Home Slice

As a self-diagnosed glutton and child of the Ninja Turtles era, one of the first things I do whenever I move into a new apartment is experiment with all the local pizza places until I find the most delicious option in delivery range.  When I first moved into my apartment in Brooklyn, I was sadly disappointed by the local fare.  The place by the subway was low-quality.  And the place by the laundromat was even lower-quality, and took upwards of three hours from order to stomach.  It was a trying process, but in the end I found my new spot.  It's a brick oven joint, a little on the far side by New York delivery zone standards, and it's on the pricey side for most people in the neighborhood I'm currently gentrifying.  But for me, it's perfect.  It's delicious, the delivery is always prompt, and the portions are large enough that I can easily eat myself into a nice food coma.

I haven't been enjoying their pizza too much lately, though, as I've been on a diet for the past several months.  I was sitting at work one day, and when I went to stretch my arms, the chest ripped right out of my shirt.  It was an odd feeling, kind of like I was the Incredible Hulk, only instead of being full of psychotic rage, I was full of Chipotle.  In that moment, i decided that I needed a change.  Once I'd gotten home and put on a new shirt, I decided that I needed a bigger change still.

My fianceé has been good about helping keep me on my diet, making sure I bring a healthy lunch to work every day, cooking healthy dinners that are already on the table whenever I have to stay out late, and generally giving me a piercing look of disappointment any time I suggest any unhealthy things I might like to eat instead.  But every once in a while, she goes out of town.  And when she does, I immediately reach for the phone and call my old friend, the pizza place.  I'm not the sort of guy who would ever cheat on his partner, but I most certainly don't feel the same sense of fidelity to my diet, and whenever I'm left to my own devices, all bets are off.

On one such evening recently, I went on Seamless and placed an order for the usual.  Then about twenty minutes later, I get a call from the pizza place, which is already a sign that this transaction is going badly.  The entire reason I order through seamless is so that I don't have to talk to another human being, lest he read into my voice that the obscenely large order that I've just placed is just for me and will be consumed in one sitting.

But I want to make sure nothing comes between me and my feast, so I pick up.  The man on the other end says, "I got your order and processed it, but I just want you to know that we don't deliver to that address anymore."  I thought this was odd, as I've ordered from them plenty of times and I've never had any trouble.  Not before I ate the pizza, anyway.

"Well," he said, "the last few times we've sent someone to that address he's been mugged."

"Oh God," I said, "you mean every time someone comes to my neighborhood, they're getting robbed?""No," he explained, "it only happens in front of your building.  Everywhere else on the block is fine."

He then proceeded to tell me that they would still deliver my food, but only if I was willing to come downstairs and meet the delivery guy around the corner like it was some sort of shady drug deal.  Of course, being a dedicated addict, I wasn't going to let the extreme weirdness of the situation deter me.  So I threw on my hoodie, went downstairs, and started lurking in the shadows, waiting for my connection to arrive.

At this point, I probably should have taken a look at what I'd been reduced and rethink my eating habits.  Instead, I thought about the building I live in.  It's mostly occupied by older Carribean families, hardly the sort of people who tend to frequent overpriced, hipster pizza joints.  As such, there's a strong likelihood that the last few times someone from this pizza place has attempted to deliver food to my building, they were probably coming to my apartment.  So the subtext of the pizza man's call was that every time I place an order, his employees are putting themselves in harm's way so that I may eat myself to death.  My addiction wasn't just affecting myself, it was affecting the health and safety of those around me.

After reflecting on this for a few minutes, I took a good, hard look at myself and thought, "Thank God I'm such a lousy tipper."  After all, I wouldn't want to think that because of me, crime actually paid.

-TC