Standing hunched over, I caressed the dough gently as to not deform the ball and laid it in the fluffy flower, covering sides in a thin coat of white. The kitchen walls, once a sheet of white plastic, now stood a musty, dull yellow surface barely reflecting the dim golden lights.

An overwhelming scent of pizza, burgers, and frier steam attacked my nose, suffocating me. Sweat beading down my face, the 575 degree oven figured four feet away, depleting any energy I had.

I peeked through the door to affirm no eager customers awaited their meal. Dining room dead, my duty was to make others a homemade New York style pizza, so it was essential that I try my own Kim's: A Gourmet Pizza Pub pizza.

Being my second day, I stretched the once symmetric ball into a flat, football shaped crust.  I placed the lopsided dough on a flowery, wooden pizza paddle, dragging the crust out to meet the curvature of the powdery pizza peel. I gradually spread a ladle full of thick red pizza sauce evenly around the disc of dough, meeting all edges. Carelessly, I disorderly dispersed cheese around the 10-inch pie, scattered ghost pepperoni on top, and finished it with an abundance of green peppers and black olives.

Justin, a line cook, approached me confused, chuckling. “What the hell is that?!”

Embarrassed, I swiftly slid the pizza in the oven and scurried away.

Biting into my first slice, the melty cheese seard my mouth as the flavors crawl across my tongue. Eyes closed, I imagined the disarrayed kitchen, scorching pizza oven, and pizza sauce splattered like paint across the floor.

Despite laboring in an unpleasant aroma, the desire to bake a pizza that improves someone’s day, created and preserves my title as “Pizza Man Dan.”