I’m driving along minding my own business when half a block in front of me I see something fall out of the back of an open pickup. I beep, to no avail. Not sure what the object was, I pull over and get out, hoping I can retrieve it and flag down the driver. While waiting for the light to change I see an SUV run right over the large plastic package. I assume that destroyed whatever was inside, but approach it anyway as soon as the road is clear.
It turns out to be a bag of freshly sliced pepperoni. I quickly snatch it up and inspect it. No apparent damage. Looking around for other witnesses, I see no one. The truck is far up the road. Back in my car, I study the thing, realizing this is the most excitement I’ve had since the elastic on my underwear snapped in a crowded C train. There are hundreds of pieces. Ingredients were listed, as well as an Armour Eckrich Meats stamp with a Cincinnati address. No phone number or website.
I debate my choices. I could contact Armour, but suppose they trace the call and send out meat enforcers? I could drop it off at a supermarket or deli. Better, a food bank. Maybe someone would pay me a finder’s fee. But the more I think about it, the more it becomes apparent that anyone at these establishments will immediately assume I’m a home-grown terrorist who poisoned the slices. I will be detained, questioned, possibly water boarded. For the same reason, I can’t bring it to the police.
It would take me months to finish it. I could save it for a family member’s birthday, but knowing my family, they would expect an equal amount of provolone to be included, along with six dozen rolls of seeded Italian bread. I consider giving it to a friend, but suppose that friend has high blood pressure and unbeknownst to me, is seriously depressed? There have to be 50,000 milligrams of sodium in that bag. If the friend scoffed down the entire bag at one sitting and it was traced back to me, I could be charged with pepperoni assisted suicide.
Days pass. I stare at the orphaned meat in the fridge. None of the other cold cuts will go near it. A lonely onion rolls over and tries to bond, but even desperate pepperoni has its standards.
I could put it on EBay or Craigslist. But there is no guarantee some cold cut sadist won’t purchase it and proceed to torture each slice one by one, before feeding it to the dog. I don’t want that on my conscience. I get upset enough when the edges of liverwurst turn brown because I’ve neglected it too long. I can still hear the middle screaming Save Me! I’m still edible!
Dark thoughts overcome my sensibilities. I have several women friends with large appetites. I entertain the idea of trading pepperoni for sex. My moral center is collapsing.
As a last resort, I drive back to the spot where it fell and wait for the truck to come back. I suppose a middle-aged man in an old postal winter hat holding a large plastic bag of sliced pepperoni might be grounds for a block watcher to notify authorities.
I just didn’t expect a Swat team response. They threw me against a wall and spent 10 minutes body cavity searching me. Finally the leader put his face an inch from mine and growled, “I’m gonna ask you only once — where’s the hell’s the mustard?” – Joe Del Priore
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