I sat at an open air Pizzeria just outside Prospect Park today. I was easily able to slide down six slices of Margherita pizza in a matter of minutes because at 2pm I had only now forced myself out of bed, grabbing pants on the way toward the closest quite place to eat away from the judgemental eyes of the public – somewhere where my inability to find a local laundromat and my early morning decision of hulu.com over shower wouldn’t be seen and therefore seen with disgust. I reclined, putting my feet up in the chair across from me. Earlier that chair’s plate and silverware had been cleared in confusion by the waiter as he hesitated, allowing me the opportunity to say “No, wait. I have a friend coming just yet.” That statement was never uttered. Instead I sat in silence waiting for my full pizza that I planned on consuming by myself as the only customer in the restaurant.
Reclining, I felt the back of my hair graze the back of my neck. A drop of grease was exchanged. Down on my pants was the crusting grease from pizza, not the one I held in my hand, but pizza from a similar excursion the day before. In both corners of my mouth was the shimmering glaze of olive-oil that had helped the dough, cheese and sauce go down so much easier. I thought about licking it off, but even that seemed like too much work. I sat.
I felt at ease as my body, surrounded inside and out by grease, settled into the wooden chairs at the restaurant. I sat.
I must have sat for an extra half an hour before letting my tongue pull in the slimy pools of oil that framed my lips like the scars of a Heath Ledger Joker and heading back for the comfort of my bed. I had to stop on the way at the grocery store to only purchase toilet paper in preparation for shitting out all that grease.
I wish that grease would stay with me, but instead I’ll have to do this again tomorrow.