A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World Read online

  Sure you’re not provoking them? she’d asked.

  They say carrot tops belong with carrot tops.

  And what do you say to that?

  Mom!

  Alright! Alright!

  So it was that Felix had more screen time than was good for a revolutionary boy and could ask questions of the Brazen Head. He especially liked giving the Head fantastic instructions: Use mutant robot zombies to collect the infofiles! Use color-coded carrier pigeons! Bake the answers in a jujuberry pie! The Brazen Head would signal his disdain for such fancy by sitting on the color-coded pigeons until answers oozed from under his buttocks and trickled down the legs of his gilded throne.

  Because neither uncle nor nephew could read Hebrew, or Aramaic, they usually told each other stories about what Grandfather’s book probably said. Usually this meant stories about a beautiful princess named Celeste.

  Except on this day. On this day, Felix chose a book not much bigger than his hand, with silver cornerpieces and a complex pattern stamped on its leather binding. Instead of starting a story, Felix stared at the yellow pages, which seemed impossibly thin, and said, I think I need glasses. Can you see? Leonard, can you see? The letters are dancing.

  He’s better than us

  Felix insisted he could “read” the dancing letters. Gate of Reincarnations, he said. What’s that?

  Where could Felix have gotten that word? Leonard doubted very much that it was part of Felix’s Integrative Optimal-Learning Curriculum.

  Well, Leonard said, Pythagoras believed that after we die, our souls are reborn in new bodies. He called it metempsychosis or transmigration; that’s basically the same as reincarnation.

  Why is the soul reborn? Felix asked. I thought it went to heaven, where it was eaten by worms and happily tilled by peasant women and men.

  Different people think different things, I guess. Pythagoras believed that we reincarnate so we can perfect our souls.

  Like … like Grandfather might be reborn? As a cat, you mean? Felix asked.

  Medusa meowed; Leonard hadn’t realized she was in the room, but there she was, a coil of shiny fur by their feet.

  I guess, Leonard said. So what does the story say? And he listened as Felix “read” about a guy named Chaim, who had apparently given a lot of thought to reincarnation. Leonard found Felix’s performance charming, if somewhat disturbing.

  Is Celeste in this story? Leonard asked.

  No, Felix said. But listen, and he explained how there are gilguls (I’m sorry, he said, I can’t come up with a better word for it) who enter a body at birth and stay with that body its whole lifetime.

  What about the municipal compost heap? Leonard asked. Is that in the story? Or beasties?

  No, Felix said. Listen, and he explained how there are two types of ibbur, which are reincarnations on purpose: when a righteous soul enters a grown body either to perfect itself or to help the soul of that body become more righteous.

  That’s good to know, Leonard said, and said no more as Felix traced the many incarnations of Mr. Chaim, whose name, Felix explained, means life.

  When Carol returned, Leonard didn’t worry her about soiled toreador pants or Felix’s hallucinations or perplexing tales; he noted only that the boy might be weary. A nap, he suggested, or time off from school?

  Felix has to go to school, Carol said, pulling cold bannocks and Scotch pies from a secret compartment in her silver travel vest. He has to understand the enemy if he’s to lead the revolution.

  Like many mothers, Carol had big plans for her son.

  If the police come to the door, pretend you’re sleeping, she said, finding an air-resistant container for the bannocks and pies.

  Why would the police come to the door?

  They wouldn’t. Just as a general rule, a precept to live by.

  Oh, Leonard said. Have you seen this new Chipmunk Patrol?

  If they stop you with Felix, pretend you don’t know me.

  Are you in trouble? Leonard asked.

  Why would I be in trouble? All I do is sling bannocks, take care of you guys, and spend time with my book club.

  I have to go to work, Leonard said.

  I can see that, she said, looking pointedly at his all-white vestments. He’d taken special care with them that evening, perfuming his caftan and pressing his trousers into seven sharp pleats.

  You need to be careful with Felix, Carol said. He’s better than us, you know.

  I know, Leonard said.

  Messer Marco

  Leonard approached his White Room with special reverence. He could not imagine working for any other chain. NP was committed to supporting its Listeners in every possible way—through innovative aptitude testing, exhaustive training, thoughtful supply of easy-to-use Pythagorean materials, provision of periodic “refresher” updates. The sole support Carol got from Jack-o-Bites was laundry service for her tartan steep pants. He’d heard from screen-yakking Listeners that all the Heraclitan flamethrowers got was a can of Flame-Off, should they set fire to their limbs.

  Leonard repaid NP’s faith by working hard. He memorized conversion scripts for all known and anticipated Scenarios: wrong numbers, solicitations, pollsters, obscene callers, lonely widowers, cranks asking for itsy-bitsy Neetsa Pizzas, smart-alecks wanting to know how a company that preached transmigration could sell robin’s egg pizza, and so on. Eighty-six percent of Leonard’s complaint calls and seventeen percent of his “off” calls converted—which is to say, the caller accepted and redeemed a Neetsa Pizza coupon—by far a company record, but low, considering Leonard’s Special Gift.

  Fulfillment of Leonard’s Special Gift was limited by two factors. First, an almost antisocial unwillingness to obey all rules exactly to the letter (hence the true-ray blocker on the roof); second, a tendency to display less than Total Compassion when mocked. When a crank called, Leonard would make one, possibly two scripted conversion attempts, but if the crank persisted, he would, very much against Neetsa Pizza policy, terminate the session.

  This would change! Given another chance, Leonard would show optimal compassion in every possible Scenario!

  Before even opening the door to his White Room, he engaged in a five-minute Pythagorean meditation, ignoring Medusa, who twirled about his legs. He then swept the inside clean again, lest the Room’s purity be compromised by even one speck of dust. Then he retrieved his Pythagoras Papers from their specially molded slot by the screen.

  He hadn’t read his Papers since Basic Training, though his NP vow obligated him to do so every day. He sat on his swirly chair within reach of the phone and pondered cartoons illustrating those concepts he’d found most interesting in boot camp—eternal recurrence, for example, which holds that everything that happens now has happened before—which Leonard found rather disturbing. Did it mean that someone like him had already sat in a White Room fretting about missing complaints? What did that Leonard do about it? Weren’t White Rooms a new phenomenon, one of six Neetsa Pizza innovations for the new millennium (six being Pythagoras’s first perfect number, the sum of its aliquot parts: 1+2+3)? Did it mean merely that someone like (or unlike) Leonard had waited somewhere for something that was missing and important? If that were the case, the concept didn’t mean much, did it?

  When he added metempsychosis, or reincarnation, to the mix, his head began to hurt. Is it the same reincarnated soul who sits in the White Room over and over again waiting for complaints, and isn’t that rather like hell, to experience the same life over and over again? What was the point? Does the reincarnated soul remember its past? If so, maybe that soul learned what to do about the missing whatevers—but then he wouldn’t experience those same things over and over again, would he? Or did the same incidents rotate to different souls so that everyone got to experience everything at one time or another, in which case that might be interesting. But what if the soul reincarnated as a grasshopper? Did grasshoppers experience the grasshopper equivalent of waiting for missing calls in a White Room?


  Did Mr. Chaim have an answer for these weighty questions? Leonard wondered, and then the phone rang—or rather, it bleated feebly, like a sick lamb.

  Leonard’s training kicked in. He took a deep breath, centered himself in his body, and allowed compassion to well in his probably reincarnated though not necessarily any-the-wiser soul.

  Neetsa Pizza, we make it neat, he said. How can I meet your Neetsa Pizza needs?

  Isaac? a male voice said. I have been dreaming of you. You are blind, are you not?

  A crank. Of course. But for once, Leonard didn’t care. He referred to his screen for guidance. There he would find caller name, country of origin, previous history of pain, photo, justice record, ideological patterns (as represented by previous fast-food choices), and socioeconomic indicators, all routed through preapproved Listener algorithms, generating an optimal client-satisfaction strategy, as well as helpful tips, hints, pointers, and clues.

  Only it didn’t. Caller information instead spun about his screen, a caroming jumble of letters and numbers. Without his optimal client-satisfaction strategy, Leonard would have to wing it, something he didn’t much like doing.

  Neetsa Pizza, he said. Have you tried our mouthwatering isosceles sage pizza, loved by wise men the world over? What about our heavenly spherical pizza …

  Pizza? the man asked. What’s that?

  Leonard hung up.

  The man called back.

  You are Isaac, perhaps? I see your caftan in my dreams. It tells me you are of the Hebrew faith, resident of the Languedoc region. Dead some fifty years, if I am not mistaken. What can I do for you, Messer Isaac?

  A man with an accent. A mentally deficient man with a very strong accent (rather like an accent on an accent). A Client Very Much Not Like Me! This could be a Neetsa Pizza test, Leonard realized. His Mentor had told him about such things.

  This is Leonard, he answered, taking special care with his enunciation. How can I meet your Neetsa Pizza needs?

  You are not Isaac?

  This is Leonard, Leonard said, pleased that he had made himself understood and sensing conversion opportunity in the man’s hesitation. What is your name, good sir?

  My Christian name is Marco, but friends call me Milione.

  Where are you, Mill? May I send you a pizza coupon?

  I am in prison, as the whole world knows. What is a coupon?

  Leonard hung up.

  The man called back.

  Don’t you have someone else to call? Leonard asked.

  I have the feeling I am meant to communicate with someone named Isaac. Is he there?

  Maybe you should check the number.

  Number?

  Click.

  Mill called several times, always surprised to find Leonard. He was imprisoned in Genova, he said, which Leonard was fairly sure was in the Finger Lakes District.

  Am I speaking with Messer Isaac? the man invariably asked.

  It’s me, Leonard, like last time. Don’t you have something better to do?

  Alas, no. I am in prison.

  And innocent, of course—a man of stature and achievement, guilty of nothing more than love of country. For which “crime” he was forced to share a cell with braggarts and brigands. Did Leonard, perhaps, hold sway with the duke?

  He did not.

  Of one thing Leonard was certain: this man was not, as he said, a prisoner of war. More likely, a loco in a loony bin. With a phone scrambler that haywired Leonard’s screen.

  Understanding this, Leonard allowed compassion to surge and well.

  I would like to help you, he said. Tell me how I can help you.

  Who are you, esteemed friend? Mill asked. Whom have I reached on this mystical journey, if you are not to be my deliverer?

  We don’t deliver to prison, Leonard said.

  You are sure you are not Isaac?

  I am Leonard, of Neetsa Pizza? We talked earlier.

  Leonardo of Pisa? Prince Leonardo of Pisa? Why didn’t you say this? Your Grace, I have a message for your sister.

  I am just Leonard. Would you like a coupon for our uniquely delicious “thick and thin” pizza, optimally designed for loved ones who stick by you? he suggested, congratulating himself on his innovative use of the Lateral Sales Strategy.

  Loved ones? You mean my father and uncle? What use have they for gifts! They got the lion’s share of the jewels, don’t forget! Mill chuckled. I am well into my fifth decade, Messer Leonardo, but still they call me little Marco, tiny Marco, eensy-weensy Marco. Have you relatives such as these?

  Leonard, please. A sister, Carol. She’s older. And a grandfather, but he passed. And a nephew, Felix. I am an orphan, he added, remembering that the strategic sharing of Personal Information can create empathy bonds with callers in their fifth decade.

  I too! Mill said. An orphan until the age of fifteen. Which is when my father returned. Can you imagine my astonishment? The auntie who raised me told me he was dead!

  That must have made you very happy, Leonard essayed. (He would have been happy to see his father again at any age.)

  My auntie taught me penmanship and Bible verses, she wanted me for the Church, but I yearned for manly things. To join my father on those dread seas, to discover new lands! I yearned for adventure! My father, seeing that I was no longer a suckling babe, claimed me for his own and brought me to Acre. Have you been to Cathay?

  I don’t think so, said Leonard.

  You’d know if you had. Other places of interest? The Levant, perhaps?

  I haven’t traveled, Leonard said. I’m only twenty-four.

  Mill exploded in mirth; his laugh was low and wheezy.

  By your age, good sir, I had crossed the whole flat earth! Find yourself a ship! Nothing compares with exploration: it enlivens the senses and broadens the mind—and the women! You have never seen such women!

  Women? Leonard asked, despite himself.

  Women! Mill said.

  Tell me, Leonard said in a small voice.

  Ah, the women! Mill said, evidently remembering the women.

  Please? Leonard said.

  You could never imagine there were so many types of women, Mill said. Truly! Brown women—did you know there were brown women?

  Never mind, Leonard said.

  The women of Tun and Kain, near the Solitary Tree—now, they are lovely, Mill said. The girls of Muhelet are perhaps the world’s most beautiful; but the women of Kinsai—ah, the women of Kinsai!

  It’s okay, Leonard said. I don’t need to hear any more.

  The Golden King of Caichu is attended only by damsels—can you imagine? Damsels pull his chariot! The world is full of wonders, Leonardo; you must investigate!

  I am not so good with women, Leonard said.

  Not a problem! In the province of Kamul, men lend their wives to passing travelers. No need for pretty words: they go willingly! This is the practice in Kaindu as well, near the turquoise mountain. Now, in Tibet …

  The line went dead.

  Mill called back. In Tibet, he said, and again the phone went dead.

  In a certain province the name of which I may not mention, he said when he called back, no honorable man may marry a virgin! To prove she is favored by the gods, she must dally with as many men as possible—only then may she marry. A perfect place for a quiet man like you. If that does not suit, there are twenty thousand women of the world living in the suburbs of Khan-balik; the Great Khan makes them available to all ambassadors. We could go there together—you as ambassador from the great land of Pisa, I representing my native Venice! I have seen a land, he whispered, where women of quality wear trousers.

  Can we change the subject? Leonard asked.

  It is exactly as I say! Mill said.

  I’m kind of stuck here, Leonard said. I can’t go anywhere.

  I apologize, dear friend. Perhaps you also are in prison?

  Feels like it sometimes.

  Oh, dear! What had Leonard said? If NP were testing his skills with Clients Very Much Not Lik
e Me, they didn’t need to know that the White Room sometimes felt like a prison. They wouldn’t understand that Leonard liked it that way.

  I am most sorry, Mill said gravely. Who shares your cell, if I may inquire?

  You mean, do I have a group plan? Are you selling minutes?

  (Leonard’s Brazen Head satellite-cell minutes came from Neetsa Pizza, but if he were to lose his job???)

  What a quaint idea! Would that I could sell minutes, for I sense that time is running short. Forgive the poor translation: I am, as yet, inexpert in this form of communication. I am wondering what manner of man shares your temporary dungeon habitat.

  Leonard explained that he lived and worked alone; Mill couldn’t believe it.

  This must be the greatest torment of all: to be always alone!

  I like it, Leonard said. And he did: solving problems with a pizza coupon was as much people as Leonard generally wanted.

  I, on the other hand, Mill said, am surrounded by prisoners of the lowest class! Riffraff, ruffians, and bowlegged bastards!

  My! Leonard said.

  And visitors. Mill had been in his “temporary dungeon habitat” less than one week, but already news of his incarceration had reached the noblest society. Fine ladies visited him, eager to hear his tales. Some brought sweetmeats or news from home, the prettiest promised him things with their eyes, all assured him they’d do what they could.

  I’m sure they will, Leonard said, aware that he’d all but given up on conversion.

  Humph, said Mill. Tell me about your temporary dungeon habitat. Is it dank, does water drip down the rough-hewn stone?

  Actually, it’s white. Everything is white. I paint it every year.

  No past inmate has scratched poems on the mortar?

  Leonard laughed, then remembered the strange, unreadable scrawls his grandfather had left on his walls, before the room became White. His grandfather had asked, each year on Leonard’s birthday, whether Leonard could read what he’d written there; each year Leonard was not up to the task.

  No poems, he said.

  Do you have a window? Mill persisted. Can you hear the children playing?

  It’s night. The children are all in bed.