book I read

Recently, as part of a promotion at the radio station that employs my son, E. was asked to select a few special books from his youth to share with the listening audience. He was at our house, wherein his childhood bedroom remains a veritable shrine, practically undisturbed since that traumatic day he moved into his own house several years ago*. His bookshelf is still stacked with a large library that reflects the progression of reading material collected throughout his formative years. Okay, we sold his bureau, desk and lamp at a yard sale, but still....

When E. was little, bedtime always included a story. I loved to read to him and he loved being read to. The nightly ritual was always the same. After a bath, E. would get into his pajamas and choose a book. Then he'd climb up on his bed, where we were joined by our cat Scarlett — without any sort of prompt or enticement. The two of them would settle in as I read the evening's selection, be it an installment from the "Curious George" series or a dose of Dr. Seuss silliness or any number of off-kilter volumes that Mrs. Pincus and I thought would tickle E.'s developing sense of humor or trigger his budding imagination.

E. browsed the spines of each well-worn (and well-loved) and picked out three books. Three books, I assume, that had special meaning to him and stirred pleasant memories from his youth. The first book was Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, a familiar book, popular since its publication in 1963. The version that E. chose, however, is translated into Hebrew and reads from right to left. (Curiously, the illustrations are mirror images of the original.) The second book was It Happened in Pinsk by Arthur Yorinks. This quirky tale concerns shoe salesman Irv Irving, who wakes up one day without his head. The story unfolds with nary a sense of panic, as Irv's wife fashions a new head for her husband out of a pillowcase stuffed with socks. E. loved this story and the "matter-of-fact" way it was told. I provided different voices for the different characters that Irv met in his pursuit of his missing head — much to E.'s delight. The third book was The Giant Jam Sandwich by John Vernon Lord and Janet Burroway. This implausible yarn — presented in rhyme — addressed a terrible wasp problem in the fictional town of Itching Down. The inhabitants of the town constructed the title assemblage as a way to trap the pesky insects.

Of course, we read a lot of books over the years. We read classics like The Wind in the Willows and A Wrinkle in Time (which I remember being a lot better in my youth). We read a number of Roald Dahl's twisted tales, as well as the first Harry Potter novel, just after its publication. (I found it to be a Roald Dahl rip-off.) And we read a lot of silly stories about pigs and bears and other amusing characters. We enjoyed reading together. I like to think that it had a positive and memorable impact on E.'s development into the adult he has become. 

On occasion, I have called E. — out of the blue — to ask if he looks back and has good memories of his childhood. Once he confirms that I am not dying, he answers "yes," and then realistically adds "for the most part." 

I'm okay with that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Don't bring this up to Mrs. Pincus

all hail caesar

One evening this week, Mrs. Pincus and I went to pick up a pizza for dinner, something we do quite often. It may come as a surprise to you, but we regularly go to a Little Caesars location not far from our house. Unlike most people, we don't really have a single location pizza place that we swear by. We are not connoisseurs or "pizza snobs." We happen to like cheap, crappy, chain-store pizza. We just do.

My wife pulled into the parking lot of the strip center where the Little Caesars occupies the end storefront. I hopped out of the car, like I had done countless times before, and walked up to the front door and entered. The place rarely, if ever, has a welcoming vibe. Through the wire racks of stacked pizza boxes at the rear of the narrow service counter area, I could see several workers — all decked out in branded Little Caesars regalia (hats, shirts, aprons) — busily preparing pizzas at a large work table. Behind them, another fellow was monitoring the business-end of the large oven, extracting finished pizzas by gripping their pans with a pliers-like device and deftly shaking them into a waiting, pre-assembled box. They all appeared to be working in a predetermined rhythm, like the proverbial "well-oiled machine."

However, the young lady at the front counter, the "face" of the "Little Caesar's experience" for this particular location, did not exactly fit in with the rest of the apparent work ethic practiced by those in the nerve center of the establishment.

When I entered the store, to my right, was a man — in a Little Caesars hat and apron — stocking single-serving bottles of soda in a tall refrigerated display case. A few customers (maybe two, actually) were scattered about the open area, obviously waiting for their individual order to be served. Behind the counter, seated on a low object (perhaps a small carton?), was a young lady — I would guess still in her teens — with her back to the wall adjoining the business next store, paying extremely close attention to her cellphone. As I approached the counter, she slowly rose — though not exactly tearing her attention away from whatever was dancing across the small screen in her hand. She was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the named of a local high school. No where on her person did the name or logo of Little Caesars appear. Nowhere. She finally turned her attention to me and asked, "Mmmnnnmmnnmmm."

At least, I think it was a question. Only because the inflection of her utterance went up in tone, slightly, at the end. I honestly has no idea what she said, but I can assume it was along the lines of "Can I take your order?" I asked for a pizza and an order of bread sticks and passed over my credit card to her her limp, waiting hand. She swiped it through the slot on the credit card reader, removed the receipt, handed me back my card and said, "Mmmnnnmm." Then, she promptly returned to her original perch, concentrating, once again on her electronic device and blotting the customers out.

A fellow from the back of the store placed a stack of pizza boxes on the wire rack from behind. The young lady rose slowly, grabbed the boxes and announced "Mmmnnnmm" in the general direction of a woman with short dreadlocks in a dark blue coat who was waiting, patiently, with her arms folded across her chest. The woman accepted the boxes and no more words were exchanged by either party. The young lady repeated this same procedure with the other customer who was waiting for an order to be filled.

Offer not valid where invalid.

After about eight minutes (the "Hot & Ready" promotion as presented in a series of Little Caesars commercials and in-store signage seems to be invalid at this location or in this realm), the young lady muttered her signature, unintelligible grunt at me and offered me a pizza box with a bag of bread sticks resting atop of it. I took it from her hands, thanked her and wished her a good evening. I really did. I headed towards the door, which was held open for me by a new, incoming customer — who would, no doubt, be subjected to the "Little Caesars welcome" that is standard operating procedure at this location.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com