We load the boat while a graceful blue heron pauses from hunting frogs to eye us from a nearby bank, then we idle out of the slip as a fuzzy gaggle of ducks paddles away from the gently whirring blades of our motor. It’s a dreamy tableau, like a Monet painting, heightened by the soft scent of sausage and the knowledge that hundreds of half-naked, partially tattooed, fully inebriated partiers are growing hungrier with each gallon of alcohol they guzzle.
The pizzas aren’t going to deliver themselves to the boaters on the Chain O’Lakes, so Brian Mesce must get to work. Once out of the no-wake zone, he guns the 21-foot Rinker in the direction of Petite Bay and begins shouting responses to my questions.
To my dismay, Mesce hasn’t adopted some exotic nickname like Admiral Anchovy or Luigi of the Lake when delivering pizzas boat-to-boat. (My name for him is Captain Pepperoni.) “Most people just shout ‘Hey, pizza guy!’ he explains.
Or, customers phone the cell number painted on the side of his watercraft and direct him to their location like a mayday to the Coast Guard. “Girls will call and say, ‘I’m the one jumping up and down with the huge chest.’ I’ll say, ‘You have to be more specific.’ “
The likeable 23-year-old applied to be the regular, car-equipped deliveryman at Moretti’s Ristorante & Pizzeria in Fox Lake in 2003. The manager asked if he could operate a boat. Mesce replied that he’d been on the Chain O’Lakes since he could read, and he was instantly named captain of the SS Thin Crust. (My name for the vessel.)
Most of Mesce’s business is spur-of-the-moment, rather than phone-order. The boat’s stern holds two hot boxes, which pull electricity from the battery. Large cheese, sausage and pepperoni pies are to starboard. Mediums are to port. Mesce is the one-man crew.
“I’m in the sun, out on the water,” exults the Fox Lake resident, who earns an hourly rate plus tips. “It’s the best job in the world.”
It’s also one of the trickiest. Try maneuvering a motorboat around rollicking yachts, with soused swimmers flailing alongside you and footballs flying overhead, with kids spraying Super Soakers and women shedding swimsuits, all while acting as waiter, cashier and operator of a potentially deadly vehicle.
Captain Pepperoni does it all with a calm grace that a plate-spinner would envy. He’s never crashed. Never snagged an anchor line. And never–permanently–lost his booty. “I was shooing away a bee once and I threw the money bag overboard,” he says with a chuckle. “You’ve never seen a fat guy jump in the water faster.”
THE CHAIN O’LAKES, 40 miles northwest of Chicago, is a cluster of freshwater basins connected by channels and ringed by woods and wood-sided homes. It’s a region that seems more Wisconsin than Illinois. That’s a compliment.
During the week, boaters take pleasure cruises or tow skiers. During the crowded weekends, families huddle on kid-friendly sandbars while rowdy flotillas form in more secluded coves.
“This is where all the fun happens,” says Mesce, hoisting a flag reading PIZZA as we approach Petite Bay, where nearly 100 boats are anchored and their fleshy crews walk between them clutching cocktails and smokes.
Within a minute of pulling up to the party, a boater beckons us. Captain Pepperoni speeds the SS Thin Crust over to him, twists the steering wheel, kills the engine, and his boat sidles alongside the customer’s. The young guy buys a medium sausage, tips five bucks on the $15 bill and Mesce speeds away to another call of “Hey, pizza guy!”
With gold chains jingling around his neck and sunbeams glinting off his diamond earring, Peter Strobach summons us. He holds a stubby cigar in his right hand, an iced zinfandel in his left. To make his purchase, he puts his drink down on the back of his yacht, which is named the U.S. Hole. “Say it fast and it comes out right,” blurts Strobach, a 22-year veteran of the lake scene. “Ha ha ha!”
Some customers tip the deliveryman a few bucks. Many stiff him, which he handles with shockingly good cheer. Some request beer, cigarettes and marijuana, which Mesce doesn’t stock. Nor will he trade pizza for flashes of breasts, an abundant sight on these waters. (As Mesce is counting his money some nearby males erupt into cheers. “What’s that for?” I ask. “Nudity,” he replies, without looking up.)
After our cargo is sold out, we turn the SS Thin Crust back toward the harbor. I offer to buy Captain Pepperoni lunch at Pa Pa M’s, a floating hot dog stand. But, no thanks. He doesn’t think it’s proper to patronize the competition.
Mesce’s admirable sense of honor is maybe why he made captain, even if his command is just a pizza delivery boat cruising this weird, wet world of tattoos, ta-tas and tankards. It’s certainly a slice of Americana–if a hot and cheesy one.
