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I'm A Whore For Little Caesar's Deep-Deep Dish Pizza. There, I Said It.

To be honest, I suppose it would be more precise to say I'm a whore for fast food. I know it's shitty, and unhealthy, and going to kill me one day, and I should have outgrown it ages ago, but I haven't. I fucking love fast food. And that's not to say I can't appreciate the finer things in their arena... Fletchers here in the Cape makes one of the best burgers I've ever had in my entire life... and don't even get me started on Five Guys. But having said that, there's nothing quite like a nice Quarter Pounder with Cheese hot off the grill right out of the microwave. And I love a nice fresh grilled chicken sandwich? Good stuff! But Burger King's original Chicken Sandwich, straight out of the deep fryer and still dripping with grease? It's like crack. Throw it in a blender and just mainline it right into my fucking arm. And while there are several quality pizza places in town, I do have a soft spot for Little Caesar's which if you think about it, is the fast food joint of pizza.

So yesterday after running a shit ton of errands, neither The Boss Lady nor myself having the desire to cook, I toss Ike in Big Red and head out with a whopping $13 in my pocket. That's $8 for the deep dish and $4 for the Italian Cheesy Bread -- for some reason the Little Caesar's near me doesn't allow tipping. Anyway. I pull into the parking lot which seems unseasonably busy, but I suppose with the holidays right around the corner that's not all that unexpected. There's one spot right up near the pizza place and a handful more a few rows away. Not wanting to try and shoehorn Big Red into the more densely packed spot, I let a dark blue minivan have that one and swing around to park a few doors down. I get out of my truck and follow some teenage kid from the blue minivan into Little Caesar's, where upon he orders what turns out to be the only fucking deep dish pizza they have ready to go. He pays and leaves and I inquire, "Any chance you've got another deep dish in there ready to go?" "Nope, that was it, we'll have to make another one," the 20-something female clerk replies. She's a tall girl and a bit frumpy, a black leather belt cutting high through her midsection and making her little a little like a human pot roast. "Okay, ten minutes it is," I respond while silently cursing the deep dish eating teenager and his whore of a mother.

The Pot Roast begins to ring me up the pizza and when I add, "also one ICB," she turns and confirms there is indeed a Cheesy Bread available on the rack. I see where she's headed and ask, "if I'm waiting on the deep dish, can you put in a fresh ICB as well?" Although phrased as a question, I intended it to be more of a directive and certainly didn't expect it to lead to any in depth debate or lesson in resource management, but ultimate that's what happened. "How long has this ICB been up?" she asked to no one in particular in the back. "Just a few minutes ago," came the reply. Translating for me in case I was deaf, The Pot Roast offers, "this just came up." Riiiiiiight. "I understand that," I say slowly, "but ten minutes from now when the pizza comes out fresh out of the oven, this ICB will be how old..." I kind of leave the end of my thought unfinished, hoping she'll follow along but evidently she can't. "It's still fresh. I can show it to you," as she reaches up and pulls the cardboard ICB box from the top shelf of the ready-to-go bin. The ICB does indeed look fresh, its artery clogging oils still sloshing around the top and I have no doubt that it just came out of the oven. I thought briefly of explaining the concept of 'ten minutes from now' and then asking what the chances were that no other customer would order an ICB over that period of time. if someone else orders and ICB and gets that one, I'm waiting again. Instead I just sigh the long sigh of someone not wanting to get into an argument with a fast food worker. "I'm sure that ICB will be great," I say in a defeated voice.

I hand her my $13 and she presses a few button the register, which flashes "$12.72" on the tiny screen facing the customer side, a split second before the change drawer springs open. She places my $10 and three $1 bills into the drawer and then looks back up at the screen -- now reading "$0.28" -- before removing a single quarter from the drawer. Then looking back up at the screen again, she pulls out three pennies, and after a third glance at the screen, compares that number with the coins she now has in her hand before placing them in mine atop of a paper receipt.

My hopes of a quick and easy in-and-out pizza order dashed, I go outside and grab my phone from my truck, come back inside and take a seat in one of the three orange plastic chairs that line the outer window. Little Caesar himself is just over my head and I pleasantly dream of him sticking that little spear into my neck and ending my pizza misery once and for all. Time slowly ticks by as The Pot Roast is chatting it up with No One In Particular back in the food prep area, and after a few standard cheese or pepperoni pizza sales, in walks the I Told You So guy. I didn't pay him any attention at first, but after The Pot Roast asked him how she could help you today, his order of one single thing off the menu caught my attention. From beneath a brown leather fedora, I Told You So asked for one order of Italian Cheesy Bread. "That'll be $4.24," The Pot Roast replied as she turned on her heels and reached for the lone ICB box sitting high on the shelf. Her sausage like fingers curled around the front of the box and she opened her mouth, "taking the last IC-" she never got to the 'B' before both her mouth and both froze for an instant. Either she has just had an aneurysm or the few remaining synapses fire just long enough for her to understand the wisdom of what I was trying to say earlier.

A muffled 'eeep' sound escapes her lips as she casts a look over her shoulder to me. Palms up, I motion my hands outwards and bow my head a tiny bit. Ta-da! The Pot Roast snaps her head back towards the cooking area and nervously asks, "did you put that other ICB in?" You can guess the answer. So yeah, ten fifteen minutes after walking in the fucking door, I finally get the fuck out of there with my pizza and ICB. I thought briefly about asking for her to put in a fresh pizza when they put in the fresh ICB, but feared they didn't think they had enough pizza dough to last until closing time once we get stuck in that infinite loop.

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