Josefina’s Pizza
Josefina’s Pizza
Mylo Reyes
It was so loud that I couldn’t hear a thing. Fists shot into the air towards the ceiling and flashed into silhouettes, backlit by a row of oversized and bright bar televisions. Wide eyes and ear-to-ear smiles overtook rows of tense, panicked faces in an instant, like a light switch had flipped.
As I watched beer slowly spill over the side of a frosted glass hoisted above me, I tapped the side of my pants. My phone, I thought. And just before a pour of cold lager splattered across the top of my head, the deafening roar of the bar’s patrons collapsed into a collective, silent held breath.
“Chicago!” an announcer called through the frozen quiet. “After decades, after generations, after every unanswered prayer,” there was disbelief in his voice, “tonight, you are champions!”
The noise thundered back.
Balled fists and aluminum cans pounded on the thick wood of the bar tops. Grown men screamed and stomped like rowdy children on Christmas. Honking car horns funneled down every surrounding street, layering atop anthemic rock and roll that squealed from the bar jukebox, as beer splashed against my hair, face, and shirt.
Though the beer was cold, my face burned and sweat dripped from my forehead. And as I was bumped back and forth amongst the crowd’s fervent oscillation, I licked my lips and tasted hops, then salt. I touched my eyes and I felt tears. So, I raised my elbows and thrust through the rowdy crowd, shouting “excuse me” as if anyone could hear me, until I pushed through the bar’s bulky red door.
As a gentle breeze chilled the beer on my face, I pulled out my phone. “Call Dad.”
•
When I was young, my dad and I spoke sparingly, a pattern that continues to this day. I pointed this out to him halfway through my freshman year of college once, and all he said was that we were “efficient.”
Conversations with my dad usually consisted of a single yes-or-no question: “Did you take out the trash?” “Are you ready for dinner?” Sometimes he’d throw in a statement: “You gained weight.” His father had been the same way.
I only know a few things about my grandfather. We didn’t speak much either. I know he fought for the Allies in World War II, well before my family emigrated from the Philippines. He flew a plane. When he arrived in the States, he became a car mechanic.
The year my grandmother passed, we spent Christmas at my grandfather’s house. It was quiet, as it always was. The expected spread of sinigang, lumpia, and lechon crowded the dinner table. After we presented him with a dozen foil-wrapped hazelnut chocolates, his yearly gift, he stared at the plastic-covered recliner my grandmother used to sit and play solitaire in.
“Belen,” he said to the chair. “Your grandkids are here.”
It was the first and last time I saw him cry. After he said this, I turned to my dad. For a brief moment, his face pouted and scrunched, but he willed his face into a stone-like deadpan, as sturdy and unmoving as a dam. “How’s the new truck, Dad?” he asked. I wondered if this was the first time he’d seen grandpa cry too.
I thought about that moment often. Every time I did, I would text my dad. I’d ask him what his favorite things to do were as a kid, what it was like meeting Mom, or what his favorite song was.
They were simple, easy questions, always broad and open-ended so that they could maybe lead to a longer conversation. But, they never did. The answers were always minimal. “I played.” “Your mom and I met before Chicago.” “’In My Life.’ Beatles.”No matter what I asked, no matter what anyone said, my dad favored reticence.
There was, however, one exception.
Any mention of a Chicago sports team, no matter how slight or how fleeting, would flip a switch. All of a sudden, he’d transform from a man who had plausibly taken a vow of silence into a voluble would-be sports commentator.
“Did you see who we signed? That guy’s a bum.” “I don’t like the way the new coach is running our offense.” “I think the taxpayers got screwed on that stadium.”
Wanted to know who Chicago’s greatest sixth man was? My dad knew where he was born. Wanted to know which Chicago stadium has the best food? My dad judged hot dog buns with the reverence of a Michelin-starred chef.
And when I still lived with my parents, if a game was on, we’d order takeout from Josefina’s, a local pizzeria in our neighborhood. Minutes before kickoff, tip-off, or the first pitch, we’d have some teenager standing at our door, balancing a large pizza in the palm of one hand and a two-liter of pop clutched in the other.
A pizza from Josefina’s always came in a crinkly, white paper bag. Printed across the top: a green halftone outline of Italy. The only text: “pizza” stamped in fat, red letters. We’d tear open the bag, pinch the cardboard disk the pizza sat atop, and slide it out from its wrappings.
The scent of rich mozzarella saturated my nose, aromas of earthy basil and tangy tomato not far behind. Steam coated my face as it rose off the pie, which they always cut into equal-sized squares.
My dad and I would always grab an edge piece first. The hearty crust made them easier to handle when the pizza was piping hot. Then, slices in hand, we’d dash into the living room as the announcer’s voice ricocheted throughout our three-bedroom home.
Every time, without fail, as the glow of the television illuminated my dad’s smirk, an infrequent appearance, my dad would turn to me and nod in excitement. “This is our year,” he’d promise, crumbs of pizza crust tumbling from his open mouth.
•
A hairy, naked man ran in front of me, arms hoisted in the air. A short-haired woman got on one knee and took out a ring. A child in pajamas swung their puppy around in their arms in a nearby apartment window. The sudden smell of weed engulfed my block.
I unlocked my phone on the third try, my thumbs fumbling over the screen. My phone started to ring. “Calling Dad.” As it rang, a stout man wearing a backwards hat grabbed both of my shoulders and shook me.
“We did it!” he screeched, as spit flew from his drunken maw.
In the reflection of my phone screen, I saw the tears bursting from my eyes. “Pick up,” I choked. With my beer-soaked shirt, I wiped the tears from my eyes and the snot from my nose. The entire block began singing in unison.
“We are the champions!”
My father didn’t answer. So, I called again. My hands started to shake. I looked up for a moment and saw a man on a scooter speed by with a Chicago flag wrapped around him like a superhero’s cape. I looked down. Again, no answer.
My breathing quickened, my head already light and dizzy. I stumbled towards the nearby bus shelter and tripped. As my right shoulder slammed hard against its acrylic divider, I felt a tightness in my chest. Suddenly, I was on my hands and knees, my phone now feet away from me, cracked on the concrete, still ringing. I gasped for air as the city cheered.
•
My dad’s death was abrupt. He died of a heart attack, right before this season started. He was walking to his car in a parking lot after clocking out of work. I had always thought he was in decent shape: he ate vegetables, jogged twice a week, and even cut back on cigarettes in his old age. However, he never really went to the doctor. If he did, he’d have known about his cholesterol.
The funeral was modest. Me, my mom, his sister and brother, and cousins that I saw once every few years for holidays. I even met a few of my nieces and nephews. A few of his coworkers attended, none of whom I’d never heard of. We had a priest say parting words. It was efficient, the way he’d like it.
The day of his heart attack, I was at my office. I had no meetings, I was ahead on deadlines, and though I had nothing to do, when my mom first called me, I didn’t answer. I figured it was a typical call from her: a piece of gossip about a neighbor or asking if a picture she liked was computer-generated. I let her call ring a little to make it seem like I was busy. But the moment after I declined the call, she was calling again.
The next thing that I remember, I was running through Rush Hospital, barging through the doors of the cardiac care unit. The receptionist pointed to a map of the wing, but I couldn’t read a thing. My vision grew cloudy and blurry. Suddenly, I heard my mother pleading with someone.
“You’re lying!”
I followed her wailing through the sterile, fluorescent halls. “Everything you could? You’re lying!” When I finally saw her, her face was drained of color, and she had dug her fingernails into her palms so deeply that she was bleeding.
•
The last thing my dad said to me was via text message. The first part: a video of him mowing the lawn, filmed by his doorbell camera. He was wearing chunky grass-stained sneakers, loose black sweatpants, and a Chicago Bears jersey I bought him for his birthday. The second part was a short message: “This is our year.”
•
A bar bouncer helped me up off the pavement. “Your palms are scraped up,” he told me. The sidewalk glowed orange and blue from the fireworks above. The booming explosions illuminated my brief two-block stumble home.
When I got into my apartment, I didn’t bother turning on the lights. I threw my keys against the stove and brushed past my cat, hurrying straight into my bedroom. I crashed face down into my bed, beer-soaked shirt still on with my now-cracked phone buzzing nonstop with celebration in my pocket.
I took a deep breath, silenced my phone, and closed my eyes.
•
I woke up the next day to dozens of missed calls and messages. Mostly friends sharing pictures and videos of the night before. Where they were, who they were with, the panic, the disbelief, the joy. In one of the videos, I could see myself darting out of the bar if I zoomed into the bottom corner of the screen.
After drinking a glass of water, I tidied my apartment. I vacuumed up cat litter, did laundry, took out the trash, and wiped down the kitchen counters, which were sticky with sugary booze from the night before. Before I knew it, it was afternoon, and I realized I hadn’t yet eaten.
I went back into my living room and opened the dryer, pulling out my slightly damp fleece. I slid my arms through the sleeves, snatched my headphones off my television stand, and hurried down the back wooden steps towards the nearest bus stop on Ashland.
•
I had only ever seen Josefina’s from the outside. On the rare occasion we’d pick up the pizza, I’d wait in my dad’s red sedan and stare at the garish, green and white valance that welcomed customers into the pizzeria.
When I tried to open the front door, I heard a loud squeak. The door refused to budge. “Push it hard or it’ll get stuck,” a man behind the cash register instructed. I leaned forward with all my weight, nearly tripping over as the door flung open.
Inside, it smelled like dry flour and grease. The red, vinyl cushions in the dining booths were patterned with rips and tears. The floors were tiled with fake wood that squelched with every step. Old wallpaper embellished with olive vines peeled off the tops of the walls and hung in a similar fashion to the plants that adorned it. By the cash register, a few small plants, each with stickers of pizza ingredients stuck to their pots, appeared wilted by the heat radiating from the kitchen.
“Pickup for Santos,” I told the man behind the register.
“You look familiar,” he said as he rubbed his patchy mustache. “Did you use to live on Cermak?”
“I did. One story, gray bricks, white garage,” I confirmed as he handed me a pizza and a two-liter of pop.
“Yeah.” He wagged his finger at me as he spoke. “I delivered to you guys when I was younger. Nice lawn too.”
The memories came to me in a rush. “Your voice is deep now,” I joked.
“Still surprises me!” He shrugged. “It’s been a while. Good to see you.”
“You too.” I smiled and turned towards the exit, cradling my warm pizza in both hands. I pushed hard against the door with my foot until it swung open.
“Same order!” he called out to me, leaning his head into a corded phone, balancing it on his shoulder.
I turned to him and nodded. “Same order.”
•
My dad’s grave is a solid hike deep into the cemetery grounds. As I marched towards his tombstone with my pizza in tow, a brisk wind combed over the grass and the song of birds hung in the background like clouds.
I followed a cobblestone path. It wove between hills that dotted the grounds like a pointillist painting. Two women, both in skirts cast in the hues of our now-championship team, strolled past me. “Smells good,” one said as she passed, tears still streaming down her face.
My dad’s tombstone was standard. His name, the years he lived, and ‘Rest in Peace.’ Efficient. I sat down beside it, unfurling my Josefina’s pizza as I stared at the late-afternoon sun melting into the horizon.
I slid my headphones up from around my neck and over my ears. I scrolled through my music library, selecting “In My Life” by the Beatles. As the opening chords were plucked and strummed, I turned to my dad’s tombstone, nodding in rhythm.
“You were right,” I told him. “This is our year.”
Mylo Reyes is a Filipinx designer, musician, and writer in Chicago, IL. Their work has been featured in NPR, The A.V. Club, The Chicago Reader & more.
Elliot Lin is a law school student who spends their free time musing about sports and how they shape or reflect identity. You can find their other sports-related illustrations here, on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.
The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.