Second Gen
I wrote a short Argyle fic, inspired by that amazing Surfer Boy headcanon.
It’s on Ao3. And also below because I can’t get the Ao3 announcement to show up in the tag.
Rating: General
Type: Gen
Word count: 900
Is Jonathan mentioned? Yes!
Summary: His dad has a saying. The first generation creates the business; the second generation grows the business; the third generation drives it into the ground.
By business he means pizza. He also means money.
“Prove me wrong. Don't lose it,” his dad rumbles, in between big mouthfuls of hot sauce covered scrambled eggs and energetic slurps of black coffee. “God willing I’ll be dead by the time you're in charge, but I'll still be watching.”
In between careful bites of his own eggs, sunny side up on buttered toast, yolk drips here, there and everywhere but so worth it, a contemplative sip of orange juice, he thinks about what his dad said.
“But I'm the second generation,” he points out.
With a clatter of knife and fork, his dad stands up and leans over the table. He sniffs him, dubious. He sniffs, too, reflexively.
Relax, he reminds himself. It's ok. It's only 7 a.m.
His dad thumps back into his seat and frowns.
"Your brothers…They’re the second generation. Dependable. Hard-working. Sober.”
“Sober,” he agrees, trying not to sound depressed on their behalf. They’re so tense.
His brothers are fifteen and sixteen years older than him. They are, he has to admit, awfully responsible. All that working, and working and working. He doesn’t see much of them, though they all live in the family compound. When he does see them they ask about his grades, which could be, he's man enough to admit, better. Or they tell him to clean his room, it stinks. To turn down his music, it's bad. That he should go for a run; if he exercised he'd feel better about himself. He'd be capable of focus. He'd get better grades, clean his room, possibly develop better taste in music. He nods and smiles, promises his brothers he'll get on it right away. He buys a new pair of sneakers, a headband and wristbands. He visualizes himself running, running like a mustang, mane and tail streaming behind him. Then he gets tired and has to take a nap.
It’s not that he purposely forgets, has some kind of agenda to thwart his brothers. He loves them. He agrees with them: he has room to improve. He hasn’t yet peaked. It's just that he's got a lot of other things on his mind.
Burning Spear is in town next week, he has a mile high blondie recipe he's dying to try out, and there’s a new guy at school who seems like he needs a friend. He is so sad; it’s almost funny. Like, what can possibly make someone that sad?
Come to think of it, living with all of them is a bit like having three dads. Maybe he is the third generation and no one is telling him?
“Your brothers will grow this company. Expand it well beyond California. What will you contribute beyond ‘awesome' pizza names? Tomato Toile. Madrastic Margherita. Pepperoni Plaidness.” With each name his dad’s voice gets more basso, more indignant. Tidbits of green speckled egg shoot out of his mouth; they land on his plate but that’s not a problem. Circle of life.
“Pepperoni Plaidness," he marvels. "That’s amazing. How can I beat that?” He can picture it. Strips of pepperoni, slices of green and yellow peppers and red onions arranged in grids on a background of white cheese.
His dad is glaring at him. He recalibrates; hunches his shoulders and looks at him through his curtain of hair, soulful, sad puppy style. Please don't kick me. Like that little guy in shop class.
"That's hella harsh, duuu,” his dad is still glaring at him, "aaaaaddd."
So he gets a job at Surfer Boy. "Wherever you think I'll fit," he says, magnanimous. A veritable Buddha. "I'm second generation, here to help. I want to learn the ropes. I want to grow me as well as the company - personally, professionally, whatever!”
He fits at the bottom.
It's cool. He likes pizza. Eating it, driving it places, making it (though he's not allowed to do that yet; in fact, the staff tell him to stay well out of the kitchen until he's learned to braid his hair). Then there's talking to people about pizza - helping them make good pie choices. There are so many factors to consider: temperature and wind speed and cloud cover; breakfast, lunch, second lunch, snack, early or on time or late dinner or bedtime snack. Will it be eaten cold or hot? With beer or milk? The next day or the next week? He likes to help customers get out of their comfort zones; once or twice he's found someone who agrees they need to.
When he drives the van (it’s no Beemer or Benz, but it’s roomy and rides better than he expected: untapped potential) he likes to think of new pizza combinations. One especially productive afternoon he came up with Potitzza: Velveeta smothered french fries on a base of tomato sauce, thick crust probably needed. Guacizza: a mash of avocado, onion, jalapeno, lime juice, cilantro and chopped fresh tomatoes on a thin n' crispy, cheese-free shell. And the pièce de résistance: Salizza. Sun dried tomatoes, black olives and mozzarella with lettuce on top. How California is that?
Very.
Competition has emerged. California Pizza Kitchen. Sure, it's only in Beverly Hills, but he's heard the rumors: BBQ Chicken Pizza.
It's important to keep up.
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