Hungry, lazy – cooked up a plan to have the stuff delivered.
Over for dinner: James Ellroy. Hard-boiled author – L.A. Confidential, White Jazz – tough guy, eyes dart wildly around my kitchen, scoping for foodstuffs.
Me: “Nothing there, Ellroy. We’re just gonna have to order out.”
Grumbles. “Make it snappy then.”
A pile of take-out menus near the phone – shuffled, tossed aside in haste. I spot a likely candidate: Chicago Jimmy’s. Jimmy never let me down.
Quick, to the phone. To Ellroy: “What do you want on it?”
Chaos, excitement. Quick glances at the list of toppings. “I like pepperoni.” Typical – could have guessed myself. Should have.
Trying to add my own flavor: “Alright. How ‘bout pepperoni and green peppers?”
Screams, a hungry man wailing that he doesn’t like peppers. New tack – go for more meat maybe. “Okay, how ‘bout pepperoni and sausage?”
Mulls it over, whetting taste buds, picturing the pie. Not exactly happy, resigned to his fate: “Yeah, that sounds okay.”
Numbers dialed in haste. Three rings. No answer? Not open? Scrambling for back-up plan, phone finally answered: “Chicago Jimmy’s. Can you hold?”
“Yeah.” Hesitant, don’t really want to wait.
Seconds pass, creeping. Ready to give up – Ellroy fidgets on the sofa.
“Sorry about the wait. Can I help you?”
Sure you can. “Yeah, I want to make an order for delivery.”
Computer keys tap across the phone line – typing in my info. “Can I get your phone number, please?”
I give him the digits, settling into the rhythm of the exchange. Done it a hundred times before – hundreds more to come, no doubt. Pizza Guy: “You’re at 4352 East Fourth Street?”
Name and address already in computer, easy for Jimmy to track me down. Eager to continue: “Yeah, that’s it.”
“What can I get for you tonight?” Ingratiating – wants to make the sale, cook the pizza, roll it out the door.
Ready with my order: “A large pepperoni and sausage pizza.”
Pizza Guy, hopes of boosting profits: “Will that be all for you?”
Glance at Ellroy – flipping through a girlie mag, bored, antsy, ready to eat already. Tired of waiting. “Yeah, that should do it.”
Fingers hit keyboard, machine comes up with total. To me: “That’ll be $15.25. It’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”
Forty-five minutes. Time to kill. Nothing to talk to Ellroy about – immersed in his own thoughts: Plot lines, scandals, gangster molls. We wait.
Channel surfing. Up the list, channel numbers scrolling upwards. Nothing good on – fly past Real Housewives, The Voice, Anderson Cooper, Louis CK. Local news – dog bites man, film at eleven. Kevin James trying to be funny. Ditto Ray Romano. Time crawls.
Clock watching: Minute hand creeps ever closer to magic time. Envision Pizza Guy climbing into banged-up car, pie on the passenger seat. No seat belt – in case of crash the cheese will protect it.
Reveries broken by doorbell ring – pizza’s here. Hand out to Ellroy: “You got eight bucks or so for me?”
Teeth grinding – sign of a cheapskate author. Digs into wallet, fishes out a bill. “Here’s ten.” Unhappy – thought I would spring for it.
To the door, swing it open: young kid in Chicago Jimmy’s hat, dull look in eyes, deep red pizza warmer brandished in front of him. “Pizza!” – as if I didn’t know.
The exchange – two tens to the kid, one pizza to me. Pizza Guy fishes for change. Me, magnanimous: “Keep it.” Quick smile from the kid, dashes away. Car door slams – mine too.
Turn to Ellroy: “Food’s here.”
Take pizza to kitchen, set on counter. Retrieve plates, napkins – but what to drink?
“You want a soda or a beer?” Ellroy, sizing it up. Finally: “Beer.”
I grab two Sierras, toss one to the author. Quick reflexes – snatches it out of the air. Cap off, beer down throat.
I’m no waiter, though: “Well, you’re gonna have to come get your own slice.”
Sighs, a slow rise to standing – Ellroy walks into kitchen, grabs plate. Two slices pulled free, dripping cheese trails severed by scissored fingers.
Back to the living room, pizza and beer in front of the TV. Simpsons living through another wacky crisis.
Ellroy, smiling, eating: “This is pretty good.”
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