The pizza thief [Atmosphere/twist/tension/nature.]
He would wait until he found the perfect establishment. A bright and airy place with smiling staff, a welcome, and a seat near the door. It had been a long Winter. He'd covered two New York Burroughs without going into the same place twice. In January it had been fourteen below. Stupidly cold. He had stepped out every day and survived.
Now it was April; a beautiful April evening in fact. Lit up with a late sun, shining still from the West. Leaves, damp and glistening from unpredictable showers, were forcing themselves to grow again in the Parks. Alfred loved it. Not his daily challenging chore but the time of year. Hope, he thought, is Spring.
Tonight's choice was 24 Thomas Jefferson Avenue. The Pizza Pie Palace. He didn't like the name but he liked that the place looked welcoming and warm. As a bonus, it looked busy. Alfred stepped in. No bell over the door. He hunkered up onto a stool inside the entrance, scanned a beaten-up menu and waited to be served.
Wearing a sharp suit, starched collar, spit-shined brogues and sporting a briefcase by his side, he soon attracted a waitress. He smiled that winning smile set in tanned skin. Wrinkled up his piercing green eyes at the hired help and ordered a large Margarita pizza with a glass of wine up front.
The restaurant hummed. The red wine arrived and he drank it down gladly. It had been a long day and the throaty liquid would help to revive him, give him energy for the stride home. Fumbling with the lock of his briefcase, he left it unclasped on the stool beside him.
Soon the waitress was back, sidling up to him with his pizza. As was her duty in hunting tips, she made small-talk about his big appetite despite him being of slight build. Her name-tag said 'BECKY' and in small print under it, 'Here to help!'
"Becky?" Alfred asked, flashing that winning smile again as he read the badge. "Could you get me another glass of wine please? This is delicious!"
"Sure! Coming right up!" And she was gone to the kitchen. Alfred took the pizza, folded it in on itself, placed it in the briefcase and closed the clasp.
He was gone two blocks before he slowed. Eight more blocks home. The streets were getting dark. Banks of yellow taxis and their fumes competed with the smell of ozone after the rain. Half an hour later he turned three separate keys to let himself into the old apartment on Lincoln street. The building was a century-old brownstone complete with the original iron-grilled lift that no longer lifted. It didn't matter. Alfred lived on the second floor. With his mother.
"Is that you Alfred, son?", She shouted from the only bedroom.
"Yes mother! Just let me get your dinner and I'll be in!" She was pretty much bed-ridden, watching soap opera's all day. Alfred placed his shoes under the couch that doubled as his bed and unknotted his tie as he stepped into the kitchenette. He pulled two plates out of a cupboard, the same two plates he always pulled out, with pale-blue, flowered patterns along the edge. He removed the pizza from amongst old newspapers in his briefcase, sliced and plated it. He went in to the bedroom and kissed his mother on both cheeks and apologised once more for being a poor cook as he handed her half of the pizza. And as always she insisted that she'd be lost without him.
And then, like every evening, the conversation turned to his work, that of selling shares. He lied white lies. Shares were on the way up again, yes sir. Who could have the heart to tell her that Welfare paid the rent? That he left for a non-existent job every morning, walked until evening and stole pizza, her favourite, on the way home? Sometimes lying is the only option.
Now it was April; a beautiful April evening in fact. Lit up with a late sun, shining still from the West. Leaves, damp and glistening from unpredictable showers, were forcing themselves to grow again in the Parks. Alfred loved it. Not his daily challenging chore but the time of year. Hope, he thought, is Spring.
Tonight's choice was 24 Thomas Jefferson Avenue. The Pizza Pie Palace. He didn't like the name but he liked that the place looked welcoming and warm. As a bonus, it looked busy. Alfred stepped in. No bell over the door. He hunkered up onto a stool inside the entrance, scanned a beaten-up menu and waited to be served.
Wearing a sharp suit, starched collar, spit-shined brogues and sporting a briefcase by his side, he soon attracted a waitress. He smiled that winning smile set in tanned skin. Wrinkled up his piercing green eyes at the hired help and ordered a large Margarita pizza with a glass of wine up front.
The restaurant hummed. The red wine arrived and he drank it down gladly. It had been a long day and the throaty liquid would help to revive him, give him energy for the stride home. Fumbling with the lock of his briefcase, he left it unclasped on the stool beside him.
Soon the waitress was back, sidling up to him with his pizza. As was her duty in hunting tips, she made small-talk about his big appetite despite him being of slight build. Her name-tag said 'BECKY' and in small print under it, 'Here to help!'
"Becky?" Alfred asked, flashing that winning smile again as he read the badge. "Could you get me another glass of wine please? This is delicious!"
"Sure! Coming right up!" And she was gone to the kitchen. Alfred took the pizza, folded it in on itself, placed it in the briefcase and closed the clasp.
He was gone two blocks before he slowed. Eight more blocks home. The streets were getting dark. Banks of yellow taxis and their fumes competed with the smell of ozone after the rain. Half an hour later he turned three separate keys to let himself into the old apartment on Lincoln street. The building was a century-old brownstone complete with the original iron-grilled lift that no longer lifted. It didn't matter. Alfred lived on the second floor. With his mother.
"Is that you Alfred, son?", She shouted from the only bedroom.
"Yes mother! Just let me get your dinner and I'll be in!" She was pretty much bed-ridden, watching soap opera's all day. Alfred placed his shoes under the couch that doubled as his bed and unknotted his tie as he stepped into the kitchenette. He pulled two plates out of a cupboard, the same two plates he always pulled out, with pale-blue, flowered patterns along the edge. He removed the pizza from amongst old newspapers in his briefcase, sliced and plated it. He went in to the bedroom and kissed his mother on both cheeks and apologised once more for being a poor cook as he handed her half of the pizza. And as always she insisted that she'd be lost without him.
And then, like every evening, the conversation turned to his work, that of selling shares. He lied white lies. Shares were on the way up again, yes sir. Who could have the heart to tell her that Welfare paid the rent? That he left for a non-existent job every morning, walked until evening and stole pizza, her favourite, on the way home? Sometimes lying is the only option.
Comments
Post a Comment