Return to the essay table of contents
39. THE PIZZERIA AND THE BILLIONAIRE (Dec. 2003)
When I was younger I went into a pizzeria in New York City, and when I was a little older than that I would run miles to grad school in Massachusetts, across the Charles River. There was a huge red brick factory near the bridge, and it was as old as my grandparents. I know that the man who built it lived in town-- I ran right by his Victorian house. But his family didn't live there anymore. His grandson ran the factory and lived in Boston. I got my Master's degree, returned to New York, and one day found myself back in the same pizzeria. The Italian guy with dark curly hair and the roguishly thin mustache was still tossing the dough to the ceiling and catching it coming down, easily. I had to compliment him this time. He said "I should-- I been doin' all my life," and flashed a huge grin of pleasure. He was in his late 40's by then, and ran the place with his sons, and one other Italian guy. Shortly after, the factory closed, like so many, and the jobs moved to non-union South Carolina, but the grandson soon sold it to an even bigger company. Back in New York, everything was the same with the pizzeria, except the guy hired his first Mexican worker. Which was interesting, because the factory closed and moved to Mexico. I know, because I read about the company's owner when he started investing in movies. The pizzeria started changing too, when I saw less and less of the sons, and more of the Dad and his Mexicans, and when I went in the last time it was all Mexicans. The factory moved yet again, to China, and the owner must have done well, based on who he married. I know they live in New York-- I pass their building on my way to work-- and elsewhere too. The pizza's still good, but I don't know what the company does anymore. Probably investments. As for me, when I pass a basketball court I feel like I could play full-court, and when it's winter I remember running on the bridge across the white frozen Charles, tireless, young, exhilarated, and the vision is so fiercely alive I still think I could run those miles, as if not a thing has changed.
Return to the essay table of contents