There’s Always Room for Pizza (or Don’t Trust the Homeless)

Leftover pizza presents an interesting challenge for me. There are so many different factors and options that there’s no clear-cut obvious answer. Don’t finish Chinese food? Save it for later! Can’t finish a salad? Throw it out. But pizza is more challenging.

Probably the biggest obstacle leftover pizza presents is there doesn’t have to be leftover pizza. I might be full after two or three slices–but that doesn’t mean I have to stop eating. The only time I truly have to stop eating pizza is when there’s no more pizza left. My ability to continuously (and gluttonously) eat pizza is slightly short of being remarkable (probably because it’s disgusting to see a guy eat slice after slice of pizza for three hours). Back when I was a teenager Pizza Hut started to roll out all-you-can-eat pizza buffets. Now they’re all gone. Why? Because they all lost money when I came in through the door. A lot of money. Why, I think it’s safe to say I am solely responsible for Pizza Hut’s disappointing third quarter in 1996.

I like to eat–this is no surprise to anyone who knows me. I’ve often said eating if my favorite hobby–and pizza is perhaps the Holy Grail of my consumptions. Eating a single pizza in one sitting is not uncommon. In fact, it’s probably expected. The only reason I’ll stop eating is because of that little nagging voice that reminds me how unhealthy it is (ya know, The Wife).

That’s why I have difficulty with leftover pizza. I don’t stop eating because I’m full. I don’t stop eating because I’m disgusted with myself. I don’t stop eating because I’m drawing a crowd. I don’t stop eating because my stomach hurts (although I have been known to tap out because my jaw got tired). I eat and I eat and I eat. I savor the flavor. I pound slice after slice and ignore that feeling in my stomach that indicates I will likely burst and leave pizza guts all over the walls.

This is really disgusting. The person I’ve described so far sounds to be grossly-overweight, disgusting, slob who likely has old pieces of food wedged in his fat wrinkles. My mother must be so proud. Good thing I’m not like that. At all. That being said, I’m certainly not going to use the above text on any cover letters or personal ads.

Where was I?

Ah yes–the leftover pizza. I’m not quite sure what to do with leftover pizza. I feel like one slice simply isn’t worth saving. The trouble of getting a to-go box. The trouble of carrying it around. For what? A meal something that can easily be eliminated with two bites? There’s always room for one more slice (pizza: the new Jell-O). When I’m chowing down and there’s one slice of pizza left, I can guarantee you I’m polishing that puppy off (unless it has pepperoni–yuck!).

Three slices is a great number to have leftover. With three slices I know I can make a meal of it. Sure, I’d want more–but after three slices of pizza, I know I would no longer be hungry. When I eat pizza and know I’m not going to finish it all for whatever reason (The Wife), I try to leave three slices behind.

But two slices–two slices is where the problems arise. Two slices of pizza isn’t a meal. Heck, I wouldn’t even call it a snack. Eating two slices of old pizza leaves me unfulfilled. It’s like Chinese food–I’ll just wanna eat again in 30 seconds (my internal clock is faster than most). I never know what to do when I have two slices of pizza leftover. I can always do one slice. But two–sometimes my jaw just can’t take that kind of workout. That’s why when I’m eating a pizza, I like to gage where I am before I dive in to the last three slices. Do I think I can eat all three? Should I stop before I attack the next slice so I have enough for another meal later? Can I feel my heart struggling to beat?

One of the keys to gluttony is to never stop. Remember when you were a kid and your parents told you to slow down and chew your food. You might have heard stuff like “30 chews for each bite.” I subscribe to a different theory: don’t stop. If you stop to breathe, if you stop to savor, if you stop to go to the bathroom–your stomach will be able to get a break just long enough to send a little a little signal to your brain–the one that says “No Vacancy.” Once I know I have no more room, I have no choice but to stop eating (well, I suppose I do have a choice–but I see no reason to make myself vomit perfectly good pizza…I’m not a bulimic).

A few weeks ago I was out eating a pizza. I attacked the third to last slice, fully intending to kill that pizza like I was a white cop and it was a minority in a good neighborhood (hmmm…that metaphor might be a little too politically incorrect for even my taste). I don’t remember exactly what happened (like I said, this was a few weeks ago). I think I got a phone call, or nature called–or maybe even I succumbed to that little voice. All I remember was there were two slices left and I had no chance of finishing.

I certainly wasn’t going to throw away pizza, so I dejectedly got a to-go box and took my “prize” home. I examined my options and didn’t like my choices. This was no meal–the slices were way too small. I hate having pizza like a snack. I’ve always felt it was a bit of a tease–a small taste of what you want but not enough to satisfy you (think gentleman’s club where girls only strip down to their bikinis). Maybe I could eat the pizza for dessert. I could also try eating it later when I got bored. None of my options sounded appealing. Even though I was walking out of the pizzeria with two slices, I felt like I was wasting two slices–two slices I should have eaten immediately when they were still slightly warm.

The answer to my problem appeared before me in a wheelchair–a panhandler approached me in the parking lot and said, “I’m starving and hadn’t had a bite in days: can you spare a couple bucks?”

Long-time associates know I don’t believe in charity–and not just because I’m Republican. The Wife would say it’s because my heart is two sizes too small. My friends will tell it’s because I’m an asshole. And I’ll tellya, it’s because I just don’t want to. I’m a skeptic–I don’t believe people. The only person I trust has two thumbs and an awful haircut (pointing at self). I don’t believe that people are as bad as they make themselves out to be. Some people are professional panhandlers–grifters who don’t wanna work.

But there was something about this that felt right. I had pizza I didn’t really want. Dude was in a wheelchair for cripes’ sake. Faking a handicap seemed like a line you don’t cross when it comes to panhandling. I’ve done a lot of bad things. I lie. I cheat. I steal. But I would never go around faking physical handicap because I wouldn’t want to ever wind up with one–why tempt fate?

So I did something I thought I would never do. Not only did I willingly hand over my pizza to someone else, I did so to a beggar. “I’ve got no money, but I have two slices of pizza,” I said (surprisingly, he did not question why I only had two).

“Yeah man, that’ll be great,” he said. The tramp took my pizza, gave me a “God Bless,” and wheeled his way to the next aisle.

I got out to my car and proceed to drive out of the parking lot. I drove down the aisle where I had last seen the vagrant. The gentleman was gone, but in a shopping cart sat my pizza box–discarded like the way a teenager mother throws away her newborn childhood (boy, these metaphors are really starting to cross a line). It couldn’t have been more than 30 seconds since I had last seen him–by far not enough time to eat two slices of pizza (no matter how small they were or how hungry he may be). I spotted the grifter, chatting up his next mark. For someone who was starving, he sure seemed awfully disinterested in the pizza I gave him.

That’s why I don’t give anything to anybody. I’d like to think I’m more cynical than heartless. Sure, I didn’t know what to do with two remaining slices of pizza–but I certainly would have eaten them. It breaks my heart to know they ended up in the trash. I feel like a sucker because I tried to do something nice for someone who needed it. Unfortunately, he didn’t need it–he was merely a con artist. I broke one of my core values (don’t give to charity) because of sympathy. I’m embarrassed.

I’ll have to add this to my list of reasons why to never leave two slices of pizza remaining.