It's Thursday night in Upper Michigan. A rainy, shitty night in mid November with nothing to do. I've been staying with my brother and his wife for a few weeks. And though I am quite fond of my sister in law's cooking, I really want to get some pizza. After all, my brother and his wife are off doing something tonight. I'll have to fend for myself.
I haven't been to the local pizzaria for a long time, and I love their sauce. The last time I was up here, I ate here at least twice a week. Taking the ferry over to the mainland, and driving up over the Mackinac bridge, I was thinking of nothing but that pizza. How did I actually forget it for the past two weeks? Oh yes. Deer season. Waking up at the fucking crack of dawn. But not tomorrow. Deer season is over.
There is hardly a soul when I arrive. The lone waitress attends to me, delivering me the meat heavy pizza that I so crave. She's probably in her mid forties and doesn't wear a wedding ring. A few lines on her face attest to her age, but her blonde locks and chipper demeanour mean that she hasn't given up on her beauty yet.
I eat over half of the pizza in silence, savouring every bite. I only pause to scan the waitress' figure for signs of imperfection. She is rather good looking, I reckon. A one time she was probably a near 10. She's now a solid 8, maintaining herself while all the other girls got fat and chopped their hair off.
I finish up and get a carry out box, not knowing how I am going to bring it back to my brother's place on my bike in the rain. There is no way I can stuff another bite into my gut. The mere thought of pizza almost makes me ill.
I pay my bill. On my way out, I notice Tom Robinson tending bar. This dude was here the first time I came around, about 4 years ago. I'm curious as to if he'll remember me or not. He's chatting with the lone waitress, sometimes looking up to watch a muted hockey game on TV.
"How was everything, man?" he asks.
"Killer, dude," I answer back.
I'm about to leave the building when I see a bearded man in a tan suit coat playing Street Fighter II. It's the only arcade game that this place has, and it's somewhat of a small miracle that the fucking thing still works. It's been out for nearly 20 years. Perhaps the owner pays for it to be repaired--there just can't be that much customer demand for a cult, early 90's arcade game.
The man's obviously quite engrossed in the game: he's pulled up a stool and has several stacks of quarters in front of him. His fingers slam the buttons from time to time with intensity. When he loses a round, he swears in a foreign language and plugs in another quarter.
Something is familiar about this man.
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