Stella's Pizzeria

Don was stoned.

He had spent the better part of his Saturday recovering from the night before. He tried everything: a sunlit walk, a quarter of Adderall, a swim, the sauna, a bagel and coffee, and a movie. NOTHING did the trick. The malaise after a fun Friday is a powerful force, and Don could never find a way to overcome it.

Not without a shit ton of weed, anyway.

So he went to his favorite park to smoke a fat joint and decided to read. He could barely focus, but the live band playing in the background helped him zone out of his shitty headspace and onto the words on his page.

He kept reading for 50 minutes. Or was it five? Hard to tell. Then his phone buzzed.

It was a text from The Vet. “Come to Chelsea market, it's urgent.” Don replied he will be there shortly.

On the ride over Don concluded that he was starving and the only thing that would do was...pizza. So he went to Stella’s Pizzeria, conveniently located right next to Chelsea Market.

The trick to ordering pizza in Gotham—and probably everywhere else, but Don didn’t care to find out—is getting the za that just came out of the oven. Freshness is everything.

There was an overweight out-of-towner in front of him in line, taking his sweet time ordering. Don hated slow people, and his anger just made him hungrier. The tourist took another five minutes to order. Or was it 50? Hard to tell.

Then at long last Don made his order. "Can I have that grandma slice and plain cheese slice? Not too hot," said Don to the mustached 14-year-old working the counter. Don too had a mustache at 14.

The pizza came fresh out of the oven within a few minutes, and Don dived right in. Stella's is a small space with no seats. Don made do with some countertop space that looked out onto the street.

It was a decent setup, except for the mirrors at eye level right in front of him. Who was supposed to be looking at what? As he ate his second slice Don could feel eyes on him.

He paid no mind and looked happily out the window through the mirror in front of him. Then a thick Texan accent startled him mid-bite.

"You got a death wish or something?" asked the tourist.
"Excuse me?" replied Don, his voice muffled by the pizza still in his mouth.
"I see you looking at my wife through the mirror."
"What?"
"Yeah, yeah. I saw you. Yeah, you're not married so you think you can look at another man's wife." The man said holding up his left hand displaying the wedding band.
"I wasn't looking."

Don hadn’t even realized there was a wife to look at. He’d looked at countless wives before, but not this one. He still couldn’t see her; the obese out-of-towner was blocking his view.

"You want to know why you're not fucking married? Because you're a fucking puta."
Don was stupefied and said nothing.

"You want to live a longer life? Don't you ever look at another man's wife like that!"

Don wasn't particularly obsessed with living a long life. He finally got a look at the wife. She had her face turned, but Don could tell the couple was in their 50s. Don was 30; in what world is he checking her out?

Don remained stupefied and said nothing.

"Yeah, yeah. Fucking puta."
Don took his hands high in the air. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, yeah."
Don took his remaining pizza and walked out.

"Yeah, yeah you better leave."

Don wondered if the tourist’s sudden show of masculine aggression would get him laid later that night…Only when you're fucking innocent…Was he a puta for having commitment issues?

He got to Chelsea Market five minutes later. Or was it 50? Hard to tell.
The Vet asked if he was hungry.