The Chicken Parm Guy
March 11, 2009
Deborah sent me a text from the airport:
"They took my skin stuff!"
Deborah has flown a few times since the restrictions on liquids and creams went into effect, but not enough to remember all the limitations concerning what you can or can't take on a plane.
"They just take it," she said. "They don't throw it away, they just put it aside. I told the woman I wanted to toss it in the garbage, but she said I'd have to leave and go to the back of the line. I said I didn't want the JetBlue employees using my stuff, and she said, 'You think?' really bitchy."
"You just know that she and her JetBlue pals have 'confiscated skin care product' parties every weekend. It's the new Tupperware party."
We traded a few texts about her skin creams, but she tried not to get too upset about it, and soon she was on to other things -- telling me about the new JetBlue terminal, with better food and cool seats and so on.
Her flight didn't leave until 3 in the afternoon, so after lunch, I gave her a call. "Still upset about your cosmetics?" I asked.
"No, the stuff wasn't that expensive, thank god, so I'm over it."
"Good," I said, and then relayed to her the following story from earlier in the day:
There's a pizza parlor on Eighth Avenue, a few blocks above 23rd Street, where I sometimes grab a slice when I'm working in the neighborhood. The pizza isn't very good, but it's cheap and the place is usually quiet.
It wasn't quiet yesterday, though. Yesterday I walked into the middle of a screaming match. At least I thought it was a screaming match, but a screaming match implies that more than one person is screaming; however, this was just one guy -- a stylish motherfucker with slightly bleached (frosted?) Jheri curls, Gucci sunglasses, and a bold-patterned rayon shirt under a tan leather jacket and matching tan leather shoes. He was throwing a hissy fit because, although he'd called his order in ahead of time, his chicken parmesan hero wasn't ready yet.
"Man, that's why I called you. What, you think I ain't gonna show? You think I ain't gonna come through? If I call, I'm gonna be here. Dat's why I call you! I want my chicken parmesan to be ready when I git here man. Get that shit correct, man."
There were three people behind the counter. One guy was busily preparing the guy's chicken parmesan, another guy was standing dumbly looking at the floor, and the third guy surreptitiously rolled his eyes at me and took my order.
"A single slice to stay," I said and stood aside as the show continued.
One of the cooks took out an orange soda from the fridge and put it on the glass countertop.
"Aw no man, no seriously, put that shit back, man, what's wrong wit choo? That shit ain't gonna be cold no more by the time my chicken parm is done."
The cook returned the soda to the fridge while another guy opened the pizza oven.
"Hold on, hold on, lemme see that, lemme see—" The guy peered over the counter to look at his sandwich. "Aw no man, no. Put more cheese on dat thing."
The cook sprinkled a little more cheese on top of the hero and showed it to the customer.
"Yeah, yeah, okay dat's good. Now heat that shit up, man."
The sandwich went into the oven, and the guy stepped outside to make a phone call. When he left, the cooks began laughing. What else could they do? The guy was out of his mind.
When my pizza was ready — a sad-looking slice not much thicker than the paper plate they served it on — I paid and took a seat at a booth. The "chicken parmesan guy" returned a moment later. I expected him to be calmer, but no, he was just as wound up as before, if not more so.
"I'm serious, man, dats why I call you. When I call, I'm da chicken parmesan guy, okay? When I call get that shit ready for me. Chicken parmesan wit extra cheese. Dat's what I always git. Dat's me. Shit, my time is valuable. I'm a nurse, okay? I'm a registered nurse at a hospital, so my time is fucking valuable. Who'd I talk to when I called my order in? Was dat you?" He said, singling out the short cook. "Did I talk to you? You tell me, 'Okay okay, boss don't worry?' Why you bullshit me man? Don't fucking bullshit me. Get that shit correct. I'm serious. I spend a lot of money in here, man, a lot of money. I'm da chicken parmesan guy, okay? Next time I call you. You have that shit ready. I'm telling you, I'm a nurse, my time is fucking valuable. If I say I'm a gonna be here, I'm a gonna be here. Unless it's an emergency. If I have an emergency or something, okay, but otherwise I'm gonna be here. Have my shit ready! No bullshit."
