By the Scruff of the Neck

At 4:30 Wednesday afternoon, after negotiating the thirty-minute drive from work with bumper-to-bumper Des Moines road rage, and the temperature and humidity hovering at 90, I gulped a sigh of relief as I shoved open the back door of my red-brick, story-and-a-half home.  Instantly, I cursed a ringing phone, fearing my afternoon nap might be in jeopardy.

“Hello, yes, this is the owner of Pete’s Pizza.”  I winced--probably someone eager to recruit me for a credit card with 10,000 bonus air miles.

“Maria Magliani, Pete’s Pizza is on fire!” blurted the unfamiliar voice.

My left eye twitched, I collapsed down into the lazy boy, upsetting a half-glass of Chianti Classico propped on the armrest from last night.

“Is this a joke?  Who are you?”

“I’m Samantha Martin with KCCM-TV.  I was taping an interview at Fifth and Bell, when two fire trucks blew by with sirens blaring.  Trust me, this is no joke.  Your pizza parlor is burning!”

“Is anyone hurt?”  Click.

My neck stiffened as I grabbed my purse, bolted to the garage and jumped into the BMW Z3.  I seared the tip of a Marlboro, sucked deeply, and realized this was not the first day of the rest of my life, just the continuation of a shitty month.

Three weeks ago my delicatessen, Tony’s, located above Pete’s Pizza, on the skywalk level of the eight-story, law building, incurred a fine of $1500 for serving beer to a minor.  A lanky, baggy-panted, tattooed thrasher demanded a draught.  When asked for proof of age, he produced a fabulous fake, duplicating the altered ID down to the earrings.  After the punk was served, an off-duty vice cop examined the out-of-state license.  Accompanying the patron’s citation and the confiscation of his license, our establishment snared a ninety-day suspension of liquor sales.  Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed.

The scent of scorched wood permeated the air and black puffs whirled like tornadoes as I approached the crackling restaurant, housed on the ground floor.

“Ms. Magliani, did an arsonist destroy your restaurant?” asked reporter Christina Stouber, thrusting her microphone at my face as I catapulted to the hundred-year-old smoldering structure.

“Absolutely not!”  I barked back.  Daddy taught me that it’s best to deny everything at first; you can always retract statements later when you actually know something.  This got me thinking, though.  I had recently discharged Jamie, a twenty-four-year-old homeless kitchen employee with a crack habit.  He was captured on tape smuggling heaps of sausage, pepperoni and hamburger out with the trash.  In with the trashcan emerged vials of snow or blow, whatever they’re calling it this month.

Scrutiny of Jamie’s criminal record revealed previous charges:  car theft, rape, and aggravated assault with a weapon.  At fifteen, he was declared a juvenile delinquent and was sent to the State Training Center for Boys.  He was a bona fide slacker and not someone I wanted to play with.  Silently, I replayed his vow to return one day.  Was this the day?