This is a thing I wrote.
Dan would have gotten so much pussy out of Mr. Pizza’s motorcycle if there wasn’t a massive pizza carrier strapped to the back of it. It was still pretty sexy though, weaving in and out of traffic, unimpeded by the clogged arteries of post-rush-hour Manhattan’s tachycardic rhythms. Even if bitches were turned off by the pizzacycle, it made Dan feel like Brad Pitt circa 2003, so it was pretty much worth it.
Someone had ordered a large sausage pizza, extra sausage, to a warehouse in TriBeCa. Probably some artists celebrating the launch of their post-postmodern art exhibit of blank canvasses with dicks graffitied on them. Dan hated one-pizza deliveries. Fuckers thought it was an excuse to tip like fifty cents, which was just a dick move no matter how you slice it.
The warehouse was on a cobblestone lane between two paved streets. This was an alleyway of loft apartments for the formerly powerful, those who got off on making interns come all the way down to lower Manhattan to pick up donations for biannual fundraising galas. The rate of classy alcoholism must be twice the national average on this alley alone. Dan hopped up the five stairs to the door and buzzed for Anderson.
This half-naked blond dude came to the door. He was wearing a towel, and there might as well have been an a neon speech bubble over his head saying “You just caught me between my third and fourth fuck of the day.” No need to show off, asshole, seriously. Some people would kill for abs like that.
“Sixteen fifty.” Dan said.
The guy handed him a fifty dollar bill and took the pizza. “Keep the change,” he said.
That wasn’t the point. So this one dude had millions in disposable income to make himself feel powerful by doting on greasy pizza delivery guys. It was what he represented that was really wrong with this country. Dan improvised.
“Hey wait! Listen!”
The guy, who had already begun to shut the door and go back to his languorous evening of pizza and sex, gave Dan another moment.
“You’re our one millionth delivery. If I could just come in and take down your information, we’ll send you a free pizza, uh, ASAP.”
“I’m not interested,” Towel Dude said. The door began to shut once more.
“Wait!” Dan yelped.
“Dude, are you hitting on me?”
“What? No!” A shiver of familiar homoerotic angst shot through Dan’s middle. “I’m not gay. It’s just… don’t you want your free pizza?”
The blond Abercrombie model gave Dan the most condescending look. “Sure. Whatever. Bring it by tomorrow night.” As the faux-industrial metal door slammed shut on his face, Dan pondered how many years’ salary it would cost him for just the fucking doorknob. There was a tire iron stowed under the pizzacycle’s seat.
Back on the pizza-cycle, he cut out through the maze of alleyways that made up TriBeCa until he came out onto 10th Avenue. This he rode all the way up to 23rd Street, taking perverse pleasure in the drops of city-water that splattered his face. An old homeless guy had called it that, the strange liquids that accost a person in New York. Is it bird shit? Is it air conditioner pee? The sweat of the fornicators on the seventh floor? Usually a spattering of city-water could turn Dan’s day sour, but tonight it confirmed the suspicion that was growing inside him like an alien fetus. TriBeCa Towel Man had provided Dan the perfect opportunity to tell the universe exactly who it was fucking with.
The following night, Dan’s internal monologue verged on the megalomaniacal. As he delivered two medium cheese pizzas and eight garlic knots to the sickeningly romantic couple on the sixth-floor walkup on the Lower East Side, he cheerfully contemplated bashing their heads in. The medium veggie pie came with a spitball none of its vegetarian (and probably socialist) purchasers would know about. But none of that was the point. It was all an amusing precursor to 8:30, when Dan left the pizzacycle on the street in front of the restaurant and stole a random box of pizza from the to-be-delivered pile. The floor manager did not interrogate him on the location and amount of his tips. The hot waitress made eye contact. Literally everything was an omen: Dan was doing the right thing.
He zipped in and out of traffic as Manhattan’s million lights brightened against the dusk. Peering up at the sky around the rim of his helmet, he even thought he saw a star. It was a beautiful night to eagerly anticipate committing his first felony. He mounted the five steps the to the metallic front door, pizza in hand, and buzzed for Anderson.
The person who came to the door, however, was not the slick, muscular schmuck Dan had been fantasizing about ganking for the past twenty-four hours. Rather, it was a girl. She was young, maybe nineteen, with one of those tasteful cursive tattoos on the side of her neck. Breathe. She had a nose ring on a cute button nose and the kind of tasteful cleavage the slutty waitress from Mr. Pizza’s restaurant could never pull off.
“Uh, delivery for…” Assface?
The girl gave him a blank stare.
“No, I, uh… yesterday. Someone who lives here was the millionth delivery. This is your free pizza.”
She flashed him a genuine smile. “Thanks! That’s so sweet of you. You guys have great pizza, we’ll definitely order from you again.” Soft hands grazed his as she took the box and closed the door in his face.
Dan stood there dumbfounded on the front porch. He had this little sister who was one of those armpit-hair feminists, and she was always going on about something called a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, a trope Dan had never understood until just that moment. He spent about three minutes looking at the space formerly occupied by the girl who wasn’t the man he intended to murder, imagining a picket-fence kind of life with her, bringing her flowers and cooking her breakfast. Bitch was ungrateful, too. He’d bring her chocolates and she’d say, “Thanks, you’re so sweet!” and then eat them by herself in front of Netflix. Or he’d compliment her outfit and she’d narrow her eyes, tell him to stop objectifying her. Fury rose in his throat like bile; he hocked a loogie onto the welcome mat. He stormed out to the pizzacycle and fished for the tire iron stowed under the seat. It was cool and reassuring against his skin. With purpose, he mounted those five steps one last time, buzzed for Anderson and waited.