The Jesus Pizza
A few Sundays ago, my sister ordered a pizza and we took it over to my Grandma’s for lunch. We got it from the place down the street, where we’ve been ordering from basically our entire lives. While chewing on garlic knots and flipping between postseason NFL and Asian cooking shows, the neon yellow flier scotch taped to the pizza box caught my attention.
Written in all caps was an essay penned by the owner of the pizzeria, let’s call him, for argument’s sake, Mike. So this pizza guy, Joe, I mean, Mike, wrote this essay and gave it out with all his a’pizzapies. And, like the side of a cereal box, I was compelled to read the entire thing while eating. Right off the bat Mike told me that “the first child born to me is ME.” In bold. And italics. He told me that my inner child needed protection, and love, and that I was responsible for it. In fact, responsibility was a major theme of the pizza menu. I am also responsible for being abused, and for any diseases or tragedies that may fall my way. Fair enough. Mike told me, It is my life, I need to Love Myself, and then on Judgment Day, I will answer to God and…
That’s when I realized my well-done half-pepperoni had come with a sermon. That’s when Mike told me he planned for his 20 plus year institution to feed my soul as well as my body. I opened the flier, and there was an even longer, more personal essay, this one two pages, though thankfully he went easy on the capital letters. It was about how he watched his father-in-law rot and die in a hospital bed, and how that opened his eyes to the world of Born Again Christianity. At the end of the essay was his personal cell phone number, for questions and comments, obviously just an excuse to do more preaching. On the back were coupons for free soda with purchase of a chicken parm dinner or garden salad, good only 230-430PM, Sunday through Thursday, expires 2/28/2010, limit 2 per customer. Plus tax.
I’m not going to give people crap about their beliefs; usually, I don’t even know what the hell I believe myself most of the time. And it’s his business, he started it from the ground up and he has every right in the world to do with it what he pleases. If I owned a pizzeria I’d probably be handing out essays too, though they’d be more about why Hulk wasn’t a bad movie and why Reservoir Dogs is better than Pulp Fiction. But, still, it was a little off-putting, seeing Jesus with my extra cheese. He took a risk, though in our neighborhood, I doubt too many are going to be that offended. Also, the nearest competition is Rey’s, Staten Island’s answer to the famous, original, correctly spelled franchise. So I doubt Mike has much to worry about. Especially on Judgment Day.
So what does this have to do with OTB? Well, really, I just couldn’t believe what I was reading and didn’t know where else to tell as many people as possible, but luckily there is a connection. The day before I saw the flier, the day before Mike actually made my sister sit down and read it while he watched her while the pizza was baking, I actually saw Mike at work. Betting on horses. And it wasn’t the first time. Or the eleventh. I think I’ve made it clear that not every customer is a low-life degenerate. But still. It makes me wonder why someone who has found inner peace, has accepted his station in life and put everything in God’s hands, would feel the need to make a few extra bucks on the side with the Number 3 horse at Freehold. Maybe I’m over analyzing. Maybe I just don’t get it. Maybe he’s winning every single race and I need to reconnect my inner child with Jesus ASAP. Or maybe I should just let it be. Where else am I gonna order out from, Rey’s?
