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Monday night I went to Todd's Pizza Mountain knowing I needed at least another shift. When I got back from the last delivery of dinner rush, Todd was sitting at the little table in front that customers sometimes waited at, staring at the traffic on Highway 100. His paper hat was tipped way back. Even with his lion-colored mustache he looked more like a skinny busboy than a businessman pushing forty. His pizza mountain was crushed between a Greek restaurant and a barber shop — a slot with some counters, an oven, a sink. The tiny marquee letters on the menu board said "Try our Special, Super Special, and Deluxe Super Special." I'd been thinking we got along all right. I'd imagined telling him what a reliable worker I was, how with him making and me delivering we could build this place. He could turn heads over at the West Allis Chamber of Commerce.
"Not a bad night," I said, taking a seat. "For a Monday."
"A little slow, a little slow."
"That's because it's a Monday. How about a Friday? How about Monday, Friday, Saturday? Just one more night. Come on."
"This isn't General Motors," he said.
"You do a decent business. All's I'm asking is — "
"Rudy, I'd love to, I really would." He put his forearms on the table, leaned at me. "But who am I supposed to cut? Dennis has two kids. Then where's Dennis? Tim's in trouble. Where's Tim?"
"Tim makes his own trouble." We both knew Tim had a gambling problem.
There must've been something in my face or the way I said it, but Todd did a double-take. "Listen, if I could
Delivering to motels always made me horny. Motel people were lonely, they drank, they offered you things.
do more for you, I would, but I can't. I thought you wanted to sell clothes anyway."
"I don't know where my career is headed right now," I said foolishly.
It occurred to me that I had entirely forgotten what I'd planned on saying to him about my reliability, about our future. Then the phone rang and Todd got up to take the order.
"Midway Motor Lodge." He ripped the ticket from the pad and headed back to make the pizza. I asked him if it was a man or a woman, and he said a woman — with an accent.
I perked up. Delivering to motels always made me horny. Motel people were lonely, they drank, they offered you things. When he hired me, Todd had said that every delivery guy who'd put in serious time with him had gotten into "something interesting" on a delivery. "Who needs benefits!" he'd said.
Things were looking good when I had to stop for a six-pack on my way to the Motor Lodge, but the person who opened the door to 211 was a man.
The man was dressed in black. His black shirt was unbuttoned all the way, and his thin stomach was swirled with dark hair. He had about an eight-day beard and a pointy chin.
"Come in," he said. His accent was sort of Russian but not quite. "Rita, pay him."
He went to sit at the end of the bed, picked up a camera — a fancy-looking one — and started taking pictures of what was happening on TV. I thought he was some foreign artist, doing something really imaginative by taking pictures of other pictures.
Rita came out of the bathroom. She wore a man's white dress shirt tucked in and brown jeans that had the back pockets ripped off and little zippers at the ankles. She was barefoot. Her dark eyes seemed distressed. Whatever her troubles might be, I wanted to help her solve them.
The man saw me staring at her bent over her purse and he smiled in a smug way. I was embarrassed and looked away. She waved a traveler's check. It was probably all right to take it, but I shook my head. I was in no hurry. When she didn't argue with me, I was surprised. She said something to the man in a foreign language, but I knew it had to do with not having money.
He ignored her and took another picture of the TV.
"Are you a photographer?" I asked him. I was never afraid to ask an obvious question.
He jerked his head at Rita. "Pornographer." He grinned at me. I could tell he took me for an idiot, but I wasn't sure what that meant about what he'd said.
"You can hire actors for your movies, can't you?"
She cursed him in their language and rifled through a duffle bag.
I put the pizza and six-pack on a low dresser. I became aware of my throat.
"You brought us beer," he said. "Very nice. Rita said it was illegal, extra charge. Why don't you have one? Throw one to me."
I did this. His brown eyes were very small.
"'Illegal' surprised me," he went on. "I came to this country to avoid 'illegal.'"
"We don't have a liquor license, is all. Is pornography illegal in your country?"
"Sure, sure. So you see, I had to come." He raised his hands as if he'd had no choice at all and smiled hard. He opened his beer and guzzled from it. Then I opened mine and did the same.
Rita put in her two cents, in their language, shaking her head, now back to her purse, paging through big, colorful bills.
He put his beer on the carpet and took pictures of the TV screen again. With each click, I couldn't help but imagine Rita posed in a different position.
"Do you make movies, too?" I said.
"Ah, films. Not so many now, but who knows."
Rita said something fierce to him. Maybe she was embarrassed about him bringing up his pornography. With just a few singles crushed in her hand, she dumped the purse on the bed in disgust and strode toward the windows, passing in front of the man. He patted her on the butt and smiled. Rita rummaged through a suitcase lying open against the wall.
The man snapped another picture of the TV. "Yes," he said, satisfied with the shot. It was three guys riding horses out west.
He picked up his beer and let the camera dangle from his neck. "So she is beautiful?" he said, referring to Rita, and took another swig. His eyes still watched me as he drank.
I nodded silently. This man had a way of making me feel I'd known him for a long time — even that I owed him money or something, but I liked where this was going. He lifted his chin a little. The small brown foreign eyes saw something in me.
