Running his tongue over his mouth’s crevices, Simon grew increasingly frustrated at the dryness he kept encountering. Every time I try to drink more water, it goes the same damn way, he grunted inside his head. It starts out fine. I have a bit more energy, lighter piss. But by the second day, that damn second day, it all goes downhill. I neurotically keep a steady stream of water flowing down my throat. I become keenly aware of the dryness of my lips, the scratch of my throat. By now, Samuel is brushing his tongue across the roof of his mouth in broad, slow, repetitive strokes. Its as if my body has been filing complaints for months about apparent dehydration, but neglected to inform me until I took the first step myself. Not being one to back down from a challenge, I enter into an arms race with my body. I naively assume that all my newfound symptoms are solvable by continuing to drink more water. Now, Simon has shoved two fingers in his mouth, running them along his gums. But with each move I make, my body has an immediate counter-reaction. My lips become even drier, my throat tens times as scratchy. By now; my hair is coarse and forehead peeling. This is what I get for trying to be healthy.

Simon allowed silence into his head. He had been staring at the ceiling for at least twenty minutes, but only now began noticing the details. There were cracks which meandered between the lights and the vents; culminating in one giant hole which penetrated fully into the apartment above. Moving his attention towards himself, Simon became immediately aware of his messiness. His graphic tee, which arrived already wrinkled and unsightly, was now littered with crumbs and spilled beer. He wanted to go home. He was drunk. Sometime drinking makes Simon feel good. Sometimes (now), it merely takes his preexisting mood and adds a layer of clumsiness and bewilderment. Simon swung his legs onto the ground as he shifted his weight upwards. For the first time in what felt like hours, his friend Allie glanced up at him. Her thumb wandered to the pause button; taking a brief respite from her quest.

Looking at her, but not at her, Simon muttered, “Hey, think I’m gonna take off”. “Already?” asked Allie blankly. “But you need to do me a favor first”. Her wispy hair, swinging with each oscillation of the fan, framed a wry grin. Suddenly, a thickly bound book was floating towards Simon’s chest. A phone book. “They still […] make these?”, wondered Simon; desperately trying, but failing, to reciprocate Allie’s intrinsic whimsy. Simon always felt keenly aware of personality disparities. He was intelligent enough to be drawn to intelligent people; but not be an intelligent person himself. He was interesting enough to be drawn to interesting people; but not be an interesting person himself. Why can’t I just surround myself with boring people? At least then I would fit in.

Simon had been staring blankly at the phone book for 10 seconds, gripping it tightly with both hands. In the grand scheme of his life [or within the 200,000 year history of humanity] ten seconds is an infinitesimally short period of time. However, within the context of a conversation, ten seconds is a pretty bizarre amount of time to play the quiet game (additionally, Simon’s furrowed brow made him look like a Neanderthal). Realizing the need to push the conversation forward, Allie grinned, saying, “page one hundred and twelve”. Pulling out of his brief (but also lengthy) funk, Simon obediently skimmed through the opening chunk of the massive book. Upon arriving on the aforementioned page, Simon’s instantly saw “Sal’s Pizza”; an entry circled many times over with blue highlighter.

“You want to order pizza?” Simon asked. He felt helpful: he could order pizza!

“No. Well, yes. But not to eat. I’m not hungry. It’s more of a revenge sort of thing”.

Simon stared at Allie; hoping for a response as he tried to figure out what she meant. Allie laughed. “Sorry, I got a little ahead of myself. Sal, of the aforementioned Sal’s Pizza, is a dick. My friends and I used to go there all the time. But it got to the point where we couldn’t order pizza without an offer to sit on his lap or a “your tits look nice today” or other disgusting comments slipping through his disgusting mustache. So. I decided to take matters into my own hands. Every day, for the past month or so, I’ve been calling in and ordering anywhere from one to three pizzas for pick-up. You might guess where this is going: I never pick those pizzas up. It’s about $45 a day, but over a month, a year? It’s gonna add up. The problem is — he started to recognize my voice. And then he started to recognize all my voices: my old lady voice, my farmer voice, my gremlin voice, my Australian voice. So I’ve started needing to outsource these calls. Which is where you come in. Would you mind ordering two large pepperonis for me?”

As Allie’s explanation went on, Simon experienced many thoughts. He thought about how this was such a clever and subtle way to slowly destroy a business. He thought about how awful it was for women to be casually and consistently subjected to abuse. His moment of empathy only lasted a moment, before meandering back to selfish thoughts. He thought about whether he would have stood up for Allie if he was at Sal’s with her. He thought about if he was a ‘good person’ or just quiet. If he was more assertive and self-confident, would his inner asshole be revealed? This reminded him of how boring he was. “Would you mind ordering two large pepperonis for me?” asked Allie. Perhaps this is what I need — to prove that I’m not boring. I can be just as exciting an Allie.

“yea of course!”

Allie began to wind up and toss her phone at him with twice the velocity of the phone book. Simon quickly dug his iPhone out of his pocket, making sure Allie saw. One eye on the book, the other on his phone: Simon dialed the number.

“I’d like to order a pepperoni pizza.” In his periphery, Simon saw two of Allie’s fingers shoot up. “Two! I mean, two pepperoni pizzas,” he corrected.

“Alright. For pick-up?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Yeah, actually!” Simon responded.

“Alright. It’ll be ready in about twenty-five minutes. Thanks.” Simon hung-up and looked up. Allie had a smug grin planted on her face. Swinging his thumb upward, Simon pressed down on the ‘Camera’ icon, zoomed all the way in, and took a picture. “Cute,” he deadpanned. Allie laughed. She likes me again. I’m exciting again. I’m not longer a bystander. “Think I could play?” Simon asked. True to form, Allie slung a controller across the room.

Pew Pew Pew and Twenty Seven Were Dead.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. “Odd […]” Allie muttered to herself, dropping out of the mission. “You can keep playing, I’ll just be a sec!” She began walking over to the door, which opened itself, with six agents busting through. Before Simon realized what was happening, they were handcuffed and in the back of a squad car.

Simon and Allie didn’t see each other much over the next few days. In and out, in and out. One was in a cell, the other in the questioning room, and vice versa. But whenever they passed each other in the halls of the local precinct, they exchanged a wry grin. That grin got Simon through that entire experience. He felt like he was part of the world’s funniest joke. I’m being questioned for pizza! Pepperoni of all types. That validation made everything worth it.

Opening his eyes, Simon allowed silence into his head. His eyes had been closed for so long that brightly colored fractals and trapezoids laid on top of the ceiling. These shapes danced around the cracks which meandered in-between the lights and the vents. Darkness only existed in one giant hole, a hole which penetrated fully into the apartment above. Moving his attention towards himself, Simon became immediately aware of his messiness. His graphic tee, which was already wrinkled and littered with crumbs, was now covered with empty beer cans. He wanted to go home (He was home). Simon swung his legs onto the ground as he shifted his weight upwards. Rushing blood, and the dizziness brought with it, sent him right back down. He pulled a blanket over his head: even the soft LEDs were too much for his wimpy retinas. Bored, Simon traced his fingers across the couch until they were able to clamp onto his phone. Scrolling mindlessly through twitter, dread struck Simon’s chest as he remembered an unanswered text. Looking through squinted eyes, Simon checked his messenger app.

Allie: still coming over today? (11:37 AM)

hey! sorry, i can’t make it, my -

Simon checked the time. It was 8 PM. Well, any excuse is gonna sound fake at this point. This is such a dumb game […] there’s never anything to talk about anyways. Why […] why does she keep inviting me over? When I’m there […] I’m a deadbeat, a couch potato, a door knob. It has to be as painful for her, as is it for me. And now, another strike against me — blowing her off.

Simon had been casually shaking the cans which laid over him. He finally found one still containing some liquid. He moved slowly and carefully from within the darkness of his blanket cave; eventually raising the can to his peeling lips. Every time I try to drink, it goes the same damn way, he grunted inside his head. It starts out fine. I feel happier, warmer; less chained down by the minutiae of the moment. But by that third drink, that damn third drink […]