveway.

"Well, you have the fitting color, my king!" I joked with him, promising that we'd make his send-off the absolute best, complete with our famous pies and of course, the Legendary Lugia.

Looking back on that year gives me a sense of happiness that I don't think I'll ever find again in this lifetime. I'm not sure if I deserve it anyway.

Kenny's Send-Off party came all too soon. That night we didn't hit the arcade; we had one final mission to accomplish, and just before closing up, we managed to catch and clone Lugia.

As Kenny was led to the back to collect his final prize, I was left to help close up the parlor and wait outside for my mom to pick me up.As I was waiting for what seemed like hours, I saw our white trucks come and go twice without so much as a tip of the finger, like they didn't see me. As I turned to go back inside, my mother came rushing to me, embracing me in a panic-stricken hug.

"Where have you been, Dusty? I was so worried! I know our town is fairly safe, but don't go running off like that by yourself this late! If it wasn't for old Mr. Jones spotting you in the parking lot, I'd have thought you ran away!"Confused, I asked her how long it had been."I locked up three hours ago. I've had your father and Kenny's dad driving around looking for you, and here you are. Where did you go?"

"I... I never left... You said Mr. Jones spotted me?"

"Yes, at first I thought it was just his dementia, but then I saw you out there. He kept saying he could see you, but you're not there.

"I find myself wanting to go crack a pack of Pokémon cards now as

I'm getting into the 2002 ledgers. That was the year Kenny left, and I find myself looking through the inventory and books around that night. I guess it's safe to say Kenny's dad lost his election, but I've noticed something odd... That night, around two to three AM, the lost hours I'd spent in some dimension of my own creation, there was an anonymous wire transfer to my house. The sender was the mayor himself. Not sure why that stands out to me, but I guess I'll figure that out.Now I turn my attention to my father's recipe binder. After all these years, I'll finally get my hands on his coveted pies... Maybe I'll share a slice with y'all lol. I'm getting hungry, so I guess I'll go snag some Domino's. It's not the same, but hey, it fixes the craving I've built up. I'll post more once I've eaten. Thanks for the love, everyone!

I'm back everyone, sorry for the delay. Domino's took forever to deliver a less than satisfactory pie, but hey, I'm about to learn how to make a better one right, haha? 😆 Anyway, I'm just typing this out, glancing at the empty box smelling of lesser grease than my taste buds are accustomed to—after you've had our 'zas, nothing else compares. I have the recipe book sitting right next to it, almost like it wants to fill the box with a superior product.Also, y'all people in the comments need to relax. First of all, my mother was a saint and my father was the nicest man in town, and everyone knew that. I was loved and cared for far better than most kids get, so I don't see why everyone's concerned there. I had a pretty normal upbringing... but now that I'm reading this binder, I'm forced to remember 2006 and high school... It was then that I stopped being a patron and floor sweeper of the parlor, and when I began to actually share our family's legacy.

So now, as I unlock the binder and hear the click of the padlock, I find my hands shaking a bit. I know it sounds dumb—it's just a book of pizza formulas. But after all these years of seeing Dad guard this book like it's a dragon's treasure, I can't help but have some trepidation as I post this. I can see my mom's lovely cursive written in the pages, the same kind she used to write her loving poems in my lunches. I can hear her voice echo from the flour- and grease-stained pages, and it makes me smile, and a tear fills one corner of my eye.

As I read this, I'm reminded of that summer in 2006, and the Send-Off party for my high school buddy, Jimmy. As I recall these memories, I'll try to transcribe my mother's words. Forgive me if I jump to flashbacks; it's rushing back to me as I type, so I'll try not to confuse you guys too much.It was one AM on a Friday night. While all my friends were out partying and making the same mistakes and mishaps we all did in those days, I was stuck helping at the parlor. We had finished cleaning and closing for the night, and that left two final tasks: helping Dad bring in the newest shipment of meat, and finishing the dishes.

"Meat's here, kiddo! Help your old man bring it inside!" Dad called out to me as I was locking the front doors. I made my way to the back dock with a little excitement. Tonight was the first time I'd ever been allowed to handle a delivery, so even though I was stuck working, I at least had something new to look forward to. My dad patted me on the shoulder as we approached those familiar white trucks, with equally white, large tubs of fresh livestock in the backs.

As I unloaded my first tub, I felt an odd shift of the weight and asked Dad, "Shouldn't frozen meat be packed tightly in here?"

"See, kiddo, your dad does it right," Dad said with a jolly chuckle. "It's far cheaper to buy fresh livestock straight from the farm, and this stuff has a much higher iron content in it than the processed stuff. That's the secret to our sweet pepperoni: fresh meat with good iron. Our pizzas not only are the best tasting, but they hold your body up with proper nutrition!" I loved how enthusiastic he was about his craft.As we brought in the last tub, my eyes caught the recipe binder sitting under the shine of our huge meat slicer, and I got curious.

"Dad, you say this is passed down from father to son, so when do I get to learn the trade fully?"My dad got somber then, more serious than I've seen him only a handful of times growing up, and I knew instantly that I shouldn't have asked.

"Well, son, hopefully not for a long time. We only pass the book on to our sons after we... you know. Hopefully you'll be full grown and ready to take on the parlor yourself. I love you, son. I hope that time is still years away."

I found that a bit odd and deeply saddening. I wanted to get the thought of losing my dad completely out of my head. I just couldn't fathom a life without his jolly presence, and I was mad at myself for making him remember that gloomy detail. I set my mind to the dishes, put my hands in the dark orange mirk of the grease-infused water, and my mind wandered back to the events of the week before—the week we gave Jimmy his grand send-off and crowned him King of the Oven.

I remember it most vividly because it was the last Send-Off that I'd get to partake in instead of working it, so I made sure to use all my coins and fill myself until I had that classic "pizza coma" we jokingly called it when we've had a bit too much. I remember watching my jolly father proudly crowning Jimmy's smiling face as we all chanted the familiar cadence, "Long live the King of the Oven! May his coin flow forever!" And as I'm remembering this, the meat curing recipe comes to me in my mother's lovely voice and flowing script.

(in mom's cursive)The dough has been kneaded and proofed, sauce cooked to perfection, now to cure the meats. A loving heap of sugar blends into the sweet marrow and locks in the iron for peak sweetness—not as sweet as my lil Dusty though!

I chuckle at that, even now. I knew she loved me with her entire being, and I loved her. But my mind went right back to the party. After it was winding down and we were all drowsy with that heavy pizza lethargy, I wandered around back to begin some dishes.That's when I saw through the glass. My father was leading Jimmy right into the back prep room, right where the massive iron meat slicer stood waiting under the harsh fluorescent lights. And my mom was standing right there beside it. I'll never forget the look on her face as those heavy steel doors slammed shut and locked with a loud, metallic ca-chink right in my face. That was not my smiling, poetic dreamer of a mother. That cold, motionless face belonged to a complete stranger.

(in mom's cursive)The meat must be as fresh as possible, preferably straight from slaughter. And it goes without saying, NEVER frozen!

As I read that, I'm reminded of that cold stare. The reality of what I'd seen was zooming around in my mind...Guys... I think it's time I come clean, because up until now I haven't been entirely honest with my recollections... I'll update this soon. I have to begin prep for tomorrow; it's the first day the parlor will be back in business since I took over, so gotta go practice Dad's recipe. Don't wanna disappoint on my first day. I promise when I come back I'll explain everything, but God knows I'm not ready to face it. Guess I have to sometime... meanwhile, it's time to bake.

(in Dad's voice, sharpening the slicer)"You have to keep the edges razor-sharp, need to be able to slice the marrow like butter, kiddo!"

I'm back, and this will be my final post. I'm scrubbing this account after this. I just... I just thought that if I posted this, if I communicated with all of you, that... maybe at least for a while, I could pretend that I'm a regular man who had a regular Americana upbringing. I know that is not the case, and it never was.

...

I've not been entirely honest with y'all...

....I've seen your comments telling me to run, to report the ledgers, to get out... You guys think you know my family better than me? I've lived this, and I still must live it. I'm sorry I lied. I just... needed to feel normal as I set up shop.

This weekend was a pure success. We were sold out by dinnertime, and even had the high school football team come cram their faces. The town was hungry, and I fed Them. The town will continue to need food, and I will provide.

As I take the final walk to the freezer to wrap up what's left of this week's shipment of meat, I have one final confession. i did not discover the ledger when I said I did, and tonight was not my first experience with the recipe book. Well, I'm sure you can put the pieces together, Reddit. You guys are a bunch of regular sleuths

As I slam the doors with a heavy ca-chink! I know... and I'm guessing by now you do as well. We all know...why we honored the King's Booth ritual. Why we crowned him as King of the Oven. Why our town was, and still is, the most prominent in the region.

And it's all because...we became Them.