Arti-choked Up

I was having a crummy day. One of the old, cranky guys at work got snappy with me that morning and I lost it. I started crying right in his office. Of course, being an old Italian man, he softened instantly and made every attempt to be nicer for the rest of our time together. But still, I couldn't cheer up. There seems to be something wrong with me in that, once I've cried, in the course of the day, the door to my tear-ducts remains open and the tears seem to be lined up, like tiny soldiers, ready to dive out of their hiding place. It's all I can do to pull it together and remain calm for the rest of the day. I returned to my own office only to be bombarded with emails, phone calls, and hard sighs from those dissatisfied. It's the end of the year and we're all a little edgy. I try to keep a low-profile in these last few days before Christmas, but it's an awful way to work.

I had to disappoint someone today, I had to let them know that I couldn't show up for them in the way I had wanted to. It's hard to find time for everyone and everything in your life, and I try to be as good a friend to as many people as possible, but sometimes it seems unrealistic. Am I better off being a bad friend? Or no friend at all? But this was just the tipping point in an already stressful day.

I decided to take a walk. I thought about just running out to grab some lunch, just going somewhere close and bringing the food back to my desk, but I needed to clear my head. I set out in search of something to cheer me up in under an hour. I thought about walking over to my sister-in-law's office, asking for a hug in the middle of the day (she works a few blocks from me, in an emergency, I could always go there for some love); but even the thought of familial warmth on this icy, grey day made the little soldiers behind my eyes head for the door. I couldn't afford to get messy before a long afternoon back at work.

I wandered onto my old college campus. I strolled down a little street where I used to know all the shops. There was a fondue shop called the Bourgeoisie Pig where I celebrated my 20th birthday--now a head shop. A Chinese restaurant called Wok&Roll around the corner was where I felt my first pang of love--it's a sushi bar now. The place where my art teacher used to take me for coffee is still there. It's a funny little place, terribly uncomfortable, but inviting nonetheless. I ponder this a moment and just before the grey feeling of nostalgia began to envelope me, a new pizza shop caught my eye. Here in New York, there must be 3 pizza shops per block, and they all look the same. Their red and green awnings cover an all-glass front where one can peer in and take sight of 10 or more pies, all stacked half on top of each other: veggie pie, meat pie, plain pie, Sicilian--and there's usually a big Coca-Cola sign in the background, a bright red light glowing, and more often than not, a jumble of Italian words and accordion notes are humming along over the loud-speakers. But this one had none of those things. I stopped in my tracks. I looked up, "Artichoke Pizza" the sign said, with an ugly picture of an Artichoke in the center.

As I opened the door and felt the warm wave of heat from the ovens, I noticed something strange: There were only 3 pies.

"Can I help you?" A skinny guy with crooked teeth and a crooked nose smiled at me and turned his hat around backward.

"I don't know what I want," I said, somewhat helplessly.

"This your first time?" He asked, his Brooklyn accent thickened and an anticipatory smile widened.

"Yes," I admitted, blushing. I knew instantly that I should know this place. He could tell I belonged there.

"Then you gotta have the artichoke," he replied. He took the slice off the baking sheet and tossed in the oven.

"Ok," I said. I was somewhat relieved that someone had made a decision for me today. That should be a service provided to busy working people--so that they have one less thing to make a decision on in their day. It's the service my fiance provides to me most nights of the week. Bless her.

I'm not a huge fan of artichokes. I've had them a number of different ways and enjoyed them a fine amount, but I never get excited about them. I would never order an artichoke dip, I would never make a roasted artichoke in the oven, and I never add them to my salad at the open salad bar. All that said, I was excited to try the namesake--and such an odd one--of this odd little spot.

As he passed me the slice over the counter, a wave of cold air came in from the door and cooled my pie just perfectly for me. It was as if the pizza gods blew the kiss of a mild, creamy garlic bite into my nostrils and I marveled at this creation. I took the first bite, closed my eyes, and held it on my tongue in utter shock and joy. The warm waves of the ovens washed over me as my cheeks flushed and my muscles relaxed. In that moment, I was transported--off of that bar stool, out of that weather, out of that terrible day--and into a time where calories meant nothing, and the sheer joy of taste thrilled my virginal buds. The creamy Alfredo taste atop the soft, pillowy bread somehow infused with herbs (parsley? rosemary? I don't even know. I couldn't take notes any more I could simply sigh with relief.) The pizza man laughed aloud and gave me a nod, "You look like a little kid," he said. I felt like one.

His co-worker stepped up behind him and said, "Yeah, you could tell she likes it cuz she closes her eyes after every bite." They both nodded to me as though they approved of me as a member of their fan club.

"This has definitely made my day, I said; then continued reveling in my slice. Bite after bite, the soft cheese, the crunchy bottom to the crust, each gentle flavor woven together like the soft notes of a savory song. I finished.

The guys were in the back as I stood up and tossed my plate out. As I reached for the door I heard one of them call up to me, "We'll see you again, yeah?"

I nodded and took a sip of my ice-cold soda as the ice-cold wind blew in from behind me. "Thank you," I said, "that was really something special." And it was.

As I headed back to the office, I thought about the love, the passion, the magic in that slice, and it moved me. One, tiny soldier lept up out of my tear-duct and ran down my cheek--I think he was headed for one last morsel at the corner of my mouth.