Two Slices And A Pepsi
I had just spent seven dollars for a small bag of cat food on Stanton St. after having been turned away from a place on Clinton that was setting 4p.m. as the latest they would serve a late breakfast. So I parked the turnip truck and crossed Houston for a couple of slices at Ray's. The man at the counter put the slices in the oven for me and I just stood there, once peering over at the drink cooler with what might pass as a professorial interest, a man who has studied drink coolers across the globe. A Jamaican woman behind the counter surprised me with a loud, lilting and enthusiastic--Look At What I Got, holding up what may have been a candle holder or a piece of African art paying tribute to the twin towers. Oh, that's very nice, I said, suppressing what any man less self-conscious of driving a turnip truck would say--What the hell is it? Suppressing those words was harder than you would think and I found myself nodding and tilting my head back and forth in a rhythm that I think resembled deep understanding. The woman then asked could she get me something and I told her the man had already taken care of me. She asked did I want a beverage and I said yes, I would have a can of Pepsi, glad that I had earlier studied the contents of the cooler. Decision making is not my forte. She rang me up and said, six dollars and twenty-five cents. I had not studied the expansive menu board up on the wall behind the counter and besides, did not want to put a damper on the woman's spirits by haggling over the cost of two slices of cheese pizza and a 12 ounce can of Pepsi. The man served up the slices, placing them on two overlapping paper plates. I sat down at a table which had a few crumbs littering its surface and a few more on the chair. I chose it because it had the most condiments handy, the pepper flakes, the powdered Parmesan, the garlic salt, and even a bottle of hot sauce, or I think it was hot sauce. It is possible that it was something more mysterious than that. A simple slice of freshly warmed cheese pizza is a wonderful thing and I felt after the first two bites a growing sense of well-being. I was one of three customers, but the only one stuffing my face. At the table by the front door a couple waiting on a fresh pie-to-go were sitting and talking to the Jamaican woman, who was now leaning forward with her elbows on top of the grey plastic trash can cover just to the right of the glass doors. She had much to say but I had little interest in any of it. At one point the woman she was talking to, who sat across from her mostly silent man (with his shaking leg in contrast to his complacent demeanor), lowered her voice and turned around slightly to judge how quiet she needed to be to keep me from hearing, and said something that sounded like--He drinks his urine. I took a sip of Pepsi to wash away the effects of my imagination. Looking up at the menu board I did the math, 1.25 for each of my three items, and then cast a knowing glance into the void of non-confrontation. After leaving out of there I could not find my turnip truck so I just walked home.
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