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A Slice of Pizza

Jenene Ravesloot

I didn’t know a slice of pizza could be more nutritious than a bowl of cereal, Billy says, as he plops one half-fried egg on top of a slice of day-old pizza. Look at that runny yolk. It’s the consistency of lemon curd. Sweet Jesus, it’s beautiful, really beautiful. Then, he dabs some creamy ricotta cheese on top of the egg, adds shriveled olives, some parmesan, salt, pepper, and more parmesan. Next time, he says, I’ll fry up one or two pieces of bacon and throw them into the mix, if I can snag a slab. Remember Pizza Rat? Who doesn’t remember that rat? Well, Billy reminds me of Pizza Rat, only he’s Pizza Rat in his den after he’s scored. He’s Pizza Rat at noon with a beer-and-whiskey hangover. He’s Pizza Rat concentrating really hard on his day-old pizza with the runny egg, and he’s not about to share it with anyone. I look around the place with new eyes while Billy eats. What a disaster. Geeze, I say to Billy, I just read about guys like you the other day. Yeah, garbage everywhere, piles of newspapers in every corner, beer bottles, broken beer bottles, dented beer cans, and whiskey bottles scattered around an unmade bed. Hey, the stench of sour beer, frying grease, and cat litter is enough to make me gag. You know what they call folks that live like you, don’t you? Self-abusers, that’s what they call them. Billy, you ought to get a grip before they haul you away. But Billy’s not having any of it. He dismisses me with one greasy hand, then says I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that as he neats his gooey chin and yellow-stained mustache with one soiled T-shirt sleeve. He’s content for the moment. Life is good. My analytic skills aren’t needed here. The scrape of his chair says the conversation is over along with half of the day. I have to remember to change the time on my microwave when I get home. Life’s gotten away from me. I’ve been hanging with Billy too long.



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