Returning to Modesto from my first year at SJSU, I would’ve preferred to go back to Tony Roma’s. But the coveted waiter role was unavailable; the fame, money, and women I sought would have to wait. So I snagged a job at Little Caesars.

Contrary to popular belief, the fall of Rome was not brought about by ransacking Visigoths in the 4^th century. No. It was brought about that summer of 1996 by my inability to take effective orders. Try as I did to keep the vandals appeased, the four phones rang incessantly. When not rescuing pies from the furnace oven to hack them apart and slide them into boxes, I answered the phones and tried to follow the script. “Square or round?” “Do you have a coupon?” “Would you like Crazy Bread with that?” Smelling of flour and burnt cheese, I’d often get an unclaimed pie at the end of a shift. I’d get in my buddy’s car and we’d head off to Concert in the Park. Smoking cigarettes and mingling with old high school friends, I’d furtively swig a 40-ounce Mickey’s to numb the pain of my seared fingers.