Floyd Green walked into Island Pizza. Charlie and Eddy were manning the ovens. Charlie, at sixteen, still had a chance to grow out of the go no-where-ness of the pizza shop. As for Eddy, who was almost forty, it was too late. Floyd was twenty-one. He was on the fence about growing up or going nowhere, but more than likely he was heading for the latter. The year was 1995, and nowhere seemed plenty cool enough.
Eddy said, “You’re late, Floyd.”
There were many things about Eddy that bothered Floyd. The two main ones were: One, he hated the way Eddy said his name, like his mouth had just bitten into a lemon. And two, he hated how Eddy always tried to sound like he was some wise and worldly older man-in-charge. Worldly enough to have never even been off Mystic Island. And wise enough to now be in charge of two pizza ovens. Asshole even called himself a G.M., like he was running some high-end restaurant. Eddy figured that, because out of the three of them, he was the only one with a high school diploma, he was fucking Yoda.
Floyd rushed past Eddy, saying, “Don’t even start with me today, Ed.”
Eddy said, “Wasn’t starting with you there, slick, just stating a fact.”
Charlie said, in his sincere, sycophantic kind of way, “What happened at court today, Floyd?” Charlie was a lost type of soul, and he looked up to Floyd’s particular brand of life-stagnancy. To him, Floyd was a god of slackerdom, as if Bart Simpson had grown up to now live on Mystic Island.
Eddy, raised his eyebrow and said, “Court? Finally busted for dealing, Floyd?”
Floyd rushed by Eddy again, this time in the opposite direction. He was holding two pizza boxes, and he said, “Eddy, I swear to god.” This was Floyd’s way of telling Ed to shut the fuck up.
Charlie asked, “Did you lose your license?”
Floyd ignored the boy and he finally looked at Eddy, holding up the pizza boxes. “Where are these things going?”
“Try reading the slip,” Eddy said.
Floyd looked down at the delivery slip and said, “Oh, they’re going to your mother’s house, Ed. Good, I wanted a little anal sex to start my shift.” He turned and left the shop.
Outside the shop, he grabbed hold of a ten-speed bicycle with a paint job so faded, its color was unidentifiable. He balanced the pizza boxes on the bike’s handlebars and shakily peddled down the street.
To Be Continued