You're Lucky I'm not a Ninja Turtle

the end of may was a chaotic time that has still partly overflowed into the start of june. as most of you know, i had four days to move from one apartment to the next and i was also working 2-11pm every one of those four days. sleep is never as important as coffee.

the combination of it all, however, made me very stressed and probably unpleasant at times.

on tuesday (my friday), i was surprised i could still stand. the only thing on my mind at the time was making it to wednesday so i could finally spend time in the new apartment, jumping on my bed in my own room; pooping with the door open; generally feeling like i had been stressed for a good reason.

unfortunately, tuesday was also the day after memorial day and all the rich people of the world decided it would be the day they called their concierge for assistance. most of us were on the phones with no breaks from 2pm to 6pm and dying.

well, at 2pm, i ordered a pizza from lagos pizza in north beach-- i set the delivery time for 5:45 so i would have something to munch on throughout the chaos of the day. i order food from them about four days out of every week and they know me by name. on certain days, they'll give me a free snapple to thank me for the business.

at about 6:15pm, i called lagos to see why the pizza was half an hour late and still not anywhere near my mouth. in my experience, the only time lagos is not on time is when they're early.

anyway, they promised me it would be another 45 minutes because of car-related trouble. but most importantly, the pizza was on its way.

around 7pm i still had no pizza and i was officially clocked out for my thirty minute lunch. also, lagos stopped answering my calls entirely and i was left with no other option but to call delivery.com and report the issue.

here's the situation exactly: i should've canceled my order with lagos and just eaten somewhere else, but i couldn't. i had exactly enough money left in my bank account to buy this pizza. and this pizza was meant to last me till payday. i had no choice but to wait for lagos because i'd already paid for the meal.

delivery.com got a hold of the pizza company and reassured me it would be another 45 minutes-- but again, the pizza was on its way.

at 10pm, i was legitimately contemplating eating out of the trash can or pouring ketchup on my post-its and eating them.

i couldn't handle it. the pizza was not coming. i was furious and feeling violent. i kept imagining the pizza man coming and how i might tackle him and just beat him to death. i am, by no means, a violent man but the week of moving had me on edge and the post-memorial day havoc mixed with an empty stomach and false promises of tasty salvation were cornering me into an animal mindset.

i wake up at 10 or 11am every morning and my breakfast is generally two coffees and a few cigarettes. i am not someone who can skip lunch and dinner on top of that. and as time went by, i was passing the twelve hour mark of my fast. i wanted to die, or scream, or throw a chair through the window and vomit stomach acids on my legs.

it was getting really bad. so i did the only thing i could.

i bought a pizza from extreme pizza with money i didn't have. i willingly over-drafted so that i could eat. essentially, i bought a $50 pizza.

and that pizza was all kinds of delicious: covered in a tasty array of meats and sauces. warm, crisp and greasy. i ate literally half the pizza without stopping before i realized the ramifications of over-drafting on what would be the last meal i could afford for three days.

i saved the rest of the pizza for my walk home.

about three blocks from my offices, two admittedly attractive girls in clothes too short for the foggy weather approached me to ask where i'd gotten the pizza. they eyed it hungrily.

"i had to order it online, but i think it's on folsom and russ."

"is that near? could we walk there?" one of the girls asked, while still drooling over the pizza.

"you could walk there, but it's not very close."

"where can we get food? anything, just food."

"not here. this is the soma. you've got to go to north beach, the mission or the tenderloin at this hour."

they took a moment to just stare at my pizza. i moved it close to my body, wished them good luck and left.

i don't care if you're hot or not, no one is touching this motherfucking pizza.

given my recent change of apartments, i'm still trying to figure the best route from work to home and vice versa, but that particular night consisted of a trek up california street and over nob hill.

i wasn't far up the hill when i noticed a fifteen year-old pretending the fog escaping from the sewers was a large, smokey fart he was emitting at his friends. they all thought it was the most hilarious thing around and i could tell the laughter fueled the teenager's sense of adventure.

"hey," he shouted, "lemme get a slice of pizza, man!"

i just kept walking. my pizza and i had no time for this show-off.

"yo," he shouted again, "lemme get a slice!"

and then he sort of pounced at my box, trying to steal what i wouldn't give him.

oh, how i wish you knew what this pizza means to me.

"back the FUCK off." i shouted directly into his face. this is my god damn pizza and no one-- no one-- is touching any part of it.

the kid backed away and i could hear his friends whispering to each other about what had happened. i readjusted my jacket and kept walking. the curse of the pizza pie is that it's cut into slices and everyone thinks you'll willingly surrender "just one slice" without much care. and on the right day, this can be true. the hot girls would've gotten a slice or two, the punk kid would've.

but that day was not the right day. if there were one day declared the worst day to ask me for a slice of pizza, it would've been that day without competition.

further up nob hill passerbys eyed my pizza and i stared at them until their eyes moved from my dinner to my eyes-- my eyes which said, "i am an animal and this is mine."

i am going to make it home and i going to eat this pizza and i am not going to share it with anyone.

as i got closer to my apartment, i passed one more man. this man was actually carrying a pizza as well and we made friendly eye contact. we nodded to each other and i laughed my first and only laugh of the day. he knew what was up.

inside, my roommates had friends over who tried to grab the pizza as a half-joke half-seriously stoned and hungry move.

"you do not want to touch this pizza." i said as i put it into the fridge.

for the next few days i debated whether or not i ought to go to lagos pizza and burn the establishment down, or demand they cover the over-draft fee that was sure to come. but my body recommended i spend my weekend relaxing in my new room listening to my "IT'S 7AM AND TIME TO FEEL GOOD" playlist.

today, i called lagos pizza and told them what they had done to me. i explained what that one imaginary pizza caused and exactly why that one mistake was the worst mistake they could've made to such a repeat customer.

in my mind, there was no excuse. if the pizza wasn't coming, they should've never said it was. and they certainly shouldn't have reconfirmed it three times.

muhammad, the owner, answered the phone and was immediate with his apologies and excuses. at first, i cut him off and told him there was no way he could excuse what happened and that i wasn't calling for an excuse, i was calling so he would know exactly how badly he affected my day.

when i had calmed down, he agreed the situation was unacceptable and went on to explain what happened on his end that horrible day.

"my father died," he said, "i had to fly to northern africa and i missed the funeral. i left my driver and chef in charge and the driver got into a really horrible car accident. the chef couldn't speak english and he was the only one left at the restaurant. he canceled over 40 orders and i've been dealing with the aftershocks since. this sort of thing happens-- it was all just horrible timing."

i couldn't help but feel bad for the man. till recently, we'd had an amazing relationship. but i had to remind myself that despite the chaos in his life, there was still no logic behind being promised the pizza was coming. they had continuously told me "45 more minutes" when they should've been honest from the start.

either way, muhammad and i apologized to each other and he offered to give me free meals for the next three days to regain my business. it was a true story of humanity. our horrible back-stories colliding.

there was something beautiful about it, really.

i paused for a minute, remembered my over-draft fees, and ordered a large grilled chicken, pepperoni, italian sausage pizza.

and now i am going to eat it.