Bart's

 

The move to a new place requires the establishment of several places. He will need the best of the following: pizza, cocktail, wings, library, book store, coffeeshop. 

 

Several websites will rank the pizza parlors in your location. He finds monetary incentives intertwined with local bias, but he scours the reviews for the content. Any without explanation he discards. He focuses on the 1 stars to look for particular gripes. He ignores any circumstantial complaints, such as bad service for that night, misheard order or misplaced item, all of which he will give the local store the benefit of the doubt. With most things, he will have the list of places in the back of his mind and as he travels around, should he find himself both in the area and in the right mindset or appetite, he will then undertake a review. 

 

Bart’s was listed often as the second or third best pizza. 

 

He enters the parlor. The sign reads “no phone conversations in store” in bold letters. 

 

He tries to imagine what the purpose is. The area of town is a little run down. Solid lower middle class is how he puts it. He attributes any sign to either theft/crime prevention or annoyance. Could a phone conversation lead to crime? He can’t think of a reason and gives up after walking up to the counter.

 

Hey, what do you want?

 

I’ll have a large pizza, plain to go.

 

Name?

 

Mike.

 

Phone?

 

215-620-8523.

 

It’ll be about 20.

 

His general rule of thumb is to call ahead. Places will overestimate times because it’s better for people to arrive too late than too early. He deducts 5 minutes usually from the total and another 5 to factor in payment. His goal is to arrive before it’s almost done, so he has time to pay. Once complete, he can pick up the newly arrived pizza. Fresh is key. He has a good half hour before the bike store opens, so he does have time to kill. 

 

He takes a circular walk around the seating area. the 5x7 photos hung around above the windows show white men in their 40-50s in the 50s to 90s. He’s not sure actually how old they are. He always had the sensation that growing up there were just school age kids, young adults and this weird middle age catch all that captured anyone from 30-65 where they hit retirement hard. He wonders if the people in the pictures would call it the “good ol days”.  

 

He takes this opportunity to re-park his car. While an acceptable spot, the idea that the spots align with a four lane road leads him to believe his car will get nicked or scratched. He walks a block and notices an ancient soda vending machine. Out of curiosity, given the fade and yellow discoloration of the buttons, he sees the sign saying each can is 75 cents. He ventures to guess in this part of the state, someone was too lazy to get with the times and neither cleaned the machine but also took the time to adjust to inflation. He thinks this was from the late 1990s. He presses the button, and sure enough the screen alights with .75 in green. He smirks to himself. He’s on a diet. He goes to the car and takes it around the corner. 

 

He arrives back to the store. The store cashier is no longer in front. He assumes the boy dutifully is in the back preparing orders. They don’t seem particularly busy. One to two patrons come by. One man in a oversized t-shirt, faded but something with a band given the listing of locations and dates in two columns. Judging from the locations of Macon , GA and Scranton, PA, the band is on the lesser known side of fame. 

 

The man is speaking with a woman who appears from the back. He cannot help himself as he listens in. He speaks with a little apprehension. Ma’ms are sprinkled throughout. the posture and position between the two participants betray a power dynamic. He takes it the lady has something the guy wants.

 

You have two forms of ID? your license? You got that drug screening test?

 

Yes, ma’m.

 

The woman glances over, turns away. The conversation softens.

 

He continues to wait.

 

He waits some more. 

 

A reedy man in his 60s would approach the counter, seemingly to cut up a pizza just cooked. He never saw the man do anything with the sliced pie, but place it to the side. Each time the man would approach the counter he was certain it was his pizza, but the man avoided all eye contact. 

 

He can’t help but wonder. Does his eyes and skin play a role in his lack of service. PC ruined racism. With culture pushing wokeness, everyone knows not to say what they mean. Instead you get this silence. Reading social situations are harder. He wonders if this plays a role in anxiety in kids these days, since everyone he sees in the clinic in their teens and 20s are on antidepressants, antianxiolitics, and stimulants. It’s the opposite of virtue signaling. It’s a hrumph, a fuck you. I won’t give you the luxury to know I hate you and who you are .You just have figure it out. The silence makes him stew. He takes a lap around the seating area, subconsciously hoping to attract the eyes of the people in the back inadvertently. 

 

He saw it in the south. Saccarine politeness. All undertones of what really is the truth. His Japanese-ness won’t let him intrude by asking where his pizza is. To ask would be to imply he has a right to a quick pizza. Which in a way, he feels he does. But is that entitlement? He checks his watch. Minute 30. 30 minutes of less, with delivery he thinks. Ok maybe 5 more minutes. That 5 turns to 10 turns to 20. 

 

The woman finished with the applicant. She went about the store.

 

She looked puzzled and finally asked.

 

What are you waiting for?

 

Oh I ordered a pizza about 50 minutes ago. 

 

She is struck with a little panick. 

 

Who placed the order?

 

Oh a young guy. He looks around, confirming what he knows that the boy is no longer there. He wonders if the boy just simply never took the order.

 

She calls out to the men in the back. Hey do you guys know of this guy’s order? Large pizza? She looks over to him to confirm. He nods.

 

He doesn’t hear anything. 

 

She goes to the oven and see the pizza boxed.

 

She hurries over and apologizes.

 

Hey, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. 

 

He says its ok. But his refusal to meet her eyes is enough.

 

She apologizes again. His inner voice again tells him its not her fault. 

 

He’s irritated. 

 

He musters an it happens.

 

yeah, but it shouldn’t. Im the owner, she says. 

 

Do you want a soda? 

 

It’s fine. 

 

Are you sure?

 

Yeah. He would like one to be honest, but taking it would mean he felt she owed him something and his rational brain said he didn’t.

 

He finishes his slices in silence. He can feel her staring.

 

He gets up to leave. 

 

She gives a buoyant, have a good day!

 

He replies, have a good one, both knowing he’ll never step foot in this place again.





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