Tommy Q
Now Tommy Q was the closet non family guy on the crew to Joey for a real good reason. Growing up Tommy Q said just one thing over and and over and over again, like a record stuck in a skip. He said it in the morning when he went to the bathroom. He said it on the bus ride. He said it at dinner. He said it at recess, at lunch and whenever anyone said anything that interested him. Even when the conversation had nothing to do with him, he said it then.
When teachers sent him to the Principal Dickhus office for saying what he said, he said it there too. Everyone already knew what Tommy Q was going to say before he spoke.
“Now Thomas,” asked Mrs. Meinert. “Who discovered America?”
“I’m going to make fucking pizza,” Tommy Q said under his breath, a bit too loudly. There was no denying what was said, the crime was clear.
Mrs. Meinert turned red and bellowed, “Go to the Principal’s office!”
Keep in mind that wasn’t the planned response. Tommy knew who discovered America. He wasn’t trying to mouth off, that’s just what he said all the time. I sat in front of Tommy in history class, and Tommy talked to me all the time under his breath about the pizza business. He had the details all scoped. Where to get the ovens, how much dough to use, what temperature to run the refrigerators, how long the sauce lasted. It was all part of the big Tommy Q plan. So when he said that thing about the pizzas in History, it just really slipped out. It was intended for me. Well probably more for him, but he said it to back of my head all the same. Mrs. Meinert wanted none of that. At that moment, I didn’t want to hear about pizza either. I was sick of it.
Inside the office, Tommy Q sat across from the big guy, holding his hands at his sides, awaiting the usual exchange, parry, raise and detention. Dickhus ended every statement with a question. Like if you asked about his weekend went, he’d answer, “It was adequate don’t you think?” You get the idea. “Three times in a week is a lot of trips to my office, wouldn’t you say?” asked Dickhus. Dickhus was a guy with a pile of big, dark secrets.
“Yeah,” said Tommy.
“And your language is a bit colorful for History class, no?”
“Well I am going to make…”
Principal Dickhus sighed. “We all know the dream,. I’m just concerned about your future Thomas. Your grades are unacceptable, and most teachers dread asking you questions. Think of it like me for a second, what would you do if you were me about a situation like yours?”
“Let me make fu…pizza.”
Dickhus stared at his own reflection on the shine of the desk top. “Thomas, frankly I don’t want to see you in detention again this week. At this time there might be some gain in a dialog with the guidance counselor. Perhaps someone else can put this all in the proper perspective for you. Here’s a hall pass. Go see Bob Stiles now, yes?”
As irritating as Dickhus was, Stiles the counselor was odd. Maybe it’s just me but there was something off center with high school guidance counselors in the first place. But when a fifty-three year old man resembled a weasel, lived with his aunt and had a mustache, that went double. Although, his aunt looked pretty good with a mustache.
Stiles ran down Tommy Q’s whole academic life at a glance, including pop quiz results from that morning. Stiles was ready for the meeting, ready for the respect-my-authority preach. The performance records showed a battlefield of bad grades, progress reports and red circles and arrows, all filed in a manila folder. As Stiles reviewed the pages, he skated a finger across the key points like a flat stone across an iced over lake.
“Thomas Quinosa the Third. 2.27987 GPA. Ten absences this term, twenty seven detentions. Average test scores. Poor penmanship. What do you think this academic file says about you as a person?”
“Says I don’t care too much for school.”
“Anything else?”
“You got me on the penmanship thing. I suck at writing,” said Tommy.
“What I’d like to talk to you about is why you don’t think you should care. You don’t strike me as a middle of the road sort of person, although your grades are borderline average in every way. Forget the university, at this rate you can’t even get into a community college in Idaho. Why?”
Tommy Q considered the question carefully and went with the truth. “I don’t need college to make pizza.”
“That’s very true. However, if you went to college, you could learn how to write a business plan. Then you could borrow money and expand the pizza business. Maybe start franchising.” Stiles really believed he had Tommy against the ropes then. I forget what method therapists use to break down barriers. Psychology was crap, really.
Anyway, by feigning some deep interest in Tommy’s future in pizza, Stiles bet the teenager would listen. Tommy had other ideas. For Tommy Q this was a chance out of detention.
Patting the green book bag that laid next to his sneakers, Tommy Q patted the binder through the nylon. The binder with thousands of details about the pizza empire to be. He shook his head. “Hadn’t considered that angle, Mr. Stiles.” That was an outright lie. He had considered that angle. He had an organic growth model mapped out to the dollar for completely self-financed expansions. I had heard all about them. Didn’t care to hear about them, but Tommy told me anyway.
“And would it be fair to say that maybe there are other angles you might not have considered? And if you applied yourself a little more thoroughly in your studies these answers might present themselves.” Stiles was on a roll. This was the high point of the week, maybe the whole month. He probably believed he had gained ground with Tommy Q. What a mustached weasel.
“You could say that,” said Tommy Q.
“And so going forward maybe this new perspective will help focus your studies?”
“Sure,” Tommy said, seriously as possible. He listened to Stiles drone about the importance of academic performance in the face of global competition and so forth. How what he did in high school would dog him for the rest of his life. Phrases like permanent record, don’t sell yourself short, why make things hard for yourself. The usual guidance counselor mantra. According to Tommy later this went on for thirty more minutes.
“OK, then Thomas, back to class with you. I feel like we’ve made a breakthrough here.”
“Oh absolutely, Mr. Stiles.”
“And when you go back to class if Mrs. Meinert asks who discovered America, what’s another possible answer?”
“Christopher Columbus.”
“Very good!” Stiles was delighted. “That’s the spirit Thomas!”
Tommy Q collected the book bag with the binder and rose. “The Vikings brought pizza to this great country. Did you know that?” asked Tommy Q.
“No I did not.”
“Maybe I’m not the one who needs to pay attention in History class.”
Now the reason this has much to do with Joey Vinny is simple. All Tommy Q wanted was to make pizza. And Joey Vinny was the only guy who ever believed in Tommy Q. The lone buddy who believed the dream and believed in him. When Tommy Q spouted about mixing dough with cornstarch, Joey Vinny listened real polite like and said, “You’re going to be the king of all pizza. King of all pizza.”
That sentiment always cheered Tommy Q bunches, especially during their daily stints in detention. Joey was in detention almost every day for losing one thing or another, be it the attendance cards or milk money.
Joey and Tommy Q were close in a straight guy sort of way. Joey boosted Tommy’s ego; Tommy never faulted Joey for being a loser.
Still, the rest of us busted Joey something fierce. You know how guys got, dog pile on the rabbit and the weakest rabbit got the beating. Not Tommy Q. He never knocked Joey Vinny. Not once.