12/18/97 - Extra Cheese

Will you be mine, Pizza Girl?

A long day of toil behind me, I sit in my empty room, thinking of you. My fourth bottle of fine malt beverage stirs the juices of my passion, and the acids of my gastric system. My stomach growls, but it is my heart that hungers for you, Pizza Girl.

From the television continues to flow its endless supply of whimsical daydreams, broken only by the sporadic pleas of merchants to sample their product. Now they show me their newest yield, a beefy abomination called a triple cheeseburger, yellowy squares of processed cheese food dangling limply from betwixt its tempting 100% all-beef patties. Have they no sense of decency or subtlety? Do they not know the immaculate joy of a freshly delivered, brick-oven-cooked Italian pie? But no, they could not know the joy as I have known it, for only I receive my deliveries from you, Pizza Girl.

Idly, I thumb through my wallet. One, two, three dollars. They taunt me as I count. Will you have enough? they smirk and sneer. Four, five, six. Barely enough for even a small thin-crust with nary a topping to speak of. Ah, but there, hidden between two restaurant receipts from an earlier time, cowering as if to postpone its own fate, sits a worn, crinkled, but still U.S. tender, ten dollar bill. My own personally forged key to the 1982 Honda Civic that will bring you to me, Pizza Girl.

Now the menu lies before me, and I survey it as I've done so many times before. Thin-crust, thick-crust. Pepperoni, olives, and bacon. Calzones, gyros, and countless varieties of pasta dinners. Yes, yes, yes, I cry, bring it all! For no matter on which delicacy I dine, I know it will taste sweeter than the ripest fruit, richer than the most sinful dessert, as long as it is brought by you, Pizza Girl.

The sweat forms on the palm of my hand as I timidly reach for the telephone. Speed-dial, speed-dial, I must remember to set the speed- dial, I remind myself as my shaking fingers stumble over the rubbery buttons of the handset. There, a 9 instead of an 8, and I must begin again. Damn my frail nerves, damn them all. I can feel the precious seconds fleeting by, seconds sooner that I would be with you again, Pizza Girl.

Finally I finish the sequence. The playful chirping of the ring on the other end sends fiery needles through my soul. My breath is coming quick, my mouth is dry. There, the dispatcher on the other end of the line answers...

"Thank you for calling Pizza Box, may I help you?"

I can't speak. Every fiber of my physical presence clenches in the tumult of this horrible, wonderful anticipation. The dispatcher, repeating his greeting in perturbed tones, shows no sympathy for my plight, for he too must know the sweet agony of unrequited love for you, Pizza Girl.

"I'd...I'd like a large, with mushrooms and onions please," I blurt out, surging with some newly imbued power. I give a silent thank you to the gods, as I begin to recite the digits of my phone number to satisfy the dispatcher's latest request.

"301..." Each number seems to shine with a brilliant corona as it travels through the line, as if it was part of a secret password for some long-forgotten portal, and I was the lonely guard shouting it through the hills, hoping beyond hope that somehow you would hear it, come to me, and open the gate that cages my burning desire for you, Pizza Girl.

"Your total comes to $11.35, thank you for your order." But money matters not to me now, fool. Go on, command your underlings to prepare my meal, to cover that doughy shell with homemade sauce and tons of real dairy cheese, to pile the fresh toppings as high as they might, and to package the final, piping-hot specialty in a sealed, insulated carrier to keep it fresh for the twenty-to-thirty minutes you cautioned me I must wait. Then and only then may you hand it over to my lovely Pizza Girl.

Do your eyes light up when you behold the destination address on the side of the box? Does your face then flush with girlish innocence as you give a quick bite to your lower lip? Does your foot then press just a little harder on the gas pedal of your dilapidated transport? Have you been waiting for me, too, Pizza Girl?

The second hand on my watch glides languidly 'round its well-worn path. I must find a way to pass the time, and escape this torturous waiting game. My feline beasts eye me with indifference, or perhaps it is haughtiness, ripe with the pride of freedom from these emotional chains against which I must strain. But I pity them, for they will never know the sweet ache of this fierce longing, nor will they ever taste the tantalizing tang of a double-cheese deep dish pizza with extra pepperoni. They will never know you, Pizza Girl.

Through my sliding-glass patio door, I gaze out upon the icy winter night, the stars glistening in the sky like individual shreds of freshly grated parmesan. I can feel you getting closer, snaking through the empty suburban streets somewhere out there in the darkness like a frightened mouse being chased through a maze by the cat called loneliness. Come to me, for I hold within my heart the cheese for which you're searching. A large stick of mozzarella called love. Love for you, Pizza Girl.

Time seems to grow sluggish and thick, as dreams flitter wistfully before my eyes. As if watching from above, I see myself opening the door, welcoming you into my cozy abode from the callous, bitter wintry winds. I see you coming in, nervously, and placing the piquant pizza pie upon my cluttered kitchen counter.

Now my hand reaches for the stack of bills I have left out for you, which include a generous gratuity to show you the fervency and depth of my feelings, but as I clutch the currency, your hand moves over mine, and we slowly turn to face each other. Yes, now you truly realize what you mean to me, for I see your eyes sparkle, ablaze with a phlogiston of desire. Overwhelmed by your newly liberated emotions, you take me in your arms, and we stand there for minutes, then hours, in climactic embrace. Hold me, Pizza Girl. Hold me all night... Hold me forever... Hold the anchovies...

A sharp rapping sound awakens me from my idle fantasies. Every muscle tightens, as electric pinpricks flutter through my synapses. Quickly and clumsily, I check my appearance one last time in the translucent reflection from my window, then walk stiffly toward the door. My hand, quivering with waves of apprehension, reaches for the doorknob. I close my eyes while I turn it. As I pull the door open, a blast of crisp air washes over my face.

Slowly, I open my eyes.

For just a moment, my vision is blurred by the shock of the cold air and the bright ceiling light shining above the threshold.

Ah, there. The picture comes into focus. Now, brandishing my warmest smile, I let my gaze descend, and there, standing before me in the hallway, is-

"Eleven thirty-five, sir."

Wait! Who is this slovenly little teenaged tatterdemalion standing in my sight!?

"Where- Where---?" Where is my Pizza Girl, you greasy-haired, juvenile little pest?

"Eleven thirty-five, please. Do you have a coupon?"

In utter despair, I take twelve dollars from my cash cache and angrily throw them at him, while wresting from him my dinner, for which I no longer hanker. Slam, goes the door, and I let out a sigh of titanic(*) proportions.

I stand, an empty shell, in the center of my room. I cannot eat. I throw the pizza box onto the floor, upon whence the top wrenches open, spilling half of the pie onto the carpet.

I stare at it, but I do not care.

The cats descend on it quickly.

---

(*) Directed by James Cameron, opens in wide release on December 19th.

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