Hubig’s Pies

This story has nothing to do with pie.

I’m sitting at the head of a long wooden table covered in a white and blue checkered table cloth. To the right and behind me are windows that look out into a snow-filled driveway. Two cars are parked in the garage. On a plate in front of me sit two rectangular pieces of bread covered in white melted cheese. A bright red box that reads “Stouffer’s French Bread Pizza” sits on the counter next to a white oven.

It’s 12:37 PM on January 6, 2010 in a suburb 10 miles south of Cleveland, Ohio.

Directly in front of me, in a different room, my parents are cleaning a large glass case with Windex and paper towels. The top and bottom rims of the case are framed with inch-thick oak. Etched into the side of the glass in bright glass-white letters reads “Hubig’s Pies”.

My hands are clammy, grasping at the white and blue table cloth. My whole body begins to sweat; my right leg is a bouncing jackhammer beneath the table.

I hear the crunch of toasted bread as I look down to my hand holding one of the small pizzas up to my mouth. I don’t taste anything.

My feet press against the floor and I’m standing. Slowly, as if walking through tar, I make my way to the white refrigerator at the end of the kitchen. I hear the clink of the glass on the counter, the bright light of the refrigerator bulb hits my eyes. I pull out the gallon-sized container of iced tea and pour the brown liquid into the glass. I barely feel the cold of the liquid as I take a big and audible gulp.

I return to my seat, sweat visible on my shirt now. My parents are softly chatting as they continue to clean the glass cube in front of them.

All I see is “Hubig’s Pies”

I stand up slowly, immediately falling back into my chair. At least 15 minutes pass as I sit there sweating. The clock reads 12:38.

I push at my feet again and I’m standing once more as a knot in my stomach tightens.

My feet drag across the cold white linoleum of our kitchen floor and eventually land onto the plush beige carpeting of our dining room. My parents look up at me, still cleaning the glass of the case.

“Is everything okay, Tyler?”

My feet shuffle and I look down. A bead of sweat runs down my chest to my stomach. The knot tightens. I lean towards my mother slightly, my father stands directly next to her. They have both stopped cleaning the glass.

“Uh, Mom? Dad? Can I tell you something?”

“Of course Tyler, what’s up?”

My hands are trembling. “Um… well. I umm…. I.” I trail off as my feet shuffle on the carpet once more.

30 seconds pass.

“What’s wrong, honey?” They look at me, brows furrowed, eyes wide open.

“Mom… Dad. I’m.. um. I’m gay.” I choke out, visibly shaking.

“Oh please, I don’t think you’re gay!”, my mom immediately responds. My dad stands with a half-smile across his face, eyes turned up, looking directly at me.

I respond with mild protest, hands still shaking. We chat briefly, hug, and I turn around. My parents return to the pie case quietly. I walk faster now back into the kitchen and over to the table. I grab the plate still full of mostly un-eaten pizza, walk to the trash can, and throw it out. I leave the kitchen and my now silent parents behind as I head upstairs.

I walk into my bedroom, the light coming through my window brightly illuminating the blue carpet beneath my feet. Blue light hits my eyes, but all I can see is “Hubig’s Pies” in big glass-white letters.