Where All the Good Bodies Are Buried
Fall: No talking. Poured scotch on the headstone. He drank brandy.
Winter: Told him about Theresa. Stayed for an hour or two.
Spring: Picked up some trash–a plastic bag and a chicken bone. Put them both in my pocket.
Summer: Read some Yeats out loud. A train horn spoiled the moment.
Fall: No talking. Poured brandy on the headstone. It wasn’t his label.
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CONTRIBUTED BY EIRIK GUMENY (New Jersey)
At first glance, the pizzeria isn’t anything special. At second glance, it’s still not. It’s a tiny little space in the middle of a strip mall, next to that Korean nail place your sister goes to.
The neon in the window advertises PIZ A, HEROS, and CALZONES. The specials are scrawled on a piece of cardboard taped to the glass, Wednesday abbreviated as Wend.day.
Upon entering the pizzeria, the bell on the door makes a thunking sound. Somewhere an angel weeps. A dozen sets of suspicious eyes train themselves on you before returning to their dinner. Conversations do not stop for this.
The booths are all taken, as are all the seats at the counter. Sure, there are technically stools open there, but the sweaty, grease-and-oil covered workers staggered along the length of it are hunched over their slices and their sandwiches in the time-honored pose of those wishing to politely communicate “Fuck off.” You’re getting the pizza to go, anyway.
Behind the counter is an old Italian man. He makes eye contact with you and nods, but he steadfastly refuses to take your order. He simply stands there, alternately crossing his arms or leaning on the cash register. Eventually a younger Latino man walks up to the counter. He makes eye contact with you and nods, indicating that you should tell him what you want.
There are a few other Latino men behind the counter, either rolling dough or sliding sandwiches into the oven. None of them seem to care for the old Italian man. The old man returns the sentiment. They all seem to care even less for you.
The TV in the corner jumps in and out of static. The old man wanders out from behind the counter to fix it. This entails grabbing a rabbit ear in each hand and maneuvering them in the same manner one might manipulate an excavator at a dig site. This has the effect of making the reception worse. The old man notices. In response, he throws the rabbit ears at the side of the TV. There is a loud thud. No one seems to notice. The picture is now immaculate.
The cashier asks again if this is to go. You say yes. He looks insulted. A man who is neither the cashier nor the old Italian man, and who, up until now, has not even acknowledged your presence, hands you a paper bag. The bag is oddly shaped, with splotches of grease soaking through various parts of its surface. An onlooker would not be blamed for believing that the bag is holding something more akin to a football-sized lump of soggy clay than two slices of pizza.
The pizzeria does not accept credit cards. There is a credit card machine, yes, but should you choose to pay by plastic, the cashier will stare you down, take ten minutes to run your card through the machine, and then take ten more minutes to hand you the receipt to sign. The cashier will not let you leave without signing. The cashier will hate you forever.
You pay cash. The cashier nods. The old Italian man nods and says “Have a nice night.” You say, “Thanks, you too,” but they’re already watching the TV and ignoring you.
You open the bag on your way out of the pizzeria, removing a slice from the two paper plates positioned in a reenactment of a Venn diagram. The pizza slice is excessively large. You fold it, creasing it down the middle, but the point still flops toward your shoes. To counter this, you lift the slice above your head.
The pizza is hot, the pizza is oily, and the cheese has not even the slightest intention of sticking to the slice.
The pizza is absolutely fucking perfect.
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