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Why I Am Late | Jan 21 2002

The guy at Mister Pizza—the proprietor—had a rash he had not had before, on his right temple. It was purplish and large and reminded me, in shape, of Alabama. He also limped, which he had not done previously, and in such a way as to indicate hip pain.

I felt sad immediately. Even before the rash and the limp, this man made me sad. He is (I hate to use this word, but this is the word that goes through my head whenever I see him) stupid. A kinder word would be slow.

He confuses orders and has trouble calculating change.

For these reasons, I make it a practice to avoid Mister Pizza. However on this day, needing something quick before jumping on the train to meet you, I thought I’d pick up a slice and eat it on the platform.

Two customers were ahead of me, waiting for their food. This being a pizza parlor, where the food is simple and easy to prepare, I imagined that I would be out of there, slice in hand, in no time.

I was wrong. My order didn’t get taken for five minutes as the proprietor struggled to wrap two hero sandwiches in tin foil. There seemed to be a problem with his right hand which made it difficult for him to open and close his fingers.

I should add that this man is earnest. He makes a good faith effort to serve his customers and devotes himself to doing it right. He is not a slacker; he cares.

And this is what I find so painful. He is doing his best, but his best isn’t good enough.

I placed my order. He cut a slice and carried it, limping, to the oven. “To go or stay,” he asked. “Stay,” I said, not wanting to put him through the business with the take-out box, which I’ve seen him botch so badly he had to discard the box and get another.

I was concerned about time. A J train had passed as I reached Broadway. These trains come every ten minutes or so, which meant that if I stayed too long in Mister Pizza, I would miss the next train and show up late for our meeting. I didn’t want to show up late for our meeting.

The proprietor placed a paper plate before him and tried to separate this plate from the one beneath it, but again his fingers wouldn’t cooperate, so the two plates remained stuck together.

I said nothing. My chest felt heavy. I decided to look at the soft drink dispenser.

He limped to the oven, scooped up my slice with a big metal spatula, then limped back to the counter and placed it on the plate—or rather, plates—adding an absurdly thick clump of napkins to the side.

“A dollar fifty,” he said. I handed him two bills. He rang up the order, then stared into the open drawer. What was this? Suddenly he turned and hobbled toward the back room. What now? Ah, I understood: he was out of quarters and had gone to get a new roll.

I watched him back there, or half of him, the back half, as he fought to unwrap a roll of quarters.

Then I heard the approaching train.

My first thought was to run—there was still time if I ran—but then what, I wondered, would I say to the proprietor? Yes, I could have said something along the lines of “That’s my train; keep the change,” but had I said that, he would have known the truth: that I had been hoping to get out of there quickly because I had a train to catch, and that he had failed me. As he fails others, of course, all day long, day after day, despite his best efforts.

I couldn’t bear it. I stayed and waited for my change. This is why I am late.