Who's your agent?

From across the to-go counter, I called out to her in a flat, unemotional tone of voice: “Why are you being so rude to me?" (This is Beverly Hills. I already knew the answer to that question.) "Being crusty isn’t going to help our wood-fired ovens cook your Pizza any faster, and it isn’t winning you any friends, either.”

My jaw dropped with regret when I reconsidered my Pizza play on words. I was trying to be funny, but I was also at the end of my rope. My delivery was so monotone, it confused her: “You better watch it, I know the owner of this place, and my assistant called in sick today.”

I went back for more. “Yes, I know you know the owner. Everyone knows the owner. Everyone thinks that knowing the owner will help them to an exclusive level of service in connection with their Pizza Order, but it is lunchtime, and we're busy. Knowing the owner of this restaurant gets you Jack Schitt right now.” With that, I delivered a raucous belly laugh that made my eyelids crinkle up. I did have a brief moment of fear that she'd have a coniption fit, but soon, she began to laugh with me.

Make no mistake. She looked like a California Blonde and she was laughing, but she had an expert billy goat’s gruff. My inner gay bitch wanted to scratch her eyes out because she was perfect. Perfect nails, perfect collagen injection on the upper lip (if such a thing exists) and perfect Gucci wallet. Sadly, I looked inward and determined that I can't even afford to pay my Bloomingdale’s bill of $60 this month, and for that, I hated her. But I wasn't sure how to react. I was sort of aroused, honestly, but her very presence was a thorn in my side. There I stood, with my balls in a jar.

A slave to pop culture--just like everybody else in Los Angeles--she was wearing a midriff baring viscose halter/whore top. (She paid no heed to her age 28 love handles that emerged from underneath.) She was holding an iPod, and carried a Louis Vuitton poche—the one with the cherries painted over the monogram--and when I saw that, I knew I hated her. “Your pizza will be ready in 5 more minutes. I’ll give you some free lemonade if you sit down and quit giving me problems.”

Just then, my spirit levitated so that I became detached from the scene, like a cosmic spectator. From this perspective, I determined that Theodore has had his fill of horrible people. He is new and alone in a very strange, large city where pop culture that influences generations of artists around the world is made, even though nobody in this town likes each other. He is not about to let a clueless cunt upset him simply because he messed up the modifications on her BBQ Chicken Pizza. We eat thousands of meals in our lifetime. When Theodore sullies someone's meal, he gets over it quickly because he knows that everyone will live to enjoy more precedential meals. Shit happens.

“You must be from New York. Who’s your agent?” She asked while holding out her business card. I smiled and took it from her. “Here’s your pizza. Now get out of here.” I winked as a form of punctuation. She winked, handed me her business card and left.

It said William Morris. It said William Morris.