Chapter 3

So there I was, walking home in that great weather. The sun was warm on my back, and the breeze was blowing the perpetual stench of the dog food factory away from town. Usually that was all you could smell in Troy, but not on this day. I whistled a happy tune as I approached the Fill-In, mostly because of my weather-inspired mood, but also to warn Crackhead Joe that I was coming. He was rummaging in the dumpster by the side of the gas station, and I didn’t want to scare him into a begging frenzy. He knew my whistle.

As I pushed open the glass door I was greeted by the familiar sound of the tin bell hanging on the inside and the smell of Cool Freddy’s cigar smoke. Cool Freddy never spoke, ever, but I knew his name because it was right there on his nametag: “Cool Freddy,” written in blue marker. I gave him a perfunctory wave and headed down the aisle toward the beer cooler. I smiled at the collection of cheap beer as a wave of cool fog washed over me. Things were just going right, now that I was off work. Usually something was wrong with the refrigeration system at the Fill-In, and Adam and I had to settle for a few tepid beers while we waited for our freezer to do the proper job. But today we could enjoy the cold that turns low-grade alcohol into a taste that is almost enjoyable.

I grabbed a case of Southpaws and headed for the counter. The sun was shining in through the window behind Cool Freddy, creating a kind of dusky smoke halo around His Coolness. Ol’ Fred was a very tall, very thin, older African American guy. He wore these round rimless spectacles that gave him a distinguished look, and he was always reading. And I’m not talking Jet or Ebony or anything like that. I had seen him with Voltaire, Nietzsche, Hesse, and Hemingway, just to name a few. It was actually because of him that I started my newest office-book: For Whom the Bell Tolls. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I kept meaning to thank him, but he always had my cigarettes ready for me and the total for the beer and cigs displayed on the register by the time I got to the counter. He probably would’ve thought I was patronizing him anyway. So we made our daily transaction in silence and I made for the door.

The house was just a short walk from the gas station, on the same street and everything. Our address was 1022 S. Brundidge St, and the number 1022 was known to probably half of the students at the university in Troy. We threw the undeniably best parties in Troy, and our home was affectionately known as “The 1022,” or sometimes “The Ten and Two Deuces.” I hopped the curb onto our yard and kicked the little girl’s bicycle that always seemed to be in the way to the side. No one knew the unfortunate little girl that had lost her bike; our friend Teddy P. had shown up with it at the Halloween Party last year.

I opened the front door with my non beer-carrying hand and stopped. The living room looked and smelled normal; same smoky haze, same mildewy funk coming from the giant wet spot on the carpet that never seemed to get any dryer, but the house was unusually quiet. There was almost always some kind of music playing throughout the house, either from the dinky little radio we kept on the bar or from one or more of the residents jamming on the instruments set up in the corner.

The bar and the full setup of drums, bass, guitars, amps, microphones and PA system were some of the main reasons our parties were so renowned throughout Troy. The band equipment belonged to the roommates, past and present, who were all musicians of varying degrees. Adam’s brother Britt had built the bar one day after ransacking the scrap piles at the hardware store across the street, and although it definitely looked homemade, it served its function perfectly. Stretching the length between the two bedroom doors on the left wall, it was equipped with the aforementioned dinky radio, three stools set up in front, and some stolen neon beer signs on the wall behind the bartender’s spot.

This bar had made its debut at the Halloween Party last year, which was one of the best we ever had. Adam and I had picked up two kegs from the Kold Keg in a neighboring town, where draft beer was much cheaper, and we borrowed a tap and a giant garbage can from some guy Britt knew from Montgomery. The garbage can was meant to hold the keg and a bunch of ice to keep the beer cool, and there were little holes drilled into the bottom to let the water drain as the ice melted. The holes we didn’t notice, and their function we did not forsee. So we set up the keg-can behind the bar before the party started, and by the time people started showing up and the first keg was almost empty, Weaver noticed that the carpet was soaked all around the bar. He was always barefoot when not at work. We figured it would dry out eventually, so no one really cared.

It was about this time that Teddy P. showed up with his new pink bicycle, complete with streamers frilling from the ends of the handlebars and little glittery star stickers all along the frame. The front door was open, so he rode on in, chasing down partygoers and screaming, “Yeah bitches! Yeah!” Ted used to be in the Navy, and he was pretty easily excitable. I offered him a beer to get him off the bike, and we made our way to the bar. Britt was currently dispensing drinks, so I caught his eye.

“Britt, get this man a beer. He’s thirsty from cycling.”

“Can’t man. Keg’s tapped.” This was when things started to get out of hand.

Chapter 2

Before I knew it, the shift was only an hour from completion. We had had a few complaints, but that’s usual, and Brandy always deals with those when she comes on, because of her stack of coupons. I had the day’s paperwork all ready for her, thanks to Weaver’s indomitability and excellent accounting skills, and was just ticking away the minutes before she relieved me and I was free to go. I had fallen asleep at the office desk a while back, so when I entered the restaurant proper and didn’t see Weaver, I was momentarily confused at his absence. But then I figured an e-order must’ve come in, explaining the fact that the phone didn’t wake me up, and he had made the order himself and taken the delivery. I made a mental note to remind him that only managers were allowed to make the pizzas. But it was nice of him not to wake me. He really is a decent fellow.

Anyway, while I had been tending the office, Weaver had started some music on the house system. The house system really only consisted of a little outdated boombox covered in marinara stains, but you take what you get, and that’s life. The music was actually pretty nice: some eastern instrumental sitar stuff, and it fitted my current state of mind perfectly. So I took my usual non-office stance, leaning on the counter between the two order-taking terminals and staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the passing traffic. I was just about to nod off again when his little, black, bestickered sedan pulled into the driveway, with none other than Kristen and Sarah as passengers. I felt my stomach drop. Jesus Christ, this was the last thing I needed.

Kristen and Sarah were a great couple of girls. Impeccable styles, beautiful smiles, and the respective ex-girlfriends of Adam and me. Kristen and Adam had been dating on and off for about four years until she found out about his multiple mistresses, so she summarily dumped his ass and started dating Weaver within weeks, which is an obviously inappropriate amount of time. Sarah, on the other hand, was my ex, and we broke up on mostly the same grounds, except that she didn’t find out about the other ladies until the relationship was over. I guess the guilt just got to me, pre-altercation.

Anyway, I watched Kristen and Weaver get out of the car while Sarah remained seated. My stomach moved around a little more, but I attributed that to the breakfast pizza from earlier. As the happy couple entered, I tried to look nonchalant, like I wasn’t trying to see what Sarah was messing around with in the car. Probably just more of Weaver’s hillbilly cousin-love music. That god awful entrance bell played accompaniment to the smiling faces approaching me, so I tried to assemble a welcoming grin.

“What’s up dudes?”

Kristen spoke. “Not much man. Weaver said you might be cool with us getting a pizza?” Bums. I swear to God.

“Of course. That’s what this establishment is all about.” Kristen wore an expression that was meant to disarm my care for the bottom line. I interrupted her. “What toppings?” Sarah was still a vegetarian, probably due to my comments about her love for the pig-dick that is sausage.

“Half meats, half veggies,” Kristen promptly replied. Weaver was wisely keeping his mouth shut. He knew this game as well as Kristen and I did.

“Same veggies as always?”

“Yep.” Damnit. I couldn’t let a poor animal lover like myself go hungry. “Alright, it’ll be just a few minutes. You can tell Sarah she’s welcome to come in if she wants.”

“Nah, I think she wants to just hang out in the car.”

“Right on, just a second.” I snuck another furtive glance at Sarah. She was just staring ahead at the side of the building. She could’ve come in, for Chrissake.

I made the pizza and popped it in the oven, and tried to make more conversation with Kristen, but she had been holding Weaver around the waist for the duration of the visit, and now they were whispering in each other’s ear. Sweet nothings and what have you. Sarah was still staring into space.

I listened to the sitar play a lonely tune for the eight minutes it took for the pizza to run through the oven, cut and boxed it, and handed it over to Kristen.

“Tell Sarah I said hello,” I ventured.

“Okay man.” I knew she wouldn’t.

Weaver awoke from his happy cuddling daze long enough to say, “Well, I’m gonna drop them off, and I’ll see you in a few.” I prayed that Brandy would come in early so I could leave before he got back. I waited to wave long enough for Sarah to look up when she realized that they were exiting and approaching the car.

As luck would have it, I saw Brandy walking into the parking lot as they left. It seemed like all the managers walked, while the drivers drove. Weird. Anyway, I went ahead and clocked out and got her screen ready to clock in, so I could meet her at the door. This seemed like a much more congenial way to switch shifts; not to mention that she couldn’t really question me about any problems, seeing as how I was off the clock now.

“Hey Brandy!” I exclaimed congenially.

“Hey John, good shift?”

“Oh yeah, same as always.” I thought I heard her groan, but I was on my own time now, so fuck her.

Chapter 1

It was a perfect afternoon. The sun was shining, but not too brightly, and there was an early October chill in the air. The smell of autumn, burnt leaves or whatever it is, abounded; there was a refreshing breeze, and all my troubles were over for the day. Ten hours at the Pizza Place, done. Now all that was left to do was stop by the Fill-In, grab some Southpaws and cigarettes, and go get drunk with my roommate Adam. Another glorious afternoon.

It took a while to get home because I had taken up walking. When my car broke down, I figured it would be easier to push it behind the house and wait for a fix to develop than to work on finding out what was wrong and spending my fun-money on getting it fixed. I had been walking for about six months at this point, and my fun-money was at its usual level: just enough.

Adam and I had this great day-to-day routine. He would drive me to work in the morning, and since I was the daytime manager at the Pizza Place, we would be the only people in the joint for about two hours. There was plenty of work to be done, of course, but he would help out and we would finish morning chores about a half hour before the store was officially open. Then came the breakfast pizza. Whatever ingenious combinations of ingredients and sauces that our half-inebriated minds could come up with, we would create. Creation is what is really next to godliness, and our breakfast pizzas were nothing if not holy. I guess I could elaborate on some of the greats, but that’s not really interesting to me right now, so I’m just going to skip it.

Anyway, we’d minister over our latest pizza like the Father and Son themselves, and have a cigarette while it baked in the oven. Conversation mostly centered around trying to figure out what had happened the night before. It was never a sure thing, because we invariably had different stories, according to the nuances of our different and astoundingly large egos. Usually, by the time the cigarettes had burnt down and the pizza was ready, we’d both agree that, no matter which one of us Susie Q. So-and-So was trying to seduce, she was obviously too stuck up to get with the program of active seduction, and not worth our time anyway. So we’d eat the pizza and bid farewell; the daytime delivery driver, one of our other roommates, Weaver, would come in to start his shift, and another eight hours of waiting would commence.

Weaver came in early on this particular day, and since Adam never ate his crusts, he let Weaver have them. I had warned Adam plenty of times before about the incremental costs of charity, but he liked to look like a nice guy and never listened. I, on the other hand, thought that other people should always do some kind of work for something, so I sent Weaver out on his first delivery: a tallboy for the manager. I didn’t let him clock in first, of course. Personal errands are a cost to the company, and rules need to be followed.

While I waited for him to return with Daddy’s Can o’ Perseverance, I sat in the office and cracked open the book I was currently reading during work hours, praying that the local Baptist elementary school wouldn’t call. They were always trying to get me to send them some free pizzas for the kids’ lunch, and I just wouldn’t have it. If their parents can afford to send them to some zany cult school instead of utilizing the public school system like everyone else, then let them pay for free lunch pizza. I had a bottom line to consider, after all. Well, not really; Brandy the general manager took all the heat for waste and whatnot. My responsibilities on that end pretty much consisted of changing the dates on the meats before they expired. I did it as a favor to Brandy.

Anyway, just as I was getting really thirsty, in strolled Weaver with his whiteboy afro and purple-tinted glasses. A walking anachronism, and he was high as usual. Now I don’t have anything wrong with a guy getting a little stoned now and then, but his job consisted of driving all over town in a timely manner. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t offer me any before he left.

“Sooo, what’s this grin about? And your eyes are a little puffy and bloodshot. Maybe you should have called in sick. No one wants the pink-eye, and your smile looks like the early signs of delirium.” I said this in all confidence even though I knew there were no other drivers to take his place. No one wants to work for twelve hours with only about six deliveries on minimum wage. Except Weaver, of course. Good old dependable Weaver. I had had about eight of the sixteen-ounce beer he had come bearing by this point. He needed the money, Lord knows, because he never saw the electric bill and we had managed to convince him that the total amount was his share.

“Aw, come on, man. You know the deal. On days like this, guys get highs.” I think he tried to wink at me, but it was hard to tell, seeing as how his eyes were all squinty already.

“Weaver, no one cares about your shitty bluegrass lyrics. Now go get me the other beer you stashed in your car, and we’ll forget this whole mess.” He always tried that one.

“But you didn’t even pay me for the first one!”

“That’s because I knew you’d be trying to pull this shit on me again. Bring it to me, and I’ll send you on your first delivery. It’s in a nice neighborhood.”

“Really? Aw man that’s so awesome. Rich people never order pizza this time of day!”

“No, not really, you dipshit. But get me that beer and we’ll see what we can do about getting you a nice delivery to a decent place.” I don’t know why he thought I had some kind of control about the calls that came in, but it’s wrong not to exploit the ignorant.

I finished off the first tallboy just as he was bringing my second, and I had him throw away the empty in the dumpster out back, as usual. I sat in the office with my book poised for reading, when an inspired thought crept its way into my newly-awakened brain. If Weaver’s getting high this early on in the shift, he probably brought a little more for when he started to come down. I exited the office in my usual managerial style and crooked a finger, beckoning him over.

“What’s up?” he asked, with his usual pathetic Weaverish smile.

“Weaver,” I sighed, “this has gone on long enough. We need to talk about this getting high at work business. No, don’t protest. I know that someone of your intellect needs some inspiration to get along in a job like this.” He eyed me suspiciously. “All I’m saying is that it would be nice for you to share from time to time. You know, love is charity, and all that. How about we head to the cooler and both partake, so we’re on the same wavelength and everything.” I knew his lingo because he was always trying to get Adam and me to listen to his shitty bluegrass pop.

“Well, yeah man. That sounds good. I’ll go grab my stash.”

“Wait, you didn’t bring it with you? What the fuck man? You were just planning on getting high all day without me?”

“Well… I didn’t think you’d want me to have it at work, is all.”

“But I’d be totally cool with you enjoying it at work. Right?”

“I dunno man. Listen, I’ll go get it, and I’ll give you a bud or two, to make up for the whole thing.”

“Cool man, whatever.” Nice.

Now don’t get me wrong about Weaver. He’s a good guy, and it’s really nice to have him around sometimes. It’s just that he has this unimpeachable faith in the goodness of humankind. He has this idea that everyone is moving toward some kind of ultimate goal, and that everything that each person does is a step in the direction of that goal. You don’t have to tell me how ridiculous that sounds. When I look at humankind, the only steps I see are being born, making babies, and dying.