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The important thing is that you wanted to get there after 12, but before 3. At 3 they started giving throwaway stale slices to the drunkards making their way to the outer-boroughs, but at 12 the manager came in. The manager, like all managers, gave hell to his staff of underpaid workers and was more than a bit unrealistic about the working conditions of a corner pizza shop. But he really did love making pizza the right way; something that, it had to be said, did suffer when his watchful, annoying eye wasn't on the operation. He would come in at 12 on nights like these to make sure no one tried to get funny with the female cashiers, make sure the teens weren't taking extra from the drawer, do three hours, and leave it to the younger crew to lock up. His secret was that he didn't trust what he called "The canned shit." Instead of putting the sauce right on, he'd crush (hand crush) whole tomatoes and put miniscule bits of crushed garlic in the sauce, simmer for a few "goddamn" seconds, and then put it on the pizza. It wasn't a good "drunk" like your nightlife guides might say. It was just damn fine pizza that a few would acknowledge now and then. So, he was a difficult man, but he cared about his $1.75 slices. You should stop in some time.
Ed sat down at the bar across the street and surveyed a room of 20 year olds playing 30. He never made any snide judgment or laughed under his breath, he just noticed that they wanted to be older than they were. Nothing wrong with that. He was thinking about something. He scratched the upper part of his cheek as a bit of a nervous habit that started around his teenage years and never left him in the mid-30's that he was. A good friend of his always crowed about the fact that the cigarettes that left the bars of New York City hid the smell of body odor and vomit, but he never paid attention. One day there was cigarette smoke, the next there wasn't. Judith interrupted his third beer, the sight of her. Things ended badly between them, mainly because they never started. He equated the whole situation to being patted on the head and smiled at, but never actually taken seriously. He could never figure out if he was ok with all this, but he had to be. She was disappearing the way that unrequited loves always do. They just start to vanish one day and you know you can't make a dent in the whole affair. He had that feeling. They were both there to see the same person. If they'd arranged to meet together at any point, it never would have happened. Here, he never would have guessed to meet her. That was a bit unfair. "Oh my God!" she was general excited to see him. "How are you?" the same back, but with a hint of knowing sadness, to be a bit poetic for a second. He heard she'd be there, but there was something a bit odd about seeing her in the flesh outside of their usual situation. They talked, people always do. But it didn't feel like anything. It was like reaching for something but not quite grabbing it. Oh well. He had to leave. "Aren't you going to hang out for a bit? I miss you," she said. "...I'm always going to miss you," he said, giving life to months of frustration. So as these things go, she stood silent but smiling, pretending to not fully get his meaning, and he gave a hug and walked out. Down the street and under the lights of clean but depressing convenience store, Ed broke into hysterical laughter and finished his walk home.
One time I was at the pizza place around 2:30. I was slurring my speech by then, but I recognized the manager. I waved a hello, and he gave a gruff response much like I expected. Anyway, he looks over at a guy making a pizza for the 4 o'clock rush as he pours out the sauce onto the dough. "What? You want me to..." the guy says. The manager, without even turning around starts to walk out the door and says, "Do whatever the hell you want."
--Maurice
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Bonding over sutures is what's hot in Oh-Nine. --JS
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