脌 la Carte Blanche

Zach Powers


There鈥檚 a rap on my door. I go and open it and find the pizza delivery person there. Deja vu. She was here like half an hour ago. I just finished the pizza she delivered. I recognize her by a mole on her forehead, visible beneath the bill of her pizza company-branded visor. I stare at the mole and hope she鈥檒l think I鈥檓 making eye contact.

Her hands are empty. This is the pizza chain with the bulky heated bag. I pat my stomach. Yep, I鈥檝e recently eaten pizza. Not deja vu, then, but some similar phenomenon.

鈥淵es?鈥 I ask. I try to sound as polite as possible.

鈥淚 owe you an apology,鈥 says the pizza delivery person. She sports a gold colored nametag on her red, black, and blue polo shirt. Her name is Natalie.

鈥淭he pizza was alright,鈥 I say.

Her eyes exhibit deep remorse. 鈥淏ut you ordered green peppers.鈥

I think back. I did, in fact, order green peppers. I think a little bit less back. I can鈥檛 remember if they were on the pizza or not. I was watching TV while I ate and paid more attention to the show than to the toppings. I can鈥檛 remember which show. I need to work on my attention.

鈥淚t鈥檚 okay,鈥 I say. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 even notice.鈥

鈥淏ut there were essential nutrients that you missed out on.鈥

鈥淚 have some multivitamins, I鈥檓 sure.鈥

I鈥檓 not sure.

She reaches across the threshold and takes my hand in both of hers. I鈥檓 a head taller. She looks up. I avoid her eyes and find the mole instead.

Oh shit, she鈥檚 crying.

鈥淚鈥檓 so, so sorry,鈥 she says.

It鈥檚 like a funeral for pizza. Except I ate the pizza. I鈥檓 the person who killed it.

鈥淩eally,鈥 I say. 鈥淚t鈥檚 okay.鈥

鈥淵ou should never take your health for granted,鈥 she says.

She hugs me awkwardly, the kind of hug you might give a distant cousin at a family reunion. Tear marks dapple my shirt where she pressed her face to my chest. She takes off her visor and wrings it in her hands. She turns and walks back to her car. Oh my god, is that a Datsun? There鈥檚 a sign for the pizza company on the car鈥檚 dented roof. How does it stay put? I think they do it with magnets.

I start to close the door. The woman unleashes a bestial yowl. Neighborhood dogs respond in kind. I watch through the front window as her Datsun trundles away. The tailpipe burps puffs of ghastly smog.

I go back to my couch. Aha, it鈥檚 a baseball game I was watching, neither team one I care about. The pizza box is still on my coffee table. I lift the lid. Inside there are bits of cheese and sauce and sausage crumbles, a circle of grease, but no remnants of green pepper.

I should have asked for a refund or something. At least a coupon.

I flip the TV to the second sports channel. Another baseball game between teams in which I have no investment. I watch the bottom half of the inning. Three groundouts. 

My doorbell rings. I get up and go to the door and answer it. A vaguely familiar kid stands there. He鈥檚 got chin pimples, but nothing out of hand. He wears a green bib apron. At first, I think he鈥檚 selling cookies, but no, that鈥檚 not right. That鈥檚 the little girls: sashes and berets.

鈥淟ook, Dave,鈥 he says. 鈥淚 gotta be honest with you.鈥

鈥淗ow do you know my name?鈥 I ask.

He looks at me like I鈥檓 the dumbest person in this conversation.

He says, 鈥淚 wrote your name on the cup, didn鈥檛 I?鈥

Then I get it. This kid works at the coffee shop around the corner. I go there sometimes if I get up early enough before work. It鈥檚 been a while, though, like, months.

鈥淟ast time you were in,鈥 continues the kid, 鈥渢here was a screw-up behind the counter. My screw-up. The geezer in front of you ordered decaf. Like, what鈥檚 the point, right? And we don鈥檛 even brew it, so we do decaf Americano. I made that, and then I went and poured it straight into your cup. The geezer got your regular coffee, and you were out the door before I could make it right.鈥

鈥淣o big deal, man,鈥 I say. 鈥淵ou should be apologizing to the old guy. Maybe he had a heart condition or something.鈥

鈥淗e didn鈥檛 have a heart condition.鈥 The kid looks legit agitated. 鈥淵ou just don鈥檛 get it, man.鈥

He lifts the bottom of his apron up and clutches it in front of his mouth. Coffee stains mar the fabric all over. Some look fresh and some ancient. I look for patterns.

He talks from behind the apron. 鈥淵ou were on your way to a job interview. You needed that extra jolt. This was the job, man. This was the job. This is what people mean when they say life-changing. This is what they mean by dream job. I mean, if you鈥檙e into that capitalistic bullshit. But you went in there and bombed. Your brain just wasn鈥檛 fired up. You stumbled all over your words. You called the manager by the wrong name. Complete fucking disaster, my friend.鈥

I remember the morning. I wouldn鈥檛 exactly call the interview a disaster. I wouldn鈥檛 call the job a dream. The kid鈥檚 right, though, that I didn鈥檛 get it. Never heard a squeak from the company, not even an email: thanks but nope.

The kid lowers the apron. His mouth retains a strange shape, like his brain鈥檚 signals are getting confused on the way there. All is befucked, his expression says. I bet that鈥檚 how my face looked leaving the interview. The more I鈥檓 remembering, the more I really wish I wasn鈥檛.

鈥淚f only I could make it right, man,鈥 the kid says.

I ask, 鈥淚s there like a coupon or something?鈥

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 get it. You don鈥檛 get it at all.鈥

鈥淗ey, I appreciate it,鈥 I say.

I feel bad for the kid. I do. He came all the way here and did his heartfelt best. If this were a job interview, I鈥檇 hire him. Maybe I鈥檒l open my own coffee shop and make him manager. But he鈥檚 already sulking away. The sidewalk strings out ahead of him. His apron flaps like a backward cape.

Now I want coffee. I check the clock, but it鈥檚 too late. I never drink it after the morning. Gives me jitters. I go back to the couch and flip to the first baseball game. I watch another half inning. Three more groundouts. During the commercial break, an ad comes on for the pizza company.

鈥淲hat are the odds?鈥 I say out loud.

A spastic knock on my door. I get up and check it. This time I have no idea who the guy is standing there. Neat haircut, pencil mustache. Crisp white shirt, bistro apron as black as deep space. I鈥檓 pretty sure he鈥檚 starched and ironed the apron. His face, too, is flat and expressionless.

鈥淐an I help you?鈥 I ask.

鈥淪ir鈥︹ he says but doesn鈥檛 continue.

I鈥檓 not used to being called sir.

鈥淟ook,鈥 I say, 鈥淚鈥檓 watching the game and having a beer, so if you don鈥檛 need me鈥︹

鈥淪ir, I鈥檝e come to offer my deepest regrets.鈥 He half-fakes an accent that鈥檚 maybe Greek.

I don鈥檛 say anything. The guy squirms in place.

鈥淔our years ago,鈥 he says, 鈥測ou dined with us. As your server, it鈥檚 my duty to tell you that the wrong meal was delivered to your date.鈥

I think back. Four years ago, I was dating Martha. My only actually serious relationship. We鈥檇 gone to a fancy dinner. An anniversary or something. I remember dainty plates with small portions, artfully arranged. Glasses of wine. Too many forks. I remember wearing a coat and tie.

鈥淚t鈥檚 okay, man,鈥 I say. 鈥淲e broke up, so no big deal, right?鈥

鈥淭hat鈥檚 what I鈥檓 attempting to explain.鈥 He throws his hands in the air, pantomiming exasperation.

鈥淟ook,鈥 I say, 鈥淚鈥檝e been thinking a lot about wrong orders today, as a matter of fact, and who cares? Not a thing to complain about. As long as nobody spits in my food.鈥

His stony expression cracks. He鈥檚 befuddled by the very notion that food and spittle can coexist. As if that鈥檚 not what happens to all food eventually.

鈥淚 assure you, sir,鈥 he says, 鈥渢hat a correct order is of paramount importance.鈥

鈥淲ell, I appreciate the apology.鈥

I start to close the door.

鈥淲ait!鈥 he bellows.

I lean my face out the door to make sure the neighbors aren鈥檛 looking. It鈥檚 a nice, quiet street.

I point my thumb behind me. 鈥淕ame. Beer.鈥

I try to remember which teams are playing.

鈥淛ust a moment longer,鈥 he says. 鈥淚鈥檓 not sure you understand, and if you don鈥檛 understand, then my apology will carry less weight than it must.鈥

I put a hand on my hip. I鈥檓 trying to look impatient, but the pose feels more like jaunty sailor.

The server reaches up and smooths his shellacked hair. He takes a breath and begins, 鈥淭here are moments when any relationship can turn, and you were at the cusp of something, and then the wrong food came, and you didn鈥檛 notice, and the seeds of doubt vis a vis your attention to important details were sowed, and then three months later her doubts overwhelmed the vague comforts your presence provided, and you came home to find her alongside suitcases, and finally here was a detail even you couldn鈥檛 fail to notice, but by then it was too late, a culmination, set in motion under my watchful eye, my shameful, pathetic eye, unseeing this once of all times, and here you sit, in gray sweatpants, for the love of god, but if that single evening had gone differently, if I鈥檇 not failed you in my most fundamental of all duties, then this house behind you would resound with the laughter of children, the walls hung with actual art, the furniture less appalling, and you would be, frankly, so much less of a sad sack than how you, in fact, turned out.鈥

He gasps for air. 

鈥淪o,鈥 I say, 鈥淚 take it this has been eating at you for a while?鈥

鈥淟ook at your life, sir,鈥 he pleads. 鈥淟ook at what I鈥檝e done to you.鈥

Sweat droplets speckle his forehead.

鈥淟ife is life, man. What鈥檙e you gonna do?鈥

He appears unimpressed by my philosophy.

鈥淧lease,鈥 he says. 鈥渇orgive me.

鈥淚 wasn鈥檛 pissed in the first place.鈥

He drops to his knees and clasps his hands. 鈥淧lease.鈥

I muster, 鈥淥k, I forgive you.鈥

He rises and brushes gravel from his apron. The features of his face recompose, snooty as ever.

鈥淭hank you, sir,鈥 he says. 鈥淲e do hope you鈥檒l join us again.鈥

He turns on his heel and strides in the direction of the bus stop. His steps are quick and precise. The heels of his shoes clop out an even rhythm.

I return to the sofa, the game, my beer.

The game is now in the first inning, so it must be a new game. What happened in the game before this one, then? Who won and who lost and who cared?

Someone knocks gently on my door, pauses, and then knocks twice, surer.

This time I bring my beer with me to answer.

It鈥檚 my mom, which is strange. She鈥檚 been dead for quite a while.

鈥淢om,鈥 I say.

I check her fingernails for dirt. I want to make sure she didn鈥檛 dig herself out of the grave, that she鈥檚 not a zombie. No dirt, so some similar phenomenon. 

鈥淗oney鈥︹ she says and lingers without adding more.

She鈥檚 never called me honey before. We share no terms of endearment.

She wears the faded floral sundress she favored when younger. When alive. It fits strangely on her older, deader body. Like seeing the sun through smog.

鈥淵ou want to come in?鈥 I ask.

鈥淵ou know I can鈥檛 do that.鈥

She was always assuming I should know more than I did.

鈥淥ut with it, then,鈥 I say.

I sip my beer. The can warms against my palm.

She clears her throat, a dusty hack. 鈥淵our PB&Js. I know you didn鈥檛 like the crusts. I always watched you struggle to pick them away with your fat little kid fingers. But I never once cut them off for you.鈥

鈥淚t鈥檚 okay,鈥 I say.

鈥淚 had the knife right there in my hand. It woulda taken five seconds.鈥

鈥淚t鈥檚 okay,鈥 I say, 鈥渂ecause I always saved the bits I tore off to feed to birds. I took the crusts outside after lunch and tossed them around the courtyard.鈥

鈥淚 never knew that,鈥 she says.

鈥淲e were never the kind of family to notice things.鈥

鈥淣ow I get why there were so many birds at that apartment.鈥

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if they came because I fed them or if I fed them because there were always so many around.鈥

My memory flocks with blue jays and robins and bunches of little birds I referred to all as wrens. I look past my mom and notice birds in my yard and in other yards and in the sky.

鈥淚t鈥檚 been so long since I saw the birds,鈥 I say. 鈥淵ou know, really saw 迟丑别尘.鈥

鈥淵ou should get a feeder,鈥 she says.

I imagine a feeder, and then I imagine never remembering to fill it. I pay somebody to mow my lawn.

鈥淎re you happy?鈥 she asks. Her eyes are teary, but she鈥檚 never been a crier.

鈥淚f I鈥檓 not, it鈥檚 my own fault and nobody else鈥檚.鈥

She smiles, a rare memory. 鈥淭hank you for saying that.鈥

鈥淕ood to see you,鈥 I say.

I shut the door. I figure the best kindness I can offer is to save her the effort of a goodbye.

Back on TV, the visiting team is still at bat in the first inning. They鈥檝e scored ten runs already, the game over from the get-go. I close the pizza box and kick up my feet on the coffee table. I settle into the cushions of the sofa. They鈥檙e all poof, gentle hugs. Nothing wrong with my furniture.

I think about ordering Chinese for dinner, but no. If I get hungry, I can make the meal myself.


About the Author

Zach Powers is the author of the novel First Cosmic Velocity (Putnam 2019) and the story collection Gravity Changes (BOA Editions 2017). His writing has been featured by American Short Fiction, Lit Hub, Tin House Online, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. He serves as Artistic Director for The Writer鈥檚 Center in metro DC and Poet Lore, America鈥檚 oldest poetry magazine. Get to know him at ZachPowers.com.