Val has been living the good life, making wise choices, and except for her broken-down knees, she might be thought of as hale and hearty. If one thinks in cliches from the last century.
That might end tonight, my friends.
Hick said that he would like a pizza for supper, from Caseys. Let the record show that I was going to town late for my 44 oz Diet Coke, having spent my early afternoon hours gallivanting about the casino. Val is not the one who picks up Casey's pizza. That is Hick's duty, which he most often performs on random evenings on the way home from work, or Saturdays when he adds a six pack of bottled beer, most often Michelob Dry, to the tab reimbursed by Val, him having champagne tastes and eschewing Milwaukee's Best Light, the one what brung him.
It started on the way home from the casino. Genius and his buddy were heading back to college town after picking up 3 dozen eggs that Hick was giving them, and the batch of brownies that I was giving them. Seriously! Who put more effort into this? VAL! How hard is it on Hick for chickens to lay eggs? It's not like he was buttering up a glass pan and stirring batter.
"I guess you'll find something for supper. I don't plan to cook. And all you know how to make is bologna and hot dogs."
"I would like a Casey's pizza."
"Who's going to get it?"
"I guess I can."
"Well, I hope you don't expect ME to! It IS a block away from where I'm going." That elicited snickers from the barely legal passengers in the back seat.
"You can. Or I can. But I'm going to the BARn to work on my Oldsmobile first."
Of course you guessed it. Val was roped into picking up the pizza. At least I called it in. Hick refuses to do that, and drives to town, walks in, orders, waits 20-25 minutes, and picks it up. Since I wanted supper before 9:00 p.m., I caved in and called.
I never know for sure what the procedure is there at Casey's. At the old Casey's we frequented when we lived in town in my $17,000 house, you went over to the side to the pizza counter and asked for it. But in this one in Backroads, The Pony always went to the checkout counter and they grabbed it for him. That's the times The Pony wanted the breadsticks, and we didn't want to go through Hick.
I stepped up to the checkout counter. There were two registers open. No line. "I'm here to pick up a pizza for Thevictorian. Do you want me to go over there and ask for it?" The clerk kind of rolled her eyes. That should have been my first clue. She's the older lady, and never very friendly. She always seems put out. Off she went, and returned with my pizza. And THEN it happened. As she set it on the counter, she
COUGHED INTO HER HAND!
Uh huh! Even a child knows better! Oldie coughed into her palm! Then she punched the cash register, dug my coins out into her palm, and counted out my bills with that hand, AND PUSHED THE PIZZA BOX FORWARD with her germy mitt!
Well! If it hadn't been PIZZA, I might have just said, "Never mind. You keep it." But this was Casey's Pizza! It's delicious!
So if I succumb to some exotic disease over the next week, or even to a domestic one, you'll know who's to blame. And I hope you all storm that store with pitchforks and flaming torches. And a travel bottle of Germ-X.