Driving Doctor Mayhem

[2] Pizza Friday

"He, he begged?" Cricket asked after I'd filled him in on my unorthodox interview with Doctor Mayhem the following night: the infamous Pizza Friday.

He popped open the box and threw me a slice, but his aim was off, and I had to practically belly flop onto the shag carpet of my living room to keep the pizza from hitting the ground. Luckily, our friendship was, at that point, well past the stage where you try to convince the other that you're not a complete idiot.

"Ouch, don't sound so surprised." I groaned, propping myself up on my elbows. "My resume was abysmal, but I'm better in the room, you know that."

Okay, Doc hadn't begged, per se, but he had offered me the position, and, the way I saw it, there was a huge difference between lying and enhancing the truth for the pleasure of your audience.

Really, this is for Cricket's benefit, I thought, giving myself a mental pat-on-the-back for being such a considerate friend.

"Right, sorry," he said, not sounding particularly sorry, "But you can't blame me for being surprised. Every other place has turned you down. Even the soup kitchen, and they're not-for-profit! I mean, I thought they took everybody with, with a pulse."

"I worked there for a day, until they found out that I served the Mayor a sneezer," I grumbled between bites. This part was true.

"You what?"

"He was just there for the photo op, is all I'm saying." Also true.

Cricket waved his hands around animatedly, as if to say, 'This is what I'm talking about you lumbering moron, you,' so I tried my best to look offended. In reality, I was thinking similarly.

"He begged?" he repeated. "This guy begged you?"

What Doc had actually said was, "I guess you'll do. See you Monday at eight."

"Of course he begged, dude. I'm spunky and delightful and cute and people like me." I rolled my eyes, adding on, "I guess you wouldn't understand," just to get back at him for the judge-y waving of the hands.

"You just face-dove into the floor for a pizza wedge."

"I don't waste food. That's a good quality, if you ask me."

"Nah, you just sneeze in it."

"Okay, that was one time on principal--"

And I do understand," Cricket continued, his trademark stutter becoming increasingly pronounced, "That you went in there under-qualified, and without a, a proper resume or committing to business, uh, casual attire--"

"God forbid." I scoffed.

"Just saying, what are we, cavemen?"

"I prefer the term caveperson. It's politically correct."

Cricket paused to readjust his crooked glasses. "Just saying, it's, uh, sketchy, Banksy. Sketchville. Sketch Junction. Besides, what sort of person calls himself Doctor Mayhem anyway--"

"Stop talking. It's this or Dairy Queen."

"Well, God forbid!" he mimicked in a shrill falsetto that was supposed to sound like me, barely stifling a laugh. "Anything but Dairy Queen."