Breadcrumb #671
JOSH DALE
There is a panda on the counter of the pizza shop. I double-take. It is a baby, but a panda, nonetheless.
“Whoa, that’s not something you see every day!” I say, stifling a giggle as the panda munches on raw dough.
The only man behind the counter turns from his pizza rolling to me, staring at me with thick furrowed eyebrows. They cross into a ‘V’.
“Yeah, what about ‘em?”
I shy away at his accusation, defaulting to his rotund, grease-stained tee.
“I’m sorry, sir. It is cute, though.”
As if he was holding back a geyser, the man exhales through his nose, his salt and pepper mustache wavers.
“Ok, kid, you’re right. You don’t see this every day. I’m actually the only place with one.”
He thumbs behind him, showing off a frame on the wall. On one hand, he has keys. Cradled in his other arm, is the panda. Next to the photo, is a newspaper clipping MAN AND PANDA EXCITE TOWN WITH NEW PIZZERIA. The shop looks ancient though, walls lined in wood paneling and the countertops a yellowed marble.
“I used to love pizza shops as a kid. A lot where I grew up.”
“The shop looks ancient though, walls lined in wood paneling and the countertops a yellowed marble.”
“Yeah? Rememba’ the names? I may know ‘em.”
I shake my head. The names and aesthetics were forgotten but the tastes were still present.
“What pie suits ya fancy?” the man continued, arms akimbo.
My eyes observe all the pizza on display. Some gooey cheese, tangy pepperoni, hearty meat lovers, and even a zesty taco pizza.
“Could I have a slice of taco and meat lovers’, please?”
The panda mews as its jaw opens wide and then shuts on the last glob.
“Comin’ right up. Here, I’ll throw in a drink,” he says, sliding a fountain cup over the glass. I snatch it, making the panda stare at me. Its little brown eyes go right through me. I pour a coke from the fountain.
“So, it’ll be $5 okay, buddy?” he says, pounding the keys on the register. A green 5.40 blips up. I hand him all the singles in my wallet, refuse the change. I note the hand grenade sitting on a wooden plaque saying, “COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT PICK A NUMBER!” As if there aren’t enough odd things here already.
“Are you sure?” he says. “You never know when you may need—” He counts on one hand. “Two sixty.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” I say. “Can I, maybe, pet the panda?”
He doesn’t respond, just looks to the panda, then to me, then back to the panda. It stares at him, reaching out its paw.
“Sure, sure. Right here, on the very top o’ the head,” he says, pointing.
I take my time, holding the back near its snout like I would a dog. It takes one big sniff, then backs away. So, I go for it, lightly scratching its head, ending with a pat. It feels like a living cotton ball attached to a Brillo pad. It growls low and I giggle.
“Oh, that’s a good boy!” he says, massaging the nape of its neck.
I nearly forget the pizza until the smell of taco beef and sausage wafts from the oven. He slides them out with index finger and thumb, catches them with two paper plates underneath.
“Thanks again, buddy,” he says with a faint smile. It’s hard to see it with the mustache, but his lips shift, curve upward even.
I grab some extra napkins to sop up the grease and sit down in the empty shop. The television above the drink coolers has National Geographic on. I catch the baby panda angling toward it when the elephants come into frame.
**
I finish the slice of taco pizza and a large group of people come in. There are at least four kids, accompanied by a set of parents. They have balloons and cake in tow. The children make a collective, ‘ooh’ as they spot the panda, now sitting on a throw rug. The man snaps his fingers and the panda rolls forward onto its front legs. A chorus of claps ensue. I approach the meat lovers’ slice but it’s lukewarm now. I pick off the sausage, pop them into my mouth, and roll the remainder of it into the soggy paper plates. The parents line the counter to look at the menu. I hear the owner say, “Yeah, I’m not sure if I can keep him all that long. Once he grows into the adult size—”. I sneak out before he gets the chance to say goodbye.
I slide the wad of waste and ice-filled cup into a nearby trashcan and take a breath of the crisp autumn air. I reach my car, fire it up, and leave the strip mall. I should’ve asked the man his name. I should’ve asked what the panda’s name was, too. In case I wanted to see it again, maybe it would remember me.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s my mom. It takes only a couple of words before I choke up.
“What was dad’s favorite pizza?” I say to a long, voiceless pause.