You left in July, and it was a pretty fast slide down the rung-less ladder, after that. By January, the bank took back the house, and I was living in my station wagon and working part-time for Dominos. Thursday night, I was delivering two large pepperonis to a weary brown tract house on the south side, when a man the size of a defensive tackle opens the door, and as I peer into the bare, TV-shadowed living room behind him, catch a glimpse of you, dressed in your bathrobe, sitting on the couch. The man turns to you and inquisitively growls, “I didn’t order any pizza, did you?”
Before you can answer, I jauntily interject, “Ahh, these are complimentary, Sir…they’re on the house.”
His forearms taut as a warrior’s bow, the man leans forward, takes the two stacked boxes as if they were cardboard offerings to the god of love, and summarily slams the door shut.