After a late night at work, complimented by a physically exhausting Friday morning, there was nothing I wanted more than two big slices of pizza, and what better place to get pizza than New York City? But I wasn't interested in a "New York style" slice, all folded and slimy with a paper-thin crust, a bit of sauce, one layer of cheese and a bucket of orange grease. No, I was going for the Sicilian. I thought about it all morning; I would take a stroll down West Broadway, hang a right on Spring Street and waltz into my favorite pizzeria where I would be welcomed by an overpowering aroma of happiness. One of the thirteen Hispanic pizzerians (my word for one who makes pizza) would take my order, do a little dough-tossing and baking, and then maybe even throw me a "have a good weekend, my frien'" in broken English as I stuffed my face with cheesy goodness on the way out. Little did I know what kind of bad karma this anonymous pizzeria of animosity was looking for. Little did they know how it would all unfold...Upon entering the anonymous pizzeria of animosity (or APA) I realized that the familiar aroma of happiness had gone stagnant. There were not thirteen Hispanic pizzerians in this APA. In fact, there were twelve Hispanic pizzerians and one maybe Italian/maybe Polish/maybe New Jersey pizzerian staring me down. This abomination of pizzerians, who I will refer to as "Dr. Dickhead" from now on, had already predicted the issue and passed judgment instantly. He knew what I was about to realize; my wallet was cashless. In my eagerness and anticipation of the cheesy goodness a trip to the bank had slipped my mind, and Dr. Dickhead could not have been less concerned for my cravings. Never fear though, pizza lovers, I came equipped with modern man's most powerful weapon and most convenient form of currency: le debít.
I approached the ATM machine aggressively, knocking over a small child (in my defense he was wearing those shoes with wheels) as hunger had taken over all rationale, only to see the most demoralizing two signs in succession:
1) Terminal Error
2) Please see register (Dr. Dickhead)
I looked up from the ATM and over to the register, Dr. Dickhead was there with a .03% incline in the corner of his grin, the most minuscule amount needed to be technically considered a snicker. And worse yet, Dr. Dickhead was standing next to an even more demoralizing sign:
"$10 minimum on cards"
How could this be?
I approached Dr. Dickhead.
"Your ATM is Broken"
(Dr. D Nods head with arms crossed)
"I don't have any cash"
(Dr. D shrugs)
I plead, "If I get two slices that is $6. Is that enough to use a card?"
"$10 minimum"
I leaned closer, as if to embrace Dr. Dickhead, "Come on, we all know there is no such thing as a minimum."
(Dr. Dickhead does a stellar impression of an Oak tree)
"Can't you help me out?"
"A minimum is a minimum." He croaked.
"Are you kidding? Your ATM is broken!"
(Dr. Dickhead uncrosses his arms)
"You cannot go below the minimum."
Panic.
How could I live without my Silician? The next pizza place was 5 blocks away and I knew they didn't take card or have an ATM. I begin to wonder what type of bomb I would need to explode an entire New York City corner?
Thoughts continued to swirl as I stumbled out of this APA. Instantly I felt faint, as if I were Popeye without spinach and Bluto was bearing down feverishly on Olive Oil. My dizziness turned into slivers of fluorescent lights and my stomach grew wolf teeth. The people of New York City's streets started dancing to a pulse while singing and laughing to the tune of some God-awful Abba song.
Am I hallucinating?
I must have been seeing things, as flying pepperoni hovered overhead and bell peppers swam merrily in the surrounding gutters. I thought I heard a chuckle from Dr. Dickhead followed by cheers from his twelve pueblo-dwelling disciples in the distance, but couldn't swear on it or take an oath. Soho had become a mad play written by Hunter S. Thompson and directed by Yanni, and only a slice of Sicilcian pizza could silence the encore. I began shuffling frantically from corner to corner like a zombie, ducking in and out of bodegas in search of an ATM. Le debít had falied me, and le body was about to follow suit.
I tripped into a stationary store on Thompson, narrowly escaping a lethal pack of butterflies that had converged down the block. There was a small Middle Eastern gentlemen behind the counter peddling the usual; magazines, Zippo lighters, lotto tickets, etc.
"ATM?"
"Out of order"
Fucking liar.
Suddenly, crashing through the door, came Dr. Dickhead carried by one of his midget co-pizzerians. I wasn't sure if this was part of my hunger-driven hallucination or not, so I pinched myself. Then I pinched myself again in a different spot. I did this about seven times and they all hurt, so I figured the pizzerians were real.
"Can I help you?" asked Muhammad.
"No." I snapped to Dr. Dickhead and his accomplice. "What the fuck are you even doing here?"
Revenge. Oh, yes. Revenge.
The pizzerians looked to be in dire need of help.
I calmed myself enough to assess the situation. Dr. Dickhead was in bad shape. His pizzerian pal had fear in his eyes and seemed to need help. I briefly considered stabbing them with some glass paraphernalia in the window display but still wasn't 100% sure if I was coherent, and it seemed probable that cardiac arrest may have been Dr. Dickhead's affliction.
Hispanic pizzerian interrupted my thoughts "You have Aspreen?"
(I look to the store clerk, Muhammad)
"What?" he asked.
"Aspreeen!"
Apparently the youngster had a television set and had seen commercials for Aspirin at some point.
"Aspirin." I managed to choke out, gleefully watching Dr. Dickhead's demise (don't tell my mother).
"Yes, we have Aspirin. Two dollas and fiffy cent."
Dr. Dickhead, now gripping his shirt with one hand and his Hispanic savior with the other, motioned to me and then to his shirt pocket. I remembered his shirt had been blue and white stripes earlier, but now it looked like a magic eye poster as my brain was twisting with hunger. I knew I had to assist the pizza demon.
I reached into Dr. Dickhead's pocket and pulled out his wallet.
You're kidding.
No cash.
Not a single one of us had cash. It was almost too much irony, but not quite for my taste. All I could hear was the screaming back and forth of Dr. Dickhead's young friend and the stationary store clerk.
"$10 minimum! $10! $10!" yelled Muhammad.
"¡Él se muere! ¡Él se muere!" argued Pedro.
It was a cunning turn of events, but what little amount of morality I still posses allowed me to overcome my hatred of the pizzerians.
"Buy four bottles, amigo."
No comprende
"Cuatro! Cuatro Aspreeen, amigo!"
(Dr. Dickhead's breathing had enhanced and he seemed to be losing what little color he previously had)
"Four bottles, Muhammad. Four!" I yelled.
(Muhammad shuffled around and stopped, looking at me inquisitively)
"We only have three, sir."
"Just geeve us the three bottles!" plead Pedro, handing Muhammad the card.
Dr. Dickhead flopped to the floor.
Sorry, $10 minimum.
