by Wilson Koewing
I took a job delivering pizzas in Longmont after moving to Colorado. I hated it but refused to do anything else. The shop sat in a strip mall of dying businesses. The owner lady operated on shoestring margins and ruled with an iron fist. The other employees were teens. When deliveries were dead, we made stacks and stacks of boxes.
On deliveries, I witnessed strange things.
A blind man at a senior facility who would invite me in.
“Now where’d I put that money?” he’d say, shuffling across the carpet to retrieve bills from a cigar box.
An aquarium ran but housed no fish. Screensaver photos shuffled on the TV. Car pictures covered
the walls: stock cars, classics.
“What do you drive?” he’d ask, shuffling back.
I named cars I thought he’d like to imagine driving around that sleepy town.
There were many others. Drunks. Stoners. Two middle-aged white guys who lived at the end of a cul-de-sac and always burnt cardboard in their yard. Check out my new gun folks. Elated children. Snarling dogs. Housewives in towels. Creepy loners with strange hobbies. Small-scale model building. A high-powered telescope purchased.
Then there was funeral home guy.
He ordered large pepperoni and mushroom. The first time he opened the heavy funeral home door, a chilly air released.
“Sorry,” he said, like trying to talk over a lawnmower. “Sometimes down there so long I forget the time of day!”
He had droopy brown/black eyes. His irises reflected TV fuzz back. Had a strange way of examining you, like it fascinated him that behind your eyes a spark remained.
I watched the seasons change delivering him pizza.
Winter. I could smell the fresh snow, but the clouds were gone, and the sky was clear. An actual funeral. I delivered to the side door.
“Amazing turnout,” he said, admiring the mourners outside.
Spring. He wore headphones and watched a show on a tablet.
“Small town, nobody dies in the Spring,” he smiled.
Summer. He donned a Hawaiian shirt, shades pushed up on his forehead.
“Can’t do another summer down there,” he said. “Getting out of town.”
“Where to?”
“Not sure,” he said. “Possibly the islands.”
Fall. I’d given the owner lady notice. I was moving away. He grabbed the box without a word, seeming to sense the ending. I watched the soles of his bare feet walk away as the door closed.
I didn’t feel like returning to the shop, so I drove along the outskirts. Outside town, beautiful mountain views materialized. Insulated in neighborhoods, you forget what exists beyond the limits. I kept driving and gained elevation until the town took on the shape of a box in the rearview. Compacted. Suburban sprawl seeping from its edges.
I pulled over to the shoulder and turned off the car. Had I really never noticed before, that funeral home guy never wore shoes?
About The Author
Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work can be found in Pembroke Magazine, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Five on the Fifth, Ghose Parachute and Ellipsis Zine.
Photo Credit:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/garethrobertsmorticianreferences/4004809565/