Exactly twenty-five minutes later, a dusty pickup truck with oversized tires came barreling down the road. My pizza had arrived. To my surprise, the young manager was behind the wheel.
“Dude!” he cried, jumping out of the car. “You’re mad. This is awesome!”
He pulled the pizza off the passenger seat and opened the box. It was masterfully crafted, almost as high as it was wide, with lots of pineapple and olives piled on top. It looked like something you’d feed a rhinoceros. I paid the tab, thanked him, and prepared to charge on.
“You’re gonna keep running?” he asked. “Don’t you want a lift?”
“Now that I’ve got some fuel,” I answered, holding up the food, “I’m going to put it to good use.”
“But how far are you gonna go?”
“I’m headed to the beach,” I said.
“To the beach!” he cried. “Dude, Bodega Bay’s at least thirty miles from here!”
Actually I was heading to the beach in Santa Cruz—over 150 miles from here—but I didn’t think either of us was prepared to face up to that reality.
