A Dismissal by Fire

The acrid scent of burnt dough and something vaguely metallic, like singed wiring, was the Pizza Palace’s signature perfume. It clung to the worn linoleum, seeped into the very grout of the perpetually stained walls, and, most persistently, lingered in Maria’s nostrils. Today, the symphony of sizzling grease and the distant, unnerving crackle of something catching fire was particularly insistent. It emanated from the exhaust fan above the main pizza oven, a plume of dark smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling.

Mr. Henderson, his face a map of perpetual irritation etched deeper by the day, was flailing a damp dish towel at the encroaching smoke. His movements were frantic, less effective than a child swatting at a fly. Carlos, his face grim, was wrestling with the fire extinguisher, the familiar hiss of pressurized foam a welcome, if temporary, interruption to the usual pandemonium. Maria, her movements still a little slower than they once were, her hands a touch less steady, was calmly clearing plates from a table near the commotion, her eyes, however, were fixed on Henderson.

He was a spectacle of self-pity and bluster. “This is unbelievable!” he spluttered, his voice cracking. “Unbelievable! Just when I think things can’t get any worse. This place is a inferno, and I’m stuck here, wading through smoke, while *some* people are off gallivanting!”