If I paid attention to everything I do, as deeply and as passionately as I pay attention to a good pizza slice, I’d be writing you from the former Frick Museum, because I’d be so wealthy I’d have bought the place, kicked the visitors out, and be sitting in one of my twenty-five Fifth Avenue Central Park facing windows right now.
I get teary during the first bite of a great slice the same way I well up over Bambi’s mother getting shot in the movie. I learned young, that if I made believe a girl was a delicious cheese bubbly slice I paid greater attention to her. Girls know that, too. Not that you’re thinking they’re a pizza, no, that you’re listening.
Last night, I stopped in a pizza place on Chambers Street. The guy rushed me. I said. "One regular." I saw him grab the lousy runt slice that sits so snug next to a newer pizza that it looks like they are related. So, I settled on accepting the orphan. No other customers but me, but the two guys behind the counter managed to ignore me twice, ask politely, “please take it out, I’m in a rush.” I got my too hot slice on a paper plate with no tray, and the other guy gave me my change a foot away from my hand. I made a small cough, made sure I had their full attention. Then I opened the top of the grated cheese jar they foolishly left out and dumped half on my slice. Made a stupid face and thought about Mom, Dad, and manners.
Washington Square Park's fountain was happening last night, with a sweet evening breeze.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Y18TBxUS5k
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