etting: Nick's Pizza Joint, 77th and Broadway. This is yesterday.
"Umm. I'll have a slice of pepperoni."
"$3.20," says the guy behind the counter. I like to think he's Nick.
Damn. "I've only got three bucks," I tell Nick, laying bare the contents of my wallet on the counter: two dollars and some quarters. "Can I get a slice of cheese?"
He takes the money. The guy with the white apron slaps a big half-moon of pie on the counter and starts slicing.
"Hey," Nick interrupts. "Give her a pepperoni. She wants pepperoni."
"You want pepperoni?" asks the guy with the apron.
I look at them both.
"You don't worry about it," Nick says to me. "You get pepperoni."
It's a small victory, but in this town, I'll take it. The pizza is mighty. It's oh-my-God-I-want-to-eat-this-pizza-every-day delicious. I walk back to Stephanie's place with grease running down my chin, down my wrist, in the crevices of my fingers. I have no shame; I lick every bit. My fellow Texans: How did we ever, ever accept Mr. Gatti's? I start rationalizing how I can live on this pizza without turning into a pizza blowout. I will jog to and from every subway stop. I will do jumping jacks while waiting on the platform. I will climb the Brooklyn Bridge in spike heels. Instead, I get back to Stephanie's place, wash my hands, and fall asleep face-down on her bed.