I. The Situation
“How much? And the wait is how long? Ah. Yes, yes, yes. Perfect,” said Pablo, placing the phone back on the hook before returning to an afternoon of quiet relaxation. Too tough for sunscreen and too lazy to stand, he sat in his chair, the network of wrinkles on his face hinting at bar-brawls past, maybe a couple recent hard days. Today wasn’t one of them. He basked in The Mastermind’s delight, thinking flawless thoughts, channeling the expression of God on the Seventh Day.
Between his teeth - an assemblage of crooked matchsticks, dulled yellow yet still glistening - he passed a toothpick. Back and forth, again and again, methodically, as if keeping the passage of time. Each tic a clean swipe, each toc the very same. About the town he was appraised by businessmen as a recently-escaped convict, by policemen as harmless, by vagabonds as kin. All missed the mark. Which was alright with Pablo. “I’m inscrutable,” he liked to say, his eyes taking in much more than they, or his mouth, let out, always.
His nose, however, took it all in most days; today, though, the very thought of his favorite meal, pizza, was quite enough to repress the vague smell—wafting, bubbling up from right behind—of decaying flesh. The anticipation of the savory urged one to smile, silencing the buzzings of insects drawn to the scene by instinctual obligation: two swarms hovered above the body splayed on Pablo’s floor mattress, completely covering his welcome mat and foyer.
But there was no one to welcome. He surveyed the scene, taking it all in with a grand heroic breath and a shrug. For within Pablo’s sight, on his front porch, was entirety: the flowering landscape of life and, just behind, the armies, the opportunists of decay. Pablo regarded this spectrum with perfect equanimity. At peace.
Because by now he’d adjusted comfortably and well to the vacancy which sat to the left of his rusty but faithful (mobile) digs; the once bustling twin-family duplex had been long ago abandoned, was now the subject—another punk—to Mother Nature’s impersonal whims. “Rosy the Ricketiest” he called his trailer, his main squeeze. Trips to everywhere and back over the years giving credence to its name, Pablo long ago giving up attempts to fortify or maintain her. And for his indifference who could blame him? Who could think of things like paint and color coordination and feng shui when there were no women to be impressed? Who’d think of such trivialities when much more pressing issues (e.g., sustenance) loomed - it seemed - always?
No time for all that pretty boy shit.
II. The Encounter
“Hm!” grunted Pablo, nodding his head in approval of what he saw—a Boston’s Delivery Boy, hazy in the distance.
Truth be told, the put-put-put from the Delivery Boy’s scooter could be heard miles before his arrival, which especially pleased Pablo when he matched the owner of the sounds to the guy carrying the day’s 2nd meal: a twin set of pizzas and two cervezas, along with “metallic silverware and plenty napkins” (Boston’s way of distinguishing themselves from run-of-the-mill pizza joints, with pending lawsuits forcing Delivery Boys to announce the distinct uneatability of these tokens). “Your absolute satisfaction and nothing less!”
The Delivery Boy, taking off his helmet and turning off his Sony Walkman jams, parked his scooter and got (closer to fell) off. He had followed the semi-paved road to its exact end, which was in front of the abandoned duplex twins. The Delivery Boy might’ve tried to ride around until he saw signs of living things, but he couldn’t be sure just how many more puts or half-puts remained in his scooter.
He searched the scene for a few seconds, referring back to his map only to remember the map did not contain real pictures of real people, did not contain a reference of the man who’d placed the order for one huge and hearty-ass lunch.
“Over here boy!” yelled Pablo from an uneasy distance, just his forehead and the top half of his aviator shades clearly visible to the Delivery Boy.
Spotting Pablo, the Boy walked, losing and regaining his balance several times over the 40 yard interval. Apparently, uneven ground decorated with slithering snakes and barely-audible scurryings makes for a traumatic 30 seconds, but he reached Pablo safely.
“Phew,” signed the delivery boy, seeing Pablo sitting squarely in the white chair outside the trailer. The men shook hands.
“My friend! Hello,” said Pablo, giving the delivery boy a slap on the back.
“Afternoon, sir. That’ll be,” grabbing the receipt out his back pocket, “$24.25, please.”
“Hm!” said Pablo, as if he’d been quoted double over the phone.
“How much?”
“Um, That’ll be $24.25. Please.”
The Pizza Delivery Boy held the two boxes of pizza and bag of beer unmovingly. While Pablo reached into his back pocket, The Delivery Boy said, “If you haven’t had our quottro formaggi yet, you’re gonna love it! Your absolute satisfaction and nothing less! It’s our gau—”
His speech stammered. He stammered. His eyes did not: they reported to him the vision that Pablo had relished in, The Delivery Boy now making sense of the smell and overall uneasiness of the scene. The whiff weakened his knees, made him nearly collapse. The Delivery Boy’s intuition about having a “6th sense” was, at that very moment, transformed into full-fledged belief. Fact. He tried to form thoughts to overthrow the anarchy in his mind. Seconds turning to what seemed to him like minutes until, finally - Pablo responding with a look of manufactured confusion - The Delivery Boy fled the scene.
“Agh! Agh!” grunted The Delivery Boy.
His boots failed, laces coming undone along the 40 yards, paying their karmic debt for being forgotten to be tied.
Not a single hint of remorse installed itself on Pablo’s face as he looked at the Boy with sad pity. “What a poor, frail fool” Pablo mouthed soundlessly.
Arms flailing about, “Shit! What an insane fool!” The Boy screamed, not caring if Pablo heard him, hoping Pablo heard him. The Boy wouldn’t go down without a fight, without speaking his mind; he would be letting Pablo know just how absurd the whole scene was and just how much he resented it. He let him know “You’ll burn in hell for this!”
“And he had the nerve to ask me how much! Twice!” went the boy in disgust, reaching his scooter safely, put-putting off in a blur, toward serenity, salvation.
Alas, like a father watching his son’s very first basketball game, Pablo smiled.
III. The Final Showdown
“Hm! Hm! Hm!” Pablo said, rejoicing and doing a cute little victory dance. Jumping all around and singing in a breathy baritone, he flung out his hand as if to catch a high-five.
Smack!
“Free pizza!” the men said in a chorus, as if rehearsed. Pablo and the man with the dripping, blood-red shirt celebrated and chanted for their victory, seduced by their own sinister scheming, laughing uproariously, mouths salivating savagely…while deciding what victim to pick next.
Who would be their next hopeless deliverer?
“Pasta Di Mama?” the sweaty, smelly, drenched-in-red-stains man said.
“Pasta Di Mama?” said Pablo.
“Pasta Di Mama!” they cried in unison, topping their meal with Sriracha, breaking the seals on their beers, preparing to devour everything, even - one would rightly suspect - the silverware.
