Genevieve; the Third of January by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 18

Time had flown like the robins of last spring for Genevieve. In the lower right corner of the screen, she saw that it was already time for lunch. She closed down the addictive machine and made a veggie burger centered lunch. Rather than look out her window or turn her laptop back on, she opened a book she had once taken from the library’s dwindled free pile.

”Bad Pizza”; property of the author.

When I was little, mom used to take me with her when she did her shopping on Broadway. On the way back she’d usually get me a Charlotte russe at the place on 21st Street. But, the

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Charlotte russe place closed up and in a few weeks the town’s first pizza parlor opened there. I had some trepidation at first about this new thing. But, I guess out of hunger one day I decided to try a slice. Joy. Joy. Joy. It was the greatest thing I’d ever eaten, and it became a regular thing.

Indeed, pizza was on its way to becoming a standard food item for all. It got so popular that it gave rise to the universal belief that there is no such thing as bad pizza.

However unpopular it may be to say this, that is just plain wrong. No equivocations. No if’s, and’s or but’s. Wrong. Wrong.

Period. End of sentence. Case closed.

Admittedly it took me some time to figure this out. But after having come to that conclusion which now seems obvious, I’d have to respectfully say that anyone who believes in the myth must not have eaten a whole lot of pizza. It’s not like there is much of it. But there is definitely a tiny morsel, and if you get one of them, you will be sorrier than that mackerel with a passion for that croaker with the small evidence of a sharp thing sticking out.

Perhaps the story of my discovery day will illustrate this.

I was at a party, and like every party, the attendees were all being merry and jovial. You know all that stuff you fake and the lucky ones one day find an acquired taste for. You can’t say anything negative without being called a party pooper. So you

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kind of stand there and say stuff like; “Hey bro,” “Lookin’

good,” “Wassup’”, “Wild,” “Hey, babe,” and pretend that D4L’s blasting top 1,000,000 hit “Laffy Taffy” is the greatest thing anyone ever heard.

Party scene; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license; modified.

The grinning hostess approaches you with a gift of a slice of pizza. You’re not particularly hungry, but not wanting to be a downer, you take the slice and thank her. She doesn’t wait around and goes away offering slices to some other people.

The first thing you notice of your pizza is that the thing doesn’t bend and shows signs of terminal crusting. It’s in your hand with all of the elasticity of a horticultural tool and you think about wanting to keep the rest of your front teeth. Its shape is consistent with that same tool, and its rounded head appears as if someone may have taken a tentative tiny taste before returning it to its place. You muse that this round-

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headed pizza may ostensibly still be capable of flesh penetration, but of more significance, it has an uncanny similarity to that archaic gardening tool invented in timeless antiquity which necessitated kneeling or bending over, since replaced by the use of a simple hoe. In addition to the un-aesthetic physical appearance of the thingy, if you get it anywhere near your nose it smells like someone in desperate need of a shower sat on it.

Archaic gardening tool; public domain.

In all fairness, I’d like to point out that this isn’t always the fault of the pizza. Most of the time it’s been sitting on the table with the other overlooked slices, and they’ve all been re-heated five or six times in the course of the last hour alone and freshness is something best not considered on the distinct risk of bringing something up.

However, that sympathetic reflection doesn’t change the fact that you have a bit of a problem in or on your hands. The

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first time I was in this situation my first thought was to try to sneak it into a garbage can when no one was looking. That’s not easy at most parties as it’s difficult to get any privacy, and even if you did someone would likely see it later and yell out; “Hey, wud jerk been chrowin’ da pizza in da gobbidge?” and everything would come out, resulting in you being called a party pooper and going uninvited to the next joyous affair. So, in my case I decided to pretend to “groove” to D4L’s “Laffy Taffy” and nonchalantly bop my way over to the table which held the other neglected slices and put it back there when no one was looking.

I mean people at these parties aren’t counting, and may not even know six from seven to begin with. It works.

A word to the wise is sufficient.

In a very unscientific anecdotal observation, I would strongly suggest that if the offering hostess says something about god screwing up the whole pizza thing, don’t ask for further elaboration and run like hell. Claim a sudden diarrhea attack. Claim that you have to run because you had forgotten that your turtle must be fed at this time. Claim that your ear-receiver just got a text saying you’re your mother died.

Whatever. With all haste get the hell out of the vicinity of the surely oncoming crime.

Back to the “party,” in my case, a sense of some sort of annoying morality soon overcame me, and I thought it might be

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incumbent upon me to tell my best friends; “Hey, don’t mess with that bad pizza.” Maybe I should have said something, but ultimately decided that I didn’t want to risk that party pooper charge, and quite frankly came to find it singularly funny when one of them did eat it.

I finally settled into a calm mental position, wherein I thought; “It’s not my job to tell anyone what to do, and if you want to eat hard, crusty pizza go ahead. I’d like to at least recommend watching out for the sharp end. Most have not been rounded by that tentative tiny taste. But when you come right down to it I really don’t care.”

In closing to you jaded modern sophisticates, up until the age of about 18, whenever I wanted some good pizza, I had to archaically walk all the way up to 21st Street. Your improvements are admirable and include ten minute delivery from Domino’s.

But, I’ll tell ya a secret. They sometimes re-heat. It’s a business and like all businesses some efficient planning is going on. Suffice to say that if it was me, I’d have second thoughts if the slice I picked up didn’t bend. Capiche?

Not the End of Bad Pizza

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