Pizza Not For Takeout — an excerpt
Contents
- PIZZA NOT FOR TAKEOUT
- ONE MORE THING
Begin Reading
PIZZA NOT FOR TAKEOUT
IT’S ANOTHER DREARY Tuesday evening at Sandy’s, the cozy little diner I love on the west side of Marylebone. The rain outside is relentless, pounding the pavement and creating a rhythmic symphony that echoes through the dimly lit interior. Inside, the regulars chat softly, their voices blending with the soft hum of the overhead lights and the occasional clink of cutlery.
I squeeze into my usual spot in the corner booth, spilling over the edges of the worn leather bench. I know what people think of me — just “the fat guy at Sandy’s.” I wear a faded t-shirt that strains against my round belly and jeans that have seen better days. My thinning hair is a mess of unruly curls, my beard untrimmed, and my eyes, hidden behind thick glasses, seem perpetually downcast.
You don’t know me. I’m just background. My name is George, and I am invisible because people don’t want to see me. They walk by and stare straight through me. My life is very simple, and I like it that way. I have my routines and hardly ever stray.
Every evening, I come in at the same time and order the same thing: a large pizza with extra toppings and a glass of whatever wine the waitress recommends. I sit there for hours, lost in thought or tinkering with my laptop, oblivious to the world around me.
No one pays me any attention except Lily. She’s a sweet young waitress with a kind heart and a bright smile who always makes sure to wait on me. I can’t help but feel grateful for her. She seems to understand my loneliness and isolation, and something about her cheerful demeanor makes my evenings a little less dreary. I don’t have many friends, if any, and I hate spending my evenings alone.
“Hello, George,” Lily beams as she sidles over. “What can I get for you today?”
I look up from my laptop, my face brightening at the sight of her. “Hi, Lily. I’m not sure. What do you suggest?”
This has become our routine. I like deferring to her suggestions; it gives me a sense of connection, however small. She glances at the menu, even though she already knows what she’d recommend. “How about trying the Mediterranean pizza tonight? It’s got olives, feta cheese, and lots of fresh veggies. And maybe a glass of the house red to go with it?”
I nod, a small smile playing on my lips. “That sounds good. I’d like that. And make it the large, with extra toppings.”
Lily smiles. “Of course!”
She jots down the order and heads back to the kitchen. As she does, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness. She’s a mystery, a puzzle I can’t quite piece together. I can tell she’s more than she appears — but aren’t we all?
Lily always has her spiral notebook with her, and sometimes, I catch glimpses of music and lyrics on the pages. When Sandy’s is empty, and I’m hanging around late, I hear her soft melodies back by the kitchen. Wistful and clear. She’s a singer at heart. But there’s a heaviness about her, a sense of burden that I can’t quite understand.
I watch her go, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and guilt. I appreciate her kindness, but I also know I’m a bother. I come late, order the most complicated pizzas, sit there too long, and tip poorly. Yet Lily never seems to mind. She treats me with the same respect as any other customer, if not more.
As I wait for my pie, my thoughts drift to days past. I think about Hugo, whom I met on the first day of university. I remember being suspicious of him at first. He was Black, incredibly handsome, charismatic, and a natural charmer — the opposite of my awkward, introverted self. But somehow, we balanced each other out. He needed grounding, and I needed someone to pull me out of my shell.
We roomed together and quickly became inseparable. He introduced me to all sorts of music — all the female pop singers — and I dreamed of someday meeting one of them. He dated so many girls I couldn’t keep track. They never seemed to mind. He was the quintessential gentleman, one of a kind. I often tagged along as a third wheel, laughing at their jokes and trying strange new foods — sushi, grabbing an Indian, even Mexican. I was always one step behind, always the social burden, but Hugo never treated me that way.
After university, we both landed jobs at the tech center for the big bank in Canary Wharf, along with a bevy of other best-of-class developers. Corporate thought they could get a leg up on the competition by having a herd of hackers pulling them into the Internet age. In the Square Mile, however, the bosses were too conservative to experiment with their customer base. Despite this, we endured the boredom and carried on. The money was good, and banker hours left us plenty of free time.
Hugo got an expansive third-floor flat in the red-stones at Chiltern Court, above Baker Street, moving way up in the world and always looking for a real-life version of his pop idol. We stayed tight, best mates. After work, we’d take the tube to one of our favorites, like Carpenter Arms or Duke Of One or Another, and lift a pint or two. As often as Hugo could make me, we’d jog around Hyde Park.
In our spare time away from work, we set up a self-funded startup. We designed, coded, built, and tested our pride and joy — a true software privacy miracle. It was a dream we’d conceived at uni and held close to our chests. No one had a hint about it.
As the months flew by, I kept gaining weight. I loved my simple life of work, food, ale, and coding. Hugo never pressed me to try to date. He knew I liked women, but they never gave me a second glance, and I never tried to approach them. I was content with my routine, even as I grew bigger and lonelier.
Hugo was determined to slim me down, pushing me to be better and try harder. On weekends, he made us walk to Marble Arch and jog the horse track around the park. Jogging with me in Hyde Park — me — who could imagine that? But Hugo was the best — constantly bouncing ideas off me with each groaning stride to distract me from the exercise. He knew the intellectual battle was worth every bit of pain. I believe we built our best code while out sweating on the circuit. But did it matter?
Then the big day arrived — the paycheck every startup dreams about. We sold our privacy solution to the goliath — the one everyone uses and hates. Then we flipped the bird at our own stodgy, unimaginative employer and walked out the door with our heads held high.
Hugo and I created technology that benefited everyone in a small but essential way. Of course, our tech is invisible, just like me. It lurks in the background like a white knight, embedded in every device people use, keeping them safe.
A couple of weeks later, after closing the deal, signing, and getting our first unfathomably huge check, we stepped out to burn off the stacked-up adrenaline. As was tradition, we headed to Hyde Park with pop love songs blasting in our earbuds. We’re both hopeless romantics. But then, in the middle of our run, Hugo had a heart attack and died. It changed everything.
Instead of losing weight, I went overboard. I couldn’t control myself. I became morbidly obese. My clothes no longer fit, and simple tasks became struggles.
No one who sees me now understands the pain or the futility I feel. Hugo had been the model of good living and a healthy lifestyle, and he was my anchor, yet it killed him in his prime. Why is it that the good seem to die young? Without Hugo, I would never have had the courage to develop our product, much less peddle it to the big guys. His selfless generosity and spirit brought the best out of me. And I never got the chance to return his kindness.
The years dragged by, quiet and lonely. I found a comfortable Mews studio right around the corner from Sandy’s, with an ancient bath that hadn’t been updated since World War II. The toilet flushes once in a while. It’s immaculate, no match for my unkempt hair, wrinkled jeans, and T-shirts, but nobody had ever been there to see it. And best of all, the courtyard sports a friendly, long-haired dachshund named Humphrey.
Humphrey’s keepers let him have free rein in the courtyard, and he never wanders out to the street. Whenever I come and go, he’s there, and if I stop for a moment, Humphrey comes over and sits right next to me and places one big paw on my foot to say hello. If I stay long enough to sit on the bench, Humphrey will hop up beside me and lay his head on my thigh. Just his presence relieves stress. His big brown eyes see all and judge nothing. Humphrey is on the stouter side of well-fed, just like me. But he’s very comfortable in his skin and adds a delightful stability to the Mews.
The Mews was nicely reno’d decades before I bought in. Mine isn’t large, just a little more than a room with a bath. Not much furniture, but gadgets are everywhere, and posters adorn the walls — I’m such a fanboy. I’ve watched every concert and video ever recorded by my favorite pop female, especially after she got her label back. If anyone deserves to be a billionaire from their music, it’s her. She’s the purest angel ever to record people’s emotions — all too well. I revere her as much as Hugo did. But I don’t think about it quite the same way — I know I’m too fat, and the last time a girl looked at me as a human was before I reached puberty, 20 stone ago.
Someday, I want to see one of her concerts in person and hear her stories about the power of friendship. Maybe I can even tell her how Hugo felt.
I know I’m not socially acceptable. If it weren’t for online shopping for gadgets, delivery of my food and staples, and hobbling out for occasional pizza, I’d likely have little human contact. The checks flow in, but I have no one and nothing to spend them on.
The sound of Lily’s voice brings me back to the present. “Here’s your pizza, George. Enjoy.”
I look forward to my interactions with Lily. When Sandy’s isn’t too busy, sometimes Lily would slip into the booth for a few minutes and chat. I learned she was a singer at heart, performing at small gigs whenever possible. Her passion for music reminded me of Hugo and his endless playlists.
I look up and smile at her. “Thanks, Lily. You’re the best.”
She laughs softly. “Just doing my job. Let me know if you need anything else.”
As she walks away, I take a bite of my pizza, savoring the flavors. The world outside fades away momentarily, and I feel a tiny flicker of happiness. It’s not much, but it’s something. And in my world, something is better than nothing.
I leave a few quid on the table as I finish my meal. I know how hard Lily works; that tip isn’t enough to make a difference in her effort. But she always smiles and doesn’t seem to care. She knows I don’t have a clue. I’m never rude to her, never in a hurry, and always order exactly what she suggests, even though she knows I won’t say I like the aubergine. She probably figures I’m on the dole and can’t afford more.
Then, one night, I’m there particularly late, and they’re closing. I apologize, and Lily asks the cook to make me a special pizza anyway.
They’ve locked up and shut off the lights by the time I finish. It’s pouring torrentially, even heavy for London. My Mews is just a short hobble around the corner, but as I step outside, I see Lily shivering under the awning.
I shuffle near her and ask how far she has to go. I had never pried into her personal life, so I’d never learned much about her. She tells me she lives in Ruislip, miles out on the Chiltern, and missed the last train because she waited on me.
I feel a pang of guilt and awkwardly offer to hail her a cab. She thanks me but says she couldn’t afford it and would find a way, a bus or something.
Determined to help, I awkwardly step into the rainy street, nearly getting run down, but manage to flag a Black. I hand the driver a thick, folded wad of tenners and ask him to take her straight to Ruislip Manor.
Lily stares, mouth open. I tug open the back door and urge her to escape the downpour. She thanks me incredulously and disappears into the dark.
I don’t go back for pizza for weeks.
When I finally feel the courage to return to Sandy’s, my usual corner booth seems strangely inviting yet intimidating. The thought of facing Lily after that night makes my stomach churn. I hope she won’t bring it up.
As I settle into my seat, I notice the familiar routine unfolding around me. Regulars chat, the hum of the overhead lights fills the space, and the rain, as always, drums against the windows. I open my laptop, pretending to be engrossed in some code, but my mind is elsewhere, chewing on the unexpected email I’d just received.
“Hi, George,” Lily smiles and waves. “It’s been a while. What can I get for you today?”
I look up, my heart racing slightly. “Hi, Lily. I’ll have whatever you suggest.”
She recommends the pepperoni pizza and a glass of Shiraz. I nod, grateful for her consistency. As she walks away, I can hear her humming a new tune. I can’t help but feel a bit more guilt. She had always been kind to me; I have taken advantage of that kindness. It was time to do something. I decide to help her if I can.
One of the side benefits of the software product Hugo and I spawned saves the bacon for a few celebrities — helping them control and recover their privacy and identity. With a few emails and texts, I manage to connect through friends of friends and coordinate a high-end audition for Lily, but I insist that my involvement remain anonymous.
My mind wanders as I wait for dinner and think about the odd email. It slipped through my meticulously crafted firewall, bypassing my most stringent filters. At first, I dismissed it as spam, but something about it feels different.
The email is from my half-sister. The one I never knew existed. Chelsea. The same name as my mother. Several years younger than me.
Chelsea reports that our mutual father has died. It should mean nothing to me. He was an unknown figure, a ghost from my mother’s stories. But the fact that Chelsea found me and made contact stirs something profound inside. Her email left me shaking.
“Before your mother died, she sent a letter to my dad mentioning you. I found her unopened letter in his stuff. I read it. I figured out the things he didn’t know.”
My mother only knew that he never responded. She never had a bad word or regret for raising me alone. She never knew he had gotten married and had a daughter, and that woman died giving birth. I always thought of myself as an only child. My mother never told me his name or exactly where he was from; she only said he was an American.
I could never have imagined I had a half-sister in America. Yet it seems a cruel irony that my father’s American daughter would have such an iconic British name. And now, years later, my half-sister had tracked me down.
She wants to meet, to come to London and see her half-brother. And, as it is with the best of technology today, she sends me the email in real-time while airborne en route to Heathrow.
I am frozen, unable to react. I have spent so long in isolation, building walls around my life. The thought of meeting her terrifies me.
Life in the days of the Internet tends to be time-compressed. The next morning, Chelsea rings the bell at my Mews. How had she found me?
My tracks are completely covered. I am no one. I’d used my own software product to make myself disappear. But I know it’s her before I even open the door. Who else would it be? No one but the landlord had ever been to visit my flat.
When I buzz her in, I am shocked. I see a strange reflection — a skinny female version of myself standing there.
And she has no idea who or what I am. Not what she has expected.
When she walks in, I expect disappointment in her eyes. She looks at my flabby, disheveled self but makes no sign. She glances around my flat, bemused by the gadgets scattered everywhere.
We stare at each other endlessly, neither knowing what to say. Finally, she breaks the silence.
“So, where do we start? I have something to show you.”
Her question hangs in the air, echoing in the small space. I have no answer. I don’t know where to begin or how to connect with someone who is both a stranger and a family member. My mind races with thoughts of my mother, my friend, and all the missed opportunities in my life.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, awkwardly gesturing towards the kitchen.
She shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of this.”
I nod, understanding all too well.
Chelsea plops down on the settee and puts her feet up. Typical American making themselves right at home. She pats the cushion beside her.
“George, you hide well, but it’s kind of what I do for fun. Writing bots to track down bits of information and tie them together to build a model.”
The non-sequitur catches me entirely off guard. “You what?”
“Coding. Caltech. Just graduated. Haven’t found anywhere I want to work yet. Maybe I should stay here, huh?”
I gulp reflexively.
“Just kidding!!! It’s way too cold and gray here. I can only stand to be away from sunny Cal for a couple of days, or I’ll turn into a mushroom!”
I relax and let out a deep breath. This is not what I expected.
We spent the next few hours talking awkwardly but gradually finding common ground. She told me about her life in Los Angeles, her struggles, and how she stumbled upon our father’s old letters. She showed me my mother’s letter, and I held back tears as I read it. She also showed me a photo of her and our father at her college graduation. At least he had lived to see it. He seemed like a humble man, not remarkable, just nice.
“You would have liked him. He always insisted I could be whatever I wanted and never pushed me. That’s probably why I tried so hard to be the best.”
I nod, unsure what to say. I share bits and pieces of my life, carefully avoiding the more painful details. Even though she’s deep into development, she never mentions knowing anything about what Hugo and I built or the money we had made. A part of me is wary, wondering if she’s there asking for a handout. But Chelsea has no illusions about me and sees only what is in front of her. That is fine by me. I’d rather she like me as I am or not at all.
Chelsea keeps her word and only stays in London for a few days. She had a room in Mayfair, a short walk away. We meet for the obligatory fish and chips and pint on her last night.
“I don’t have much. Dad covered my tuition and expenses with his savings, and there wasn’t really anything left. But if you need something, I’d be happy to help.”
I look across the table and answer slowly, “I’m fine, but thanks. Maybe I can come to see your sunny California someday.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” she smiles and winks. “And I can show off a few of my coding tricks — once I get a job.”
As she leaves, I feel a strange sense of relief. I have let someone into my world for the first time in years, even if just a little. It’s a small step, but it feels significant.
Lily pauses when she brings my pizza and wine the next night at Sandy’s. She looks at me with a curious expression as if sensing my change.
“Is everything okay, George?” she asks softly, her hand gently resting on my shoulder.
I nod, smiling slightly. “Yeah, I think it will be.” Yes, it is okay for me. Having made it through the spontaneous visit from Chelsea, my unknown sister, is a significant relief.
But more importantly, I have put things in motion for Lily. I know things are afoot and will be much better soon.
As I bite the pizza, savoring the familiar flavors, I feel a tiny flicker of hope. It isn’t much, but it’s something. And in my world, something is better than nothing.
After Chelsea’s visit, weeks turn into months. Life carries on, but something had shifted inside me. I continue my routine visits to Sandy’s, sitting in my usual corner booth, but there’s a subtle difference in how I perceive my surroundings. The rain still drums against the windows, and the regulars still chat softly, but I feel less invisible, more connected to the world around me.
After digging, I discover that my half-sister is a better developer than I am. I find Chelsea’s posts and gists, demo code, and videos. Maybe it’s in the genes. She’s a hacker on her own but hadn’t made much money at it. Her skills impress me, and I can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride at being her half-brother.
There’s something I can do to help. I make a few trips to my bank branch with my solicitor and set up a blind-funded coder’s haven near her alma mater in Pasadena. Through the magic of surrogates and proxies, the new startup recruits my half-sister as the tech lead. I know it will succeed. It provides her with opportunities she’s never had before. She will thrive in that environment, her natural talent shining through. It’s in the blood. But she will never know — I cover my tracks well. And that’s as it should be.
One evening at Sandy’s, Lily approaches my table with a curious smile. “Hey, George. It’s been a while since we’ve had a real conversation. How are you doing?”
I look up from my laptop, surprised by her directness. “I’m doing okay, Lily. Thanks for asking. How about you?”
She shrugs, her smile widening. “Same old, same old. You know how it is.” There’s an excited sparkle in her eyes. She can hardly hold back, bubbling over, “George, guess what? I got a spot to do a pre-show on her tour! Can you believe it?”
My heart skips a beat. “That’s incredible, Lily! I’m so happy for you.”
I used my connections to get her an audition with a talent scout. To my delight, she was discovered and started to gain some recognition. She never knew I had a hand in it, and I wanted it to stay that way. But even as she rose to fame, she returned to Sandy’s, always greeting me with the same warmth and kindness.
She beams, her excitement contagious. “And there’s more. I got you a backstage pass to meet both of them, your favorites. I know how much you love them.”
I am stunned. “Lily, I don’t know what to say. Thank you. This means the world to me.”
As the concert day approaches, I feel nervous and excited. Meeting my idols, the very women who have been the soundtrack to my life, is a dream I never thought possible.
The night of the concert is a blur of emotions. Standing backstage, I feel out of place, a large, awkward man amidst a sea of glamorous people. But when my dream ladies walk in, all my insecurities melt away. They are kind, genuine, and surprisingly down-to-earth. We talk about music, technology, the importance of true friendship, growing pains, and teen angst. I even share a bit about my late friend Hugo and how he idolized both of them.
As I leave the concert that night, I feel a sense of fulfillment I haven’t felt in years. Despite my isolation, I realize I have touched the lives of those around me in small but meaningful ways.
Back at Sandy’s, I continue my routine visits with a newfound sense of purpose. I even buy the pizza place, ensuring that Lily always had a place to return to, no matter where her career took her.
Life is still far from perfect, but it is better. And in my world, better is more than enough.
ONE MORE THING
Oh, and by the way, if you like crossover stories, look for George in the Sci Fi short story, Echoes of Birthdays, written by David Neyland.
…continued in the full book.