I walk the dogs to pizza hut. No one is there; it’s closed for bad weather. It must have just been closed; there are some pizzas in the oven: a last order. I cut one of the pizzas. It seems to disappear on the table. It shrinks to a small size: I salvage the bits into half of a personal pizza.
What to do? I know: I’ll just put in a new pizza, what with the store closed and all this extra dough, and then I’ll take that little half one for myself.
No hand-tossed in the main refrigerator. None under the make table either. Did they stop doing hand-tossed?
Back to the cut table to cut more pizzas. I cut a large, placing it in top of the small. It completely eclipses it.
A driver comes in, returning from a deliver. He apologizes for an argument he had with another driver before he left. I don’t really care and tell him so.
Gill comes in and sits down in the back office and gets on the phone. I go to him. I’m leaving soon, he tells me, and then talks on the phone some more.
Well I can’t stay and work: I have the dogs, besides didn’t I already call in and say I’m not working? The remaining order burns in my mind.
I try to interrupt Gill, but he keeps talking.
“Gill,” I tell him with desperation as he finally acknowledges me, “you have to tell me where we keep the hand-tossed.” Phones ring indicating new orders. This isn’t the crisis situation I tolerate. I intentionally stop the dream.