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By The doorbell rang. For a
moment, Kit imagined a sparkling, friendly brunette outside his door, full of
energy and personality, wearing a short skirt and clingy top and a glittering
smile. Anything was possible. He answered the door. A young man wearing a black Death Jam T-shirt and
MegaPizza baseball cap held three large pizza boxes. “I didn’t order
anything,” said Kit. Balancing the boxes on one arm, the young man studied the
ticket stuck on the top. “You Kit Brown?
One sausage, one pepperoni, one pineapple. Debit card, it says.” “I don’t have a debit card.” The young man read off a cell phone number. “That’s my phone.”
What the
hell, spend the money while he had it. Kit dug into his pocket and offered a
five dollar bill. He shut
the door and stacked the pizzas on the kitchen counter. The aromas of pizza
sauce, sausage, and spices seeped from the boxes. Kit mentally shrugged and opened the box. Pineapple was
baked into the sauce and cheese to form the word ‘Answer’. He squeezed
his eyes shut, and looked again. ‘Answer’. He flipped
open the next box. The sausage
formed four letters, D-O-N-T. Curiosity’s momentum made him rip open the next bock
without thinking. The pepperoni read ‘PHONE’. He took a step back and stared. It couldn’t be a genuine message—there were better ways
to communicate. Words on birthday cakes or farewell cakes or anniversary cakes,
yes…but pizzas? No. But, it was free pizza. Maybe an omen that things would
improve. He pulled out a slice and bit off the tip. He savored the taste. Good, but
still a little too hot. His cell phone buzzed. Kit twisted the phone around with
his free hand read the caller ID. MegaPizza. Without
thinking, he flipped the phone open. “Hello?” A deafening
sucking sound roared in his ear. The three
words flashed through his mind, but too late.
A vacuum pulled him in headfirst.
He felt himself shredded into atomic particles and ride the cell phone
microwaves on a stomach churning roller coaster. His eyes
popped open. He was standing in a small, windowless one-room
apartment. Too much was stuffed into the space--a bed, a nightstand with a
photograph, a wall sized TV, the smallest bathroom in the world, and a rack of
blue and yellow restaurant uniforms. Still
dizzy, he collapsed onto the bed. The photograph was directly in his line of
sight. A woman.
Dark hair, eyes that glimmered with intelligence, energy, personality and a lot
of other things he saw but couldn’t name.
She wore a blue and yellow fast food uniform. “Cliff
Brown! Time to wake up!” Kit jumped
up and spun in the direction of the sound.
The TV showed a young woman in a short cheerleader’s skirt and
MeggaPizza sweater bouncing with manic enthusiasm. She back-flipped out of the
picture, and the company logo filled the screen. Kit remembered the phone call. He fumbled in his pocket for the cell phone,
and pressed re-dial. One ring. He was certain he’d hear the sucking sound again,
to feel himself shredded into atomic particles, and end up back where he
started. “MegaPizza.”
The voice came from outside the door. He dialed
911. No signal. He pushed speed dial for his friend Whitney. No signal. Mom. No
signal. He carefully punched in the number. No signal. “Customers!”
blared the TV. The cheerleader did a
summersault, and landed pointing her finger at him. “Cliff Brown! You have
customers!” Customers?
Somebody else’s, not his. He marched
to the door. Kit froze
at the bathroom mirror. He wore a blue and yellow uniform, with the word
MEGAPIZZA stitched across his chest. He gritted his teeth and mentally reversed
the backwards reflection of the name tag. It said ‘Cliff Brown.’ Who in the hell was Cliff Brown, and what was he doing in
his uniform? He grabbed
the door handle and pulled. The smell
of cooking pizza washed over him. Men and women in blue and yellow scurried
around the pizza kitchen, shouting orders, answering phones, carrying boxes to
the front. Customers in a dozen different fast food uniforms—Chicken Supreme,
Burger Barn, Indian Express—he didn’t know how he knew the restaurant
names—crowded the counter picking up their orders. She was
there, the woman in the photograph. She turned
from her work and gave him a smile and a
little wave. For that instant the noise ceased, swept away by her eyes
and smile. He was
still frozen in place when she gave him a hug. He felt her press into him, the
swell of her breasts, the hardness of her hips. “No hug back?” she asked. Kit squeezed back. He wasn’t sure why, but it came
naturally. “See you next shift,” she said, handing him an oversized
ring of keys. Kit looked at the keys, trying to think what to do, and failed. “Cliff, are you OK?” she asked. “You don’t look right.” “I’m not myself,” he answered. “See you third shift.”
She gave him the smile from the photograph, and walked toward the rear
of the restaurant. He turned to watch as she pulled off her MegaPizza cap, and
dark hair cascaded free. She opened
a door in the back wall, and Kit caught sight of a room much like his. He should have looked at her nametag. “Excuse me,” he called, “I—“ A dozen
closely spaced doors bounced open in the restaurant’s back, spewing men and
women in blue and yellow uniforms. Mimicking the
cheerleader’s attitude, they exchanged places with the other employees—standing
in the exact same spot, picking up the same pizza boxes, fingers over the same
cash register keys. Kit followed them with his eyes, and gulped. The mall’s food court sprawled into the distance. He
traced the restaurant signs—Mexican, burgers, Greek, Indian, more burgers,
Chinese, Chicken Five Ways, burgers again—until the signs faded in the
distance. “Uh, like, uh, you’re in the way.” Kit turned to see a young man with pimply skin and greasy
hair tucked under a MegaPizza hat. His
nametag said Jerry. Beside him, a conveyor belt splattered with tomato sauce
spewed out pizzas. “Have you ever seen the toppings make words?” Kit asked. Jerry whipped an empty box from a stack and caught a
veggie pizza as it dropped off the conveyor belt. “No way. Every pizza has the same consistent
quality.” The cheerleader’s voice exploded through the food court,
bouncing off the walls. “Cliff
Brown! You have won the promotion lottery!” “What’s the Promotion Lottery?” asked Kit. Jerry’s
mouth dropped. “You forgot? It’s what every associate dreams of! Their name being picked out of the bucket—“ A pizza
slid off the conveyer belt, exploding on the floor in shrapnel of sausage and
pepperoni. “I’m not paying
for that pizza,” said Jerry. A torrent of blue and yellow balloons dropped from the
ceiling, landing on employees, the kitchen floor, and unboxed pizzas. Stray
balloons landed on the conveyor belt, popping as they caught in the rollers. A man and
woman and blue and yellow business suits bounded over the front counter. “We’re the Promotion Team!” they shouted. The woman
pushed in front of her partner. “Cliff Brown! You’re number was picked at
random from hundreds of entries!. You’re on your way to a fabulous new
Promotion!” Her associate took Kit’s arm. He shook himself free. “I’m
not Cliff Brown. I don’t belong here.” The woman
from the photograph burst from her door in the back, arms outstretched. She
slammed into Kit at a run, her arms pulling him close. He felt her tears as she
nestled her head between his neck and shoulder. “You’ve
been promoted,” she sobbed. “I’ll never see you again.” “I don’t
understand.” “But you have to go.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “It’s been a wonderful six months, Cliff.”
She hugged him again, whispering. “It has to be, but I’ll miss you.” A blizzard
of blue and yellow confetti dropped. Kit was blinded, and she slipped from his
grasp. “What’s
your name?” he called. He pushed his way into the confetti storm, arms
outreached. “Where are you?” “MegaPizza!
MegaPizza! MegaPizza!” poured out of loudspeakers. The
Promotion Team grabbed Kit’s arms and propelled him backwards. Kit broke
away. “Keep your hands off me.” An electric
shock ran through him, filling his vision with blue fireballs. He woke to find
the Promotion Team stuffing him into yellow and blue golf cart. The vehicle
lurched into gear, and whirred away. He tried to
form words of protest, but only garbled noise came out. The woman
pointed a stun-gun at him, its tip crackling with blue electricity. She grinned
like a tigress. “I like using this.” Her
associate was driving, and glanced over his shoulder. “Cliff,” he said, “Keep
things in perspective. This is a promotion. Your career is what counts.” The
numbness was wearing off, and Kit struggled to turn his head. He sounded like
he had just spent an hour in a dentist’s chair. “My name’s not Cliff. I don’t belong here.” “How hard
did you zap him?” the driver asked. The woman
responded with an artificial smile. “His name is Cliff Brown and he just won
the Promotion Lottery.” Kit heard
the words, but the electric shock still buzzed through his brain. “I didn’t
enter a lottery.” The woman
twisted Kit’s head toward her, and held the stun gun to his nose. “Work with me
or you’ll end up in the Unemployment Draft.” The golf
cart slowed, brakes screeching, and stopped beside a pair of elevator doors. They
whooshed open, and symphonic arrangements of eighties rock music poured out.
The Promotion Team pulled Kit to his feet, and shoved him into the elevator. “Wait!
There’s been a mistake,” yelled Kit in desperation. He searched the elevator
walls for a stop button, or any button. There wasn’t any. The doors swished shut, and the elevator climbed. * * * The rear door of the elevator slid open. Row after
row of office cubicles spread as far as he could see. A
grey-haired woman popped from around the corner and grabbed Kit by the arm. Kit broke
free. “C’mon,”
she pleaded. “I won the Retirement Lottery and can’t leave until you’re
trained.” “You have
the wrong man.” “No I
don’t. You just got promoted.” “By
lottery?” asked Kit. “It’s the only fair way.” The woman
reached for his arm, but Kit dodged her. “It only
takes a minute. Please?” she whined. The electric
buzz from the stun gun still lingered, but he ran anyway. Row after row of cubicles passed in a blur as
he jogged down the hall, then slowed to a stop. He stood in the maze of cubicles. Lost. He should have
spent less energy being angry, and more on paying attention to where he was
going. The lights
in the office blinked. “Quitting time!” announced a chorus of voices. Cubicles spewed a blue and yellow horde of employees pushing their way through competing mobs.
Kit clung to a vacant cubicle, resisting the human current. The rush of
uniformed bodies thinned, and now was the time to escape. The office had to
have an outside wall, and maybe an outside wall would have a door. Kit passed
legions of cubicles, and a giant room labeled Happy Hour, with cigarette smoke,
music and conversations pouring
through its entrance. A beige,
featureless wall loomed before him. The door was only a few cubicles away. At eye level, in small beige letters were
the words ‘This Is Not An Exit.’ Kit pushed the door open. No alarms, no
flashing lights, no sirens. The door
led to a downward stairway. He stopped to think his next step through. The door
might lock behind him, trapping him in the stairwell. He wedged his pocket comb
into the lock. At the
bottom of the stairs was another door, the same beige color, with the same
beige warning. Bits of dirt and trash littered the floor along with scraps of
food wrappers, and a crushed plastic straw. He shoved
the door open. Kit blinked
in the golden glare of the setting sun. The air was cool, not uncomfortable,
but crisp enough to let him know he was alive. In front of him sprawled a
parking lot, its lines faded, and an occasional dumpster on its side. “That’s my
door,” said a woman’s voice. She wore
remnants of several fast food uniforms. Her red hair was sprinkled with grey,
and she looked clean scrubbed. “I didn’t
know it was your door.” She looked
him up and down. “You look like a newbie. You don’t know any different.” The woman
held out her hand. “I’m Athena.” He shook
hands. “I’m Kit.” “Your
uniform says ‘Cliff.’” “That’s the problem. I don’t belong here. I
just came out of…” he gestured behind. “We all
did,” she said. “We? You
escaped?” “Anything’s
better than living in that beige climate controlled fast-food hell,” she
answered. “Where do
you live?” She pointed
toward one of the dumpsters on its side. “You just empty one out, get help
tipping it over, and scrub it out.” “Don’t they
try to get them back?” She walked
to a nearby dumpster shoved against a steel garage door. “Never have before.
They just push out another one. Must have an infinite supply.” She lifted
the dumpster lid. “Since you’re the newbie, you have to get supper. In you go.” With the
mention of supper, he realized he hadn’t eaten since that one nibble of pizza
in his apartment. He tried to compute how long ago, and gave up when his
stomach growled. He peeked
inside the dumpster. He smelled fast
food. Fresh. Not the usual sour stink
of garbage. Kit pulled
himself up to the edge, then swung himself inside. He stood on
pizza boxes, fried chicken boxes, burger bags. He bent and selected a pizza
box, half expecting it to have a message. The pepperoni was scattered across
the cheese at random. “This
doesn’t look like garbage. It all looks good. Why throw away perfectly good
food?” he asked. “That’s the
way it is,” she answered. “Find me a pizza.” Pizza and
its ramifications made his stomach twist, so he selected a bag of burgers for
himself. “Want to
join me for dinner?” she asked. Athena pointed to a dumpster, next to a mall
mound of dirt sprouting a few struggling daisies. At her
dumpster, Athena pulled out stools and a short table made of duct taped pizza
boxes. Kit craned
his head back and watched grey dusk creep across the deep blue sky. He could smell distant greenery and the
fresh air of unconfined spaces. Images
of his former life came to mind, followed with the tearful face of the girl who
hugged him goodbye. “How did you escape?” Kit asked. “Just
walked out,” she said. “Had walk out or go crazy.” Athena opened her pizza box
and studied the sausage scattered over the cheese. “Did you ever imagine the
toppings made patterns?” Kit put
down his burger. “That’s how I got here. Some kid shows up with three pizzas,
and the topping made words. Don’t answer phone, they said.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out his
cell phone. “The phone rang, and I got
sucked through it into MegaPizza.” He dialed
his mother’s number. No signal. He shut the phone and slid it into his pocket. Athena had
stopped eating, and was staring at him. “Sucked into this place by cell
phone? That’s pretty bizarre.” “Honest to
God, that’s what happened.” Athena
turned her pizza around to look at the sausage from different angles. “Hmm. No
words.” She
selected another slice. “You can join us,” she said. “Life is good. Fresh air,
nice weather, free food. You’re a free person out here.” Kit rolled
her words over in his mind. He sat back and watched the darkness creep across
the sky. He could make out hints of
stars. “There’s this girl, back at MegaPizza,” he
said. “There was something about her. I need to see her again.” He shrugged and
bit into his burger. “Chemistry, I guess.” “You can go
back in,” said Athena “We do it all the
time.” She waved around. “You don’t see any bathrooms out here, do you? We use the executive baths on the third
floor. Gold plated faucets, crystal shower doors…“ “If people
can go in and out, why do people stay inside?” “Maybe they
don’t know any better.” A gentle
breeze stirred through the growing darkness. “What’s her
name? The girl inside?” she asked. Kit looked
down at the ground. “I didn’t catch it.” “Everybody
wears a name tag.” She pointed to Kit’s chest. “Yours says Cliff.” “I’m not Cliff,” he said. He noticed he
sounded less convinced than before. Kit thought of the girl inside, how she smiled at him, how he felt
good just being near her. He took a
deep breath and stood up. “I’m going
back in,” he announced. * * * Jeanne and
Kit lay nestled together in bed like spoons on their sides. With his
fingertip, he gently traced the mound from her hips down to the valley of her
waist, and then up to the shoulders. He
lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. The
television exploded to life. “Time to
wake up, Jeanne Begoode! You have customers!” The
cheerleader in the MegaPizza colors bounded across the screen and landed in a
split. Jeanne
stirred, and rolled over. She looked at
Kit in surprise. “You’re still here!” “Why
wouldn’t I be?” A tendril of hair had
fallen across her face. He tenderly
brushed it aside. “I thought
you’d go back upstairs. You’ve been promoted.” “I can come
and go as I please, and I want to be with you.” She reached
for his hand. “Jeanne
Begoode!” blared the cheerleader.
“Customers, Jeanne. Customers!”
The TV switched itself off. He kissed
her on the forehead. “Go to work. I’ll come with you.” The
MegaPizza was the organized chaos he remembered-ringing phones, employees
rushing back and forth with pizza, packages of toppings, bags of dough. Jeanne
disappeared gone into the rush. Kit paused
to watch the orders come in on the giant video screen. His eyes went wide. “Who’s got
that order?” he yelled. His voice
was lost in the noise. From the
corner of his eyes, he saw the back of a black T-shirt and a MegaPizza hat
going through the door with a stack of pizzas. “Hey!
Stop!” The door shut, then opened. The young man balanced the boxes against the
wall. “Do you
remember me?” Kit asked. “Should I?” “You can go
in and out right? You deliver pizzas to
people’s houses?” The young
man scratched his head. “Well, yeah.” Kit had
found the way out. He could deliver pizzas to himself. Just walk out with this
stack of boxes and… He thought
of Jeanne. He turned and searched, glimpsing her tucking a stray bang under the
cap as she took a phone order. “Bring me
those pizzas,” said Kit. He unzipped
the delivery bag. “You
shouldn’t do that,” said the young man. Kit ignored
him and opened the first pizza addressed to him. Sausage, the chunks of meat
formed in no particular pattern. He opened the second, random pepperoni. The third was pineapple. A horrible
thought came to mind. Maybe the other
Kit would answer the phone, and end up taking his place. He wasn’t
ready to leave. He wasn’t as ready to
go back to his old life as he had thought. He treasured Jeanne and the parking lot’s quiet
and fresh air. Maybe he would take
Jeanne outside one day. Thanks to the kid in the black T-shirt, Kit even knew a
way back. Kit had
everything a man could want. He couldn’t let the other him make that phone
call. He knew
what to do. “Throw those away,” he ordered. “Wait here. I’ll make
them myself.” He laid out three pizza crusts, slathered them with
sauce, and scattered the tops with cheese.
He grabbed a handful of sausage, and on the first shaped the
letters D-O-N-T. Then he took a handful of pineapple, and on
the next pizza wrote the second word….
Mr. Bauer brings us a saucy tale of the surreal nature of delivery pizza…
MeggaPizza
Chris Bauer