Tuesday at Patrick's

I do a lot of complaining about the kind of books and stories available, and preach about what they should be. However, I have yet to prove to you that I can do any better. I decided to plaster my school papers from the class I am taking so you may see what I am capable of. I'm already a hypocrite, though, because if there is any deeper meaning in my story arc here I have yet to discover it. Hopefully it is entertaining, though.

This story was the first we wrote in the class, and first papers tend to be a diagnostic for the teacher, to see what she has to work with. The prompt was to "Show, Don't Tell. In this 2-3 page exercise, imagine that your character has been on a diet for several months. It is finally her birthday, and she is going to indulge. There is a lavish banquet set before her with all the foods she hasn't had in months. Describe your character's experience."

I got an A-

“Tuesday at Patrick’s”

“I’d like the antipasto salad with chicken, no dressing,” I say, handing over my menu to the waiter who is kind of cute.

            “No she doesn’t,” my roommate interrupts, “we want The Works.”

            I roll my eyes. “You know I can’t eat pizza. Coach’d kill me.”

            “Have you ever thought of not telling coach?” she sasses. “C’mon, it’s your birthday, you have to live a little, just a tiny little bit this once. There’s more to life than running track, you know.” I’m on the fence. It’s tempting, but I have my obligations. “I mean seriously, you can’t come to Patrick’s and not have pizza.”

Actually you can and I have, many times, but that’s not the point. She’s right, it is my birthday, and I deserve this.

            “Ok, fine,” I relent, “The Works.”

            “Yay!” she claps her hands together in that irritating little girl way. “Ooh, and a pitcher of Blue Moon,” she adds.

            “Sure, I’ll need to see some I.D.s.” the waiter says. This is the first time I can hand over my real license, but I pretend to ignore that and throw a scowl across the table, just so she knows I don’t fully approve of the extra calories. She doesn’t notice.

            The beer comes first. It’s been a year since I’ve had any, not since I got serious about running, but it isn’t until I see the cool amber liquid sloshing into my glass that I realize how much I’ve missed it. I sip slowly, savoring the full, yeasty flavor, letting the carbonation gently sting my mouth. She’s prattling about something, but I’m not paying attention. I nod my head a bit, just to keep her going, and take another swallow. I watch small beads condense on the outside and I’m glad I let her talk me into this.

            When the pie arrives my mouth literally waters. I’ve gotten used to ignoring smells like French fries and fresh baked donuts and spicy chicken sandwiches, or those horrible, crispy funnel cakes at the state fair last summer. I can’t have them, so why should I notice? But this pizza, sixteen inches of crust, sausage, veggies, grease and iniquitous cheese is all for me. I stare at it, savoring the moment in my head and my eyes and nose. I don’t even remember the last time I had something like this. Maybe I’ve never had anything like this, and I won’t again for a long time. She slips a slice onto a plate, gathering a massive stretch of mozzarella on the end of a fork with a practiced hand and passes it over. If the grin on her face is any indication, she’s enjoying this almost as much as me. “Happy birthday,” she murmurs, and I pick up a napkin. First I tentatively dab over the surface, my single concession to a protesting conscience, but it’s a losing battle. I abandon the thin, now orange paper and cut off the tip of my slice, raising it to my mouth. “Careful,” she says, “you don’t want to get pizza burn.” I’d forgotten that was a thing. After years of protein and yogurt and soy milk I’d forgotten how to eat junk food. I blow on it until I can’t wait any more, and slide it into my mouth.

            It’s an olive, encased in cheese and swimming in tomato sauce. I play with it in my mouth, laying the thick, salty ring on the flat of my tongue, separating it from its gooey confines, chewing slowly. It’s over too soon, but there’s another bite. There’s always another bite. Inside my mouth I feel artichoke hearts fall apart, and mushrooms gush their earthy flavor. Green peppers crunch softly, onions dramatically, and the sausage; the succulent, rich, fatty sausage is the best of all.

            I wash it all down with a glass of beer, and feel the alcohol humming in my brain as I tip the pitcher for a refill. When did I become such a cheap date, I wonder? Maybe when I stopped dating? Nibbling the chewy rind of crust I consider the repercussions of another slice. I’ve already demolished two, and I’m pretty sure they added ten seconds each to my lap time.

            “You want to split a third?” she asks. I shouldn’t, but I accept. It’s worth it. I expected that I would be accustomed to the taste by now, but this half slice is just as gratifying as the first. I’m getting that feeling now, the one a water balloon must feel right before it overfills and bursts. I shouldn’t have eaten the crust, that’s the heaviest part. I shouldn’t finish this slice either, but when I shovel in the last forkful and let the silver clatter on the plate with finality, I regret nothing.

            “Check please, and a box,” she calls to the waiter, and he nods his head. The lunch crowd is filling the restaurant up, and the liquid roar of conversation flows around us while I slouch into my chair, taking in the devastation left from our gluttony. The pitcher is empty, with suds clinging to the inside. Bits of meat and vegetable that fell from our slices litter the table along with strings of cheese, gastric detritus lost in the melee. Napkins lie crumpled, purposeless paper coasters are soaked, and I am beyond content. The check arrives. I offer to pay for the beer but she waves it off.

            “Hope you saved room,” she grins, “Now I’m taking you for shakes.”

I groan, mumble “later,” and reluctantly stand. “Are you trying to kill me?”

            She nods her head in emphatic affirmation and pats my hand. “Yes,” she says, “so you’ll die happy.”

            Somehow, I can’t argue with that.