WEEK     JOB: PIZZA MAKER

LOCATION: OSTERVILLE, MASSACHUSETTS

A FEW HOURS into our cold, snowy ride in the pitch-black night, I once again felt like we were venturing into the unknown. It felt good to be going somewhere.

I like traveling. I often find it difficult to be content where I am. But when traveling from one place to the next, I have no choice but to stay put. I can’t make time pass faster, and there are no other possible choices. So, I might as well accept it and enjoy the ride.

But the bus ride to Osterville felt more like time at the office than a period of much-needed reflection.

At the bus station in Hyannis Port, Ian and I were the only ones around. The station was locked for the night, and we stood waiting outside. I was on the telephone with an agent from Los Angeles when Irene and Darren arrived to pick us up. A jeep quickly pulled into the parking lot, then abruptly stopped at the curb twenty feet in front of us. Irene and Darren jumped out of the car. It was as if we were returning home after being away at summer camp, our parents excitedly running toward us. They gave us both a big hug.

“Oh, I hope you guys weren’t waiting long,” said Irene.

In sync, she and Darren recounted the story of their evening; while one paused to take a breath, the other added details.

“No, not at all,” Ian got a word in. “We only got here about five, ten minutes ago.”

“Here, lemme get your bags,” insisted Darren.

Still on the phone, I smiled, waved in acknowledgment, and made an apologetic face. Then we all made our way to the jeep.

I finished my phone call with the agent, jumped into the jeep, and closed the passenger door. Darren drove, Ian sat behind him, and Irene behind me.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s been a crazy week.”

“No problem,” said Irene, as if she hadn’t even noticed.

On our scenic drive through town, they went on with enthusiasm about the pizza shop, their kids, Dakota and Callum, their four dogs, the town of Osterville, Hyannis Port and its relationship with the Kennedy family, how they’d heard about the One-Week Job project, and their decision to email me.

“When we heard about what you’re doing, we thought, Now, that is just so cool, we need to email this guy,” said Irene, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve been following your journey closely ever since.”

We were all quickly caught up in the excitement of one another’s company. The telephone conversation I thought too important to finish when Irene and Darren arrived now seemed trivial.

With a smile, I turned to the backseat and looked at Ian. Nothing needed to be said—we were supposed to be there, and we both knew it. The emails and phone calls could wait.

On my first day at Sweet Tomatoes, Darren gave me a lesson in pizza making—how to roll out the dough, spread the secret sauce, sprinkle on the cheese, arrange the toppings, and toss it into the oven.

I can eat pizza at any time of the day, and it always tastes good. Pizza is especially fun to make. With a piece of dough in front of me, I felt like an artist staring at a blank canvas. Except my canvas was a ball of dough, my hands brushes, and the array of toppings my color. If I found the right combination, I could create a masterpiece. Well, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, since making pizza mainly required following instructions correctly, but when your go-to dishes are pasta with bottled sauce, hot dogs, fajitas, or any frozen food that is microwavable, you take pride in the most simple of chef-like tasks.

Things got a bit intense during the lunch rush; a lineup of hungry construction workers had formed, orders came in quickly, toppings spilled on the floor, the pizza out of the oven stuck to the large wooden spatula, my once red apron became white with flour. I no longer had time to leisurely toss the dough in the air while singing Mamma mia, we makin’ some piz-za. I traded off pizza-making duties and packaged slices for customers.

I’m a bit of a perfectionist. At times I’d get too focused on placing each piece of topping in just the right spot to ensure that the first bite was as good as the last. I’d definitely have to speed things up if I wanted to work there full-time. Darren and Irene were polite about my slowness because we got along so well—or maybe because they knew I’d be out of there in a few days.

On my third day, the Cape Cod newspaper came into Sweet Tomatoes to interview me. The reporter assumed that I was related to Irene and Darren based simply on the ease of our interaction. I guess a few late nights of gourmet dinners, beers, and spirited games of Rock Band have a way of bringing people together fast.

Irene and Darren welcomed us into their family and provided us with a much-needed home away from home. Ian and I stayed in their guesthouse above the garage, which couldn’t have suited us more perfectly. Two beds, wireless Internet, unlimited long-distance. When we arrived, our small fridge was full of cookies, orange juice, and beer. There was even fresh fruit in a basket on the table.

Irene and Darren had made a conscious choice to be where they were. For them it was a question not so much of “What do I want to do for a living?” as of “What kind of life do I want to live?” They decided what was important to them and built their life around that. As Darren said, “I live two minutes from work, I have the flexibility to make my own hours, I get to connect with my community on a daily basis, and it allows me to come home and put my kids to bed at night.”

This life also includes sharing their king-sized bed with their four dogs and sometimes young Callum. One night after several beers and a couple of hours of Rock Band. I said to Irene, “I have to see this to believe it. How could you possibly fit three people and four dogs in one bed?”

“I’ll show you,” she said.

We left Ian and their other son, Dakota, in front of the Xbox to continue jamming and made our way upstairs. Darren had gone to bed earlier and was fast asleep. Irene gently pushed open the door. Sure enough, there they all were. Darren snored. Callum slept horizontally, his head on Darren’s stomach. The dogs were interspersed among them, sharing the leftover bed space. Irene would have to wedge her way in, with no room to reposition.

“You must have some sleepless nights?” I whispered.

She smiled and surveyed her crowded bed. “Yeah, for sure, but how lucky am I? I’m surrounded by the people I love.” She turned to face me. “I would trade much more than a few sleepless nights for that.”

When it was time to leave our new friends, Darren and Callum drove us the hour and a half to Providence to catch a train back to New York City.

At the train station, we gave Darren a big hug. Exhausted from a week of staying up late, working during the day, and somehow managing to find time to sightsee on the Cape, he said, “Thanks for reminding me what it’s like to be a twenty-five-year-old again.”

My experience on Cape Cod reminded me why I’d started out on this journey—meeting these people, learning about their lives, enjoying one another’s company—this is what was important; this is what made the experience special.

In the streets of New York City, with my scarf over my head and tears streaming down my face, I realized that for years I’d based my decisions on what other people thought. The fear of wasting potential was the primary motivation behind many of my accomplishments. Society had painted an image of success in my mind that I tirelessly tried to emulate, and I could no longer discern where this image I’d constructed ended and the real me began.

Within the last month, I’d fallen into the same trap. I sought validation from others in the external success of the project, which would alleviate any sense of failure I might feel about not accomplishing what I’d originally set out to do—find what I needed in a career to be happy. If I never found it, I could still go home feeling that at least the project was a success in the eyes of others. But the bouts of emptiness like I experienced in New York would never end—my sense of self would be forever reliant on the perceptions of others.

What mattered most was that I continue to pursue my passion regardless of what others thought. In the end, I’d be the one who would have to live the life I’d chosen.

I might not have been certain who I was, but I knew who I wanted to be. And I decided I must never compromise that for anything, especially for a fleeting fifteen minutes of fame.

The next morning Ian and I sat in the departure terminal at JFK waiting for our respective flights. Christmas was two weeks away, and Ian was returning to Vancouver to be with Karen. I waited for my flight to Seattle, where I’d connect to Yakima to spend a week as a winemaker.

We’d just spent every day of the last month together, and over the years we’d grown comfortable with sitting together in silence. Yet as other passengers on Ian’s flight boarded, Ian asked, “So, you’re going to be a winemaker this week, eh?”

“Yeah. It should be cool. I’m working at a small family-owned winery in the country.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. So, you excited to see Karen?” I asked.

“Yeah, I am. It’s going to be good to be home for a bit,” he said. “You’re coming back for Christmas, right?”

“Yeah. I’m going to work at a martial arts studio in Vancouver next week.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

We glanced toward Ian’s departure gate. Only a few people remained in the line to board the plane. As we heard the final boarding announcement, we both stood up.

“You got everything?” I asked.

Ian casually surveyed his baggage. “I think so.”

“Well, I’ll see you back at home then.”

“Just over a week, I guess.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“All right,” I said. “Give me a hug.”

Ian hugged me with the arm that didn’t hold his backpack. I’d always tried to get Ian to hug with both his arms, like he means it. But Ian’s a one-arm shoulder-hug kind of guy (though that isn’t to say he doesn’t mean it).

He walked toward the departure gate, handed the agent his ticket, then turned to face me. “Bring back some wine!”