The Wayward Irregular

The Wayward Irregular


The Red Baron and His Demonstrable Pizza-Related Betrayal

September 03, 2012

I’d asked the young man behind the automated scanning machine to repeat himself, and this was merely an effort to prevent TR, my companion, from absolving the man of his larynx with a roll of breath mint candies. “Young man,” I began, “the gentleman to my left is TR Schroder, my companion in manners such as these, and I’ll not repeat myself a third time. I ask, no—I demand—that you either provide me with the quantity I’ve requested or you may fetch your superior!”
“Look,” mumbled the grocery store clerk, “I told you we’re out of Pizza Rolls. All we have left is Bagel Bites.”
This is when TR opened his hands and attempted to lunge at the boy, sending an entire stack of Cosmopolitan women’s periodicals to the floor as I attempted to restrain him. They were everywhere. The headlines had something to do with excess belly cellulose, orgasm technique, and celebrity nipple positions. Now is not the time for such bum-grabbery—I am in the middle of business.
“Bagel Bites?” I quipped. “Do I look like a goddamn fisherman to you?” I dropped my right foot onto the counter. “These summer sandals cost over thirty five dollars! Bagel Bites. Why I’d be right to box your ears for the arrogance. Offer me bagel-sized nonsense again and I’ll slap you out into the thoroughfare.”
The boy paged his supervisor.
An overweight man in a red vest arrived to our isle, speaking softly into his walkie-talkie as he approached. The man was in his early fifties, and appeared as a frumpy and sad affair. Not the kind of sad sort who’s penned lovely and misunderstood poetry. No. The kind of sad sort who’s likely had to talk his way out of molestation charges.
The frumpy manager addressed us. “Hi guys, I’m Eric. What can I help you with? I hear there’s an issue over pizza?”
I knew it—this man has paid for sex.
TR loudly cleared his throat, to which I responded with a nod, then I turned to address the manager. “Look here principal, the gentleman to my left is TR Schroder, my companion in manners such as these, and we are losing patience with your whelp of a clerk and his refusal to properly service a reliable patron!”
“Okay then,” replied the manager, turning to the checkout boy, “Nathan, may I speak to you for a moment?”
The two wandered a few feet away, so TR and I used the opportunity to look to our surroundings and stuff our pockets with dental floss and batteries. This was the least that the establishment owed us for the trouble, forcing two men of discount grocery stature to argue, two men of the wayward appetite, two men who thirst for a damned pepperoni. We only fled the scene after observing security personelle approaching our position. We briskly walked toward our automobile, hips swinging dramatically while stolen batteries clanked in our pockets, the two of us taking the four family sized bags of Chicken-Buffalo-Anytizers we’d been cradling in our arms, now the spoils of the evening. TR pushed over a stacked display of diet cola and tipped his hat to the young clerk, just before the doors closed.
...
They were frisky days, the ones back when calories were a fat person’s word, back when you could lay down and watch the television, knuckle keep in an oversized jar of maraschino cherries just because you wanted to feel like a warrior. More than once TR and I spent the afternoon at the convenience store, vehicle after vehicle outside the windows under our gaze as they gathered fuel, the whole while stuffing our hunger with potato chips and anything that tasted like artificial fruit. Mayonnaise went on the cold display-case ham sandwiches in long lines, each packet a tiny offering of sodium and transisomer fatty acid, each bite squishing away another week or so we’d eventually have to spend in a retirement community.
Coffee was another part of the life, and TR made short work of embracing the madness along with me. Your average citizen brews a cup of coffee for the morning commute,