NYC Journal #27 – Pick-up Naltrexone

NYC Journal #27 – Pick-up Naltrexone

Sunny day. 60ish. Sweater is overkill. The round-faced round girl with the blue cotton headcovering says “we’re good” when he offers her his insurance card. The gaunt pale daydreamed man had told him that he needn’t give his insurance info over the phone: they’d ask him for it when he picked up the medicine. So he’d been fiddling with a little white plastic card while waiting behind the red piece of tape that was coming unstuck from the thin gray carpet. He reached it out to her. She said “we’re good”. She told him to answer the question on the screen. It was something meaningless about was he getting medicine? For some reason he didn’t have to pay anything and then he walked out in the sun some more until he wound his way back up to a pizza place.

That’s where the short stocky kind of fat guy said what’ll you have? and he said three slices of cheese and the guy said, “three slices cheese!” with gusto and a little shouting up to the sky as if it had been the right question in a quiz show, and then he’s swinging the big square metal pizza-handling surface (with a wooden handle) between the three remaining pieces of thin-crust cheese and the metal pizza tray, and spinning in one continuous motion the slices up and into the superhot metal oven.

$9, he puts the $1 change in the plastic-vase tip jar, for which he gets a quick Thanks, and then pizza in the pizza box he heads back out into the sun.

This is enough. Enough is enough. But pizza with avocado and cherry tomatoes in the break room with a few moments of chit chat in the mosying plague times was pleasant. Anyway, this office has heard immunity by now.

Comments are closed.