SoMa Literary Review - The Mozzarella Menace

The Mozzarella Menace

By Lisa Louis

"Give me a bite of that," Lauren said to the stranger.

It wasn't a request, as much as it was a statement. Not a demand, but deadpanned as if it was a ritual she routinely performed. Which, of course, it was.

Steve peered up from his first chomp into a slice of cheese and mushroom, pulling at a nagging stretch of mozzarella,

"What?" He managed to mumble through a mouthful.

"A bite. Give me a bite of that."

He turned his eyes back down, hoping the girl would simply go away. It was 1:30am at Pizza Love on Folsom Street. He should have expected this. And, shit, the slice was just barely warm.

"She wants a bite of your pizza, man," said Ron between large inhales of his pepperoni.

Steve glared at Ron across the worn linoleum table, then looked back down. Shut up, Ron, he thought. Acknowledging them only makes it worse. Best to just ignore completely, he reasoned. Keep calm. His earlobes started to turn a betraying shade of crimson.

"Give me a bite of that," she said again.

This time she added a touch of demand into her voice. Another blonde walked over and stood by her side, trying to act nonchalant by looking around the room, as if her friend had only stopped to ask for the time or directions. Her nose wrinkled when a breeze from an open door blew a whiff of rancid cheese in from the kitchen. The two women could pass as sisters, each with stylized dangles of fair hair, beautiful young bodies, and both way too overdressed for this neighborhood at this time of night.

"Lolly, let's go," she said as she pulled on Lauren's arm.

"I want a bite of his pizza!"

Ron grinned across the table to Steve, his mouth full of food. Steve kept his eye contact focused on the worn tabletop.

"Give me a bite of that pizza, you asshole!" Lauren raised her voice loud enough for her friend's face to flash concern.

The cook and waitress looked over, but didn't flinch. They just kept serving the sparse clientele. Things wouldn't pick up until after the bars closed. Then it would be one hour of complete hell, followed by the nightly game of locking up while wandering dance club drunks banged on the glass front in the vain hope the kitchen would stay open a few extra minutes to meet their needs. The Latino cook and world-weary waitress just wanted this night, like all the others, to end without too much trouble.

The two guys would have to deal with the obnoxious blonde drunks themselves.

Lauren's shout made Steve pause for only moment, then he kept eating with his head down. Don't look. Maybe she'll just go and stumble into another table.

"Lolly, I gotta pee. Let's find the ladies' room."

Lauren crossed her arms and glared at Steve, her focus narrowing into an angry burn.

"Faggot.

"Hey," said Steve as he finally looked at her face for the first time. He immediately sized her up as someone in from the suburbs for the night. Marin. Or maybe Concord. What was probably a fresh face was covered in too much make-up, smudged. Probably went to Slim's or the Brewery and got so shit-faced she stumbled too far away from 11th Street. Just another typical Saturday night in SoMa.

"Yeah, that's it." Lauren said it again, louder like a revelation. "Faggot."

"'I'm just trying to eat," said Steve, caught off guard by the sudden turn to belligerence.

"If I was a man, I bet you'd let me have a bite." A long silence hit the room. "Faggot." Her words hit Steve as if she was using her palms to shove him with each new sentence."

Steve looked back down.

"You know, I've had so much plastic surgery, maybe I was a man before I looked like this," Lauren said as she leaned her face inward to taunt. "That change your mind? Faggot?"

"Lolly, let's go pee." Sherry said, trying to act as nonplussed as ever to the drama. She pulled Lauren by the arm hard this time, dragging her across the room and down the hall to the restroom. All the while, Lauren kept her glare fixed on Steve, resisting her friend but not enough to break free. They shut the door behind them with a loud slam.

"Concord cunts," Steve said, his bitter anger finally emerging now that the women had left the room.

"I wonder why she picked you out, man?" Ron chuckled.

"It's not funny, man. I want to fucking punch her in her fucking smug face."

"For a minute there I thought she was going to attack you."

"I wish she had. Then I would'a beat the crap out of her."

"Not cool, guy. She's just a drunk little girl."

They sat for a few minutes, finished their slices and downed the last few gulps of stale beer.

"Do I really look like a faggot?" Steve asked.

"Hey, girls like that think every man in San Francisco is queer," Ron said, clearly groping for an explanation. "Look, they go to the bars and no one hits on them, even though they're all dolled up in the best the mall can offer. They get pissed off, call everyone faggots. And they never learn. The never get it. The problem ain't the guys. It's really them."

"Yeah. I guess," Steve created the scene Ron described in his head for a moment. He visualized the two women acting as flirty and slutty as they could, only to be seen transparently as lazy lays in for the night from the bridge and tunnels. Only guys desperate to dump a load would get involved with trash like that.

"You didn't answer my question. Do I really look like a faggot? Like anyone staring at me from across the street would say 'Gay.'?"

"Like you give a shit what people think?"

"Fuck," Steve frowned. "What you're saying is I do look like a faggot."

"I didn't say that."

"A regular San Francisco queer boy."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't not say that."