Hungry? Grab a Snickers.

During the 6th inning of the Women’s College World Series Championship game in 2005, I drive five-and-a-half blocks to a new pizza place in downtown Flagstaff. It is 6:20 p.m. and I’m driving west directly into pure afternoon sunlight. I notice that there are several people out and about on Phoenix Avenue, which is unusual; I am only able to see their silhouettes in the blinding sun. An extremely mellow (and dare I say perfect) Letters to Cleo song is playing. I slowly cross San Francisco, Leroux and Beaver Streets. In the glaring sunlight, I am unable to see which storefront is the pizza place; they have apparently retired their 7” by 5” plastic banner for a permanent and more refined sign that reads “Old World Pizza.” I make a U-turn in defiance of the sun; as the mellow LTC song ends, I roll into a parking spot near the curb just in front of the door. Perfect timing.

One of those sunlit figures on Phoenix had a mohawk, and I notice that he was walking to the same destination as I when I passed him. He enters first and I set my car alarm, immediately feeling like a Yippie.

Upon walking in, I see that the old Italian owner is talking to Mohawk-Man. They seem to know each other. I suppose Mohawk-Man is a “regular.” I quietly wait until he calls on me to tell him I am there for my house-specialty. The owner notices that I am paying with a five and several ones. He comments that I must be a waitress. I state that I drive a cab. Both men pause to look at me and consider what I have revealed.

I sit next to Mohawk-Man as he crosses one tattooed leg over the other and reads a magazine. The owner then quizzes me on my cab-driving profession; how long have I been driving, do I like it and so on. I am stoned and a little buzzed off Fat Tire and begin talking…a lot. Mohawk-Man agrees with me at some point on some issue and puts his magazine down to utter a few simple words of agreement. I look outside to my left at all of the objects beyond the windows shrouded in a golden afternoon. I hear DaRude’s “Sandstorm” playing from a radio in the kitchen and smile to myself, recalling an early Sunday afternoon several years back when four friends and I crashed through a chain-link fence in downtown Houston in a brand new Ford Mustang while dancing to that particular song.

The owner brings me my pizza and at the last minute smiles, placing a free Snickers candy bar atop the steaming box. It is our free dessert. I am happy.

I walk out the door and into the soft glow of a warm Summer Flagstaff afternoon. (Flagstafternoon?) I turn the key in the ignition and smile as a new LTC song comes on and the aromas of fresh pizza dance around me.