Yesterday, I get to Gino’s at 10 in the morning and a man calls at 10 10 to ask for one pie to be delivered but we don’t start delivering until 12 so we speak more and I simply can’t understand the bastard's words. They sound groggy, some slow incomprehensible mush pouring out of the receiver and I tell the man “to try and annunciate” and I hear him snicker. 12:15 rolls around and the man's dead when the delivery guy, Ben, gets to the Edgewood motel. And I can't help but feel bitter towards this man for having framed a vodka bottle and perhaps leaving this world with my voice ringing last through his head. It leaves me feeling cursed but the pies must cook on?
I have to hide my dirty clothes now. I can't leave them in an open hamper anymore because the smell of sweat and pizza works its way into my dreams like a charm. And I can hear oven's opening and people walking into the joint and Joe's directions and orders and phone calls. There are a few things that keep me sane, besides my natural calm, and those things include downtime, free drinks, and Bobby. The eternal Gino's figure/loiterer. A Vietnam veteran with an armory of nonsensical stories that hangs out at Gino's for an average of probably three hours a day. Slow-moving and benign, adding to the rhythm of it all.
Supposedly Fridays are the worst.
